I might not be immediately very good at taking care of myself, and that is okay. I might even be bad at taking care of myself. And that’s the first step, the beginner’s laugh, I heard, parked beneath the shade of a coconut tree, the crying laugh, when I have looked under every crevice, each seat and curse myself like the jester, the crucible author, of my own life.
I packed a lunch the night before, drove an hour to a set of ruins that morning, but did not put it in the car. This just can’t be possible, I think in disbelief, and yet it is categorically so.