It's Friday morning and already it is hot and humid outside. Every little movement I make releases more sweat from my wide-open pores, until it turns into a thick layer that begins to exfoliate some of my skin. It is disgusting.
Why am I even out here? Right now, in this heat? Why is today the day I decide to clean out the garage? Not a full overhaul, which would mean taking out every single thing, cleaning every corner, and then putting back only what’s really needed (you know, the kind of cleaning my German aunt would enforce if she were here to help me). No, that kind of cleaning is a whole other project that I am not prepared to enter into right this second. Instead, this is a relatively light but impactful cleaning. It feels important to care for my space—my physical space. Or to create more space? Hmmm. Maybe. It is a continuation of the urge I felt two days earlier when I finally unpacked the big tote bag full of arts and crafts materials that had been sitting on my couch, untouched, since early June.
But this need to care for my space (or to make more space) does not yet extend to my bedroom. There, my suitcases sit open, on the floor, where I placed them ten days ago when I got home. Small piles of clothes appear like a collection of water hazards or bunkers on a golf course (aka something to be avoided at all costs) throughout the room. Maybe if I make a bigger clean spot in the garage, I might get inspired to tackle the bedroom. Maybe.
When I push the wide, red-bristled broom across the concrete floor, a plume of dust trails behind the collection of leaves, bottle caps, and random bits of unidentified metal objects. Several large cardboard boxes filled with a multitude of smaller cardboard boxes sit, neatly stacked, by the open garage door, ready to be put on the curb on Monday morning. And I continue to sweat.
In fact, the sweat runs down all the sides of me. My back. My front. Out from my armpits and across my hips. Down my face. And my hairline, no match for this geyser of sweat popping out from within the follicles, cannot stave off the flood, so the front section of my thick hair, pulled back into a bun, is soggy. It's just gross.
Undeterred, I continue to scrape the large broom along the floor. Flecks of what is left of the paint the previous owners laid down mingles with the rest of the debris. In motion, like an ebb and flow, my arms vacillate between fully stretched and taut. I really wish I could redo this whole garage and lay down new flooring—that cool-speckled-kind-of-bouncy-not-really-concrete flooring…no idea what it’s called…I should look that up later. No sooner does that thought cross my mind than unrelated tears roll out of my eyes. They blend with the sweat. The salty tears and the salty sweat combine into one big river that gushes down my face, into my mouth, along my throat and across my chest, in between my boobs, and then all the way down to my belly. And…I don't care. I just don't care.
The other night, I was on a Zoom call. It was not a sit-at-your-desk kind of Zoom call, so I sprawled out on the mat in my workout area. From there, I had a view out of the big windows into the back yard. The setting sun, right in line with my eyeballs, blinded me. As the meeting went on and dusk settled in, a deer showed up. I don't know if it was “my” deer, you know, the deer that loves to hang out with me (and my guests when I record episodes of the podcast). Either way, a deer wandered, leisurely, around the backyard and nibbled on various plants. Normally, I would pick up my phone and film the deer. But I was on a Zoom call. And not just any Zoom call. The kind of Zoom call where I put everything on Do Not Disturb and focus on being fully present. And I was. Very present and very focused. But this deer kept popping up into my line of vision, so it was hard to ignore. Then I thought, Wow, that deer has no intention of going anywhere.
Just then, the deer laid down in the grass next to the big pollinator garden in the middle of the yard. Filled with some early bloomers (the goldenrod and sunflower blooms are just now starting to emerge), this garden named “Mama’s Way” (in honor of my mom) is a favorite hang out for a trio of monarch butterflies. In other words, that particular patch of the garden is an especially nourishing spot. (Last summer I had a resident bunny that liked to hop in there but I have not seen one yet this year. Pretty sure I know why. Maybe a topic for another post).
Deer (at least for me) usually, but not always, represent an invitation to forge ahead into the (sometimes rough) unknown, because deer help build the highways and byways, the travel corridors that cut through the thickets and ground cover. Along those pathways, other (game) animals move freely as they migrate from here to there. In other words, deer are often the ones who go ahead and blaze a trail.
But this deer did not carry that kind of energy. It was not there to encourage forward movement or to inspire pushing through. In fact, it was the opposite. This deer was demonstrating how to lay (something) down. It was not so much an invitation to rest, but to give something up…a pretense—no, a defense—and to stop holding back. It was saying, in no uncertain terms, that it was safe to be more vulnerable, unlock more of me, and awaken more sensations within me.
It was not so much an invitation to rest, but to give up a pretense—no, a defense—and to stop holding back.
