Snapshots of Connection
possible pieces of my book + revealing my enneagram #
I have been writing through pain and joy and my soft spots for people. I have been getting into a deep enneagram hole and learning a lot about my 4ness, my hunger for romance. I’ve been trying to channel my big feelings into writing, *channel* being the operative word here because apparently I think and feel and then have feelings about my thoughts and then think about those feelings. What a loop. I do NOT feel seen by this enneagram stuff. Nope. Not at all :| But it feels good to write for myself first, to use writing to move through my feelings and arrive at a softer, non-urgent place.
I have been writing these snapshots — scenes from my life that mark closeness, contact. I’m slowly working on a book of essays and it felt overwhelming to think about writing a full essay so I’ve decided to write these snapshots and eventually piece them together into something longer-form.
Thanks for reading, for being here, for receiving my art. It feels special to connect with people through the reenactment of treasured moments in my life, embellishments and all <3
After sex, dessert. Cherry pie crumble. An Alison Roman recipe. A buttery crust with a not-too-sweet, lime-laced cherry filling and topped with a salty, nutty crumble. Feeding him in bed. Mouthfuls of pie punctuated by the sound of him toying with his new melodica, him trying to teach me basic chords. If this sounds romantic, I promise it wasn’t. There was a playfulness to it, a feeling that I was at a childhood sleepover, the way we laid feet to head on top of my bed, the way we sang along to Be Our Guest from Beauty and the Beast.
It filled me with a kind of romance, the one that washes clean the worries of adulthood, but our setup had been decidedly non-romantic in nature. I felt myself sinking into our time together like an anchor dropping weight. Subterranean parts of me coming to life. I liked how I felt. Here, in the candlelit glow of my room, tasting salt and sweet and tart on my tongue. A private, protected bubble with a man who had a limit but, nevertheless, brought a transmutable quality into my life. And if there was anything I loved, it was the chance to be changed by someone.
When I think of you, I think of bread. Rye bread, to be exact. I think of how you top a toasted, sour slice with a knob of butter so thick, one might mistake it for cheddar cheese. I think about your conviction, the way you commit to your routines, moving your body daily or making broth or prepping a cut of meat or sinking your teeth into something ripe. I think about the way we make the living room our playground. The way you exaggeratively shimmy your shoulders while you teach me bachata and I laugh full-throated.
I think about how you don’t get spooked when I share my feelings. How you stay with me. How easy it is for me to ask you for what I need: a hug, a walk around the block, some time with the crossword.
You’ve only been gone a couple of weeks but I am eager for you to come home. I know we’ll settle right back into our usual routine. I’ll kick up my feet at the kitchen table and lament about my love life. We’ll gossip. I’ll catch you up on what happened around town. We’ll dream up our future travel plans. We’ll switch to talking in Spanish every so often. I’ll listen to you get excited about something through a stream of steam rising up from a pot on the stove. I’ll watch you chop and stir and agitate the warming water with a spoon to break things up. We’ll eat a beautiful meal, like we often do, endlessly gabbing, never short of something to share with each other.