Yes, this is noteworthy, because I spent about two years reading just about every book on healing and co-dependency and heart-brokenness and grief that I could get my hands on.

And then one day I was just like, Huh, I think I’d like to read a good yarn again. Actually, I’m pretty sure I did not think the word yarn. I never think the word yarn. I mean, I don’t even know how to knit or crochet or any of the wonderful things more talented people than I do with yarn. But, I remembered that feeling of reading a story and escaping into the intrigue, the happy ending, the sadness, the whatever, but the point is–ESCAPING.

You know, for a moment, anyway.

Self-help books, though? They are not an escape. They are a scalpel. And they cut right through your skin, your veins, your arteries, until suddenly you’re bleeding out and there is your heart, all dissected and open on the chinatown bus. And you didn’t expect to be crying and making promises to yourself that you ARE committed to life, darnit; that you will NOT give up and you will no longer think about laying down in the stream at the bottom of the hill you grew up on. All this, while the guy next to you is snoring with his mouth open, and you’re embarrassed to look at it–well, embarrassed for him, anyway.

Right, so I’ve started reading novels again. And I love it. I love to read. Some of the sentences I just stare at for a while, they are so beautifully constructed. They are little masterpieces and I’m in a museum, page by page making my way through, nice and slow. Like it’s only one o’clock and the museum is open until nine.

Aside from reading novels, I am doing stuff like this.

“You are not very pinchable, Jess,” Eli, my nephew, tells me tonight.

“What do you mean, bud?”

“There’s just not much to pinch,” he says, though I notice it sure doesn’t keep him from trying.

“Oh–I’m skinny?”

“Yeah, skinny. Not pinchable,” he says, and that’s that.

And would you look at this little elfkin?

Cute as a button, that one.

But watch out! He pinches.

And I felt like that again this morning. This heaviness in the pit of my stomach; this resistance to what was inevitable: change. My mom asked me how I was doing. “Fine,” I said in an abnormally high voice. I wasn’t. I mean, I am now, but I wasn’t then. But one thing that I have learned–and I don’t mean this in a cynical or even depressed way in the slightest–and that is, life goes on. And just because you feel something now does not mean you always will, and, blessedly–life goes on. Astoundingly so, actually.

How does this happen? I am not sure, but I think it has something to do with what we do with all the moments that, at the time, we assume just don’t matter.  Because, eventually, you are standing in the house that was built upon those moments. And if we want better someday, then we draw back our arrow and aim for better right now. We don’t wait for better; we choose better this moment.

I found myself on a bus surrounded by sleeping people, en route to NYC. It was so interesting. We were all crammed together, each of us a chapter to a book nobody but God will ever read, I think–and I couldn’t help but be intrigued by this beginning. And I also couldn’t help but think about this past year. I am reading a book about grief right now, thinking about letting go of the things that have gone away, anyway. This book tells you to sort of tally your losses so that you can feel what you need to feel about them. And I was struck by the thought that in a little over a year’s time, I have lost my marriage, my job, and my house. Well now, that’s quite a resume of loss. I feel like quoting the Lord of the Rings:

I’m Mr. Bilbo Baggins, I’ve lost my dwarves, my wizard and my way.

But, I think I need to read a book on finding things, too. Because I have found so many things in this same season. I am here in New York. I am living in an apartment by myself. I am fine; I really am. And just because I cry sometimes doesn’t actually even mean I am not fine. I think it has more to do with the fact that I am human. Or, as the Killers would say–am I dancer? Yes, that’s right, they don’t even put the article, ‘a,’ in there, leaving us all quite confused.

Today I went to Whole Foods and bought some groceries and felt quite happy to be there. I smiled at people (when it was appropriate; I’m not going all Joker up here in NYC) and I happily bought bananas and peanut butter and cheese and bread, to name a few things. Then I took yoga and even did a half-way-kind-of-handstand. Handstands are a new goal of mine.

They seem impossible.

But, at one point, so did the life I am living right now.

*note to self: nobody says ‘happenstance;’ at least not since George Washington was crossing the Delaware River. Something he did not do by happenstance, either.  I am pretty sure Mr. Washington crossed rivers during wars on purpose. That’s the impression I get, anyway.

But the nice thing about having a counselor for a mom is that there are all kinds of help-you-get-your-swagger-back books around here. So I started reading one about grief today. And sure enough, I found it applying to my life. I ask you: is there any self-help book that does not apply to my life? I dare you to find one. I bet that, even if someone gave me Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps–in which the very title irritates me–I’d come out on the other side of that book knowing how to read a map. Or at least knowing why I can’t. In other words: helped.

But last night I found myself telling a friend something. I was honest. I was frustrated. I said something about how all of this feels so unfair. That I was not unfaithful, that I didn’t go off and make a series of bad choices–and yet here I am, feeling like I am on relationship probation and left with this mess that I never made but am given the enormous job of cleaning up, anyway.

And then I read what Melody Beattie wrote about therapy and grief and healing:

“I feel numb. Or I cry. Or I sit and stare. I listen to the same songs over and over. I can’t work,” I tell the therapist. “I can’t get on with my life.”

What’s her advice? “If you feel sad, cry. If you feel numb, feel that. Ninety-five dollars, please.”

It’s the best money I ever spent, but it takes time to understand. You don’t eat an elephant all at once. You eat it bite by bite. I don’t want to eat an elephant. I know, but there’s one on your plate. Break life into tiny pieces. A day at a time? No! Smaller than that. I don’t have to accept [what happened]? Accept what I’m feeling now? I hate it that he’s gone. I can’t stand my life. I don’t want to be here. Those are the feelings you need to accept. It hurts. Resistance hurts worse.

–The Grief Club

And man, I never wanted to eat this particular elephant. But here it is on my plate. Sometimes it feels like a lot. Sometimes I have lost my appetite. But reading this gives me courage. Because, see, that place where I can’t stand my life? I am not there anymore, folks. That bit of the elephant was chewed and swallowed and you won’t see it on my plate anymore. I am not sure how much of the elephant is left, but it’s not as much as was once there.

But I also look forward to the day when I look at my plate and the elephant is gone.

*please note that no elephants were harmed or eaten during the writing of this blog post.

Well, that, and more embarrassing.

Like tonight, when I was innocently referring to how my friend came over and showed up with a small bag of cookies, but ended up saying this:

And then Jimmy showed up with his small package…

But then I couldn’t even finish my thought because I realized what it sounded like I had said and so I started laughing while trying to explain that there was a huge difference between what I said and what I meant.

But, really.

His small package?!?

Yeah, we then spent the rest of the night trying to shimmy that little gem of a phrase into as many of our conversations as possible.

And thank God for humor. I was talking to a friend of mine who has been well acquainted with grief herself and we both agreed that sometimes it comes down to either laughing or dying.

And so it’s really nice when there are moments that make the former option easy.

And it’s also nice when you play games with your family and you find yourself doing something as dumb as pouring water over your head because you’re playing Truth or Dare and you had tried to give that little dare to your mom, but she turned around with a rebound card and there you are, poised with the water over your head, thinking how this is not one of the worst things you’ve had to endure, by far.

But don’t take my word for it.

See for yourself.