Longing is something new to me. Not necessarily the feeling of it, but the acknowledgement of it. Which is why the tears. They are not from the grief I hold at this particular time of this year, but for the capability and capacity to (finally) be connected to this longing—a deep longing to be held.
There. I said it. I feel better. I could have danced around that and talked in very general terms about why, while I push this big broom across the garage floor and sweat drips off the tip of my nose, my tears continue to roll. The reason is simple. This week, for the first time in, I don't know, ever, I can allow myself a true longing. That acknowledgment alone brings the tears which are then amplified by the experience of the longing. It is a nourishment I had denied myself and which I know realize I crave. Not in a desperate kind of way—the kind of desperation I associate with yearning (the two words, longing and yearning, are very similar and depending on which definition or search result you go with, one can mean what the other means and vice versa). It generally comes down to a differentiation of duration and intensity as well the presence or absence of melancholy and nostalgia. That’s what I understand to be inherent in yearning—a drive to force something into existence or to mourn the loss of something which leads me to grab for it, and, eventually, when that does not work, fall into despair (or melancholy). In other words, when I yearn, I am in the past tense. (And I am very young).
But, for me, longing is not desperate. It is a very genuine desire that sits right next to pleasure, which is really about joy. To put it another way: Longing is not an ache, or a painful experience. Longing is a deep desire that holds the promise of joy. It is not about taking. It is about receiving. It is a visceral sensation that spreads out from my belly, not from my chest. Some people call it a hunger. While I understand why, I don't like that word as much. To me, hunger implies a lack of something, and my longing does not come from a place of lack or need. I have a lot of love in my life. I give and receive a lot of hugs, which means I have a lot of loving touch in my life. And, most importantly, or maybe most significantly, I know how to hold myself. Safe and secure in the knowing that I got me, and that I know how to hold me, I can lay my guard down, and be vulnerable which allows this longing to emerge. In other words, when I long, I am in the present tense. (And I am an adult).
Longing is not an ache, or a painful experience. Longing is a deep desire that holds the promise of joy. It is not about taking. It is about receiving.
And that brings me back to my longing to be held, intimately, by someone (whom I already have in mind). Whether or not that happens is not entirely up to me. So, my daily task is to continue to clean out, sweep up, put away, and make space while I embrace, own, and enjoy my longing and experience it as a true pleasure.
That way, when the person who is meant to hold me comes and lays down next to me, I am not only willing to ask for what I want, but I am also able to receive what I desire.
I am not only willing to ask for what I want, but I am also able to receive what I desire.
Meals Out: Three guesses…JK. Water Street Kitchen for brunch on Sunday, of course. But I also went out to lunch on Saturday. This time, I went to Sexi Mexi where I had Crissy’s Favorite (as a bowl not a burrito) and it was delicious.
Listening (voice): My fave listen this week was yet another installment of 60 Songs That Explain the 90s: The 2000s. This time is was an episode featuring The Red Hot Chili Peppers episode. (link to Apple Podcasts, embed to Spotify)
While I’m on the subject of Podcasts…please share my podcast, The Stories That Sparkle Podcast, with two friends you think might enjoy it. (Click the button to link to the podcast page).
Listening (song most likely on repeat): Ya’ll, this newly released song, The Sofa by Wolf Alice, is so good. Since I discovered it, I have been listening to it like a maniac. It resonates deep in my soul and describes parts of me and where I am right now way better than I can—including the joy of sitting on a sofa (#iykyk). (link to Apple Music, embed to Spotify)
Watching: Well, I finished the new season of Grantchester (loved it! also: sign up for PBS Passport through your local station, watch anything any time, and support public broadcasting at the same time—especially in more rural locations), then I started a new season of The Madame Blanc Mysteries (Season 4) on Amazon Prime (I would not say this season is as good as the first one or two, but it’s a great “I’m winding down in bed and want something light and easy to watch” kind of show), and, in-between, I watched, of course, more episodes of Poirot.
Reading: I received my copy of Proof of Life by
but I had no time to read it—yet! Taking it with me to Atlanta this week where I will have more down time (I packed in my work schedule—hence too busy to read—so I can take a mini break in between recording with three different women while I am down there. Since I won’t need to edit or prep, I will time to read).Most Hours Logged Doing: Hmmm. I spent a lot of time with friends, both IRL and on Zoom.
Monday Morning Meditation: 7.14.25
Self-supporting does not mean self-sufficient, and self-reliance does not mean self-seeking. Neither is a contraction into myself or a claim on someone else, but an expansion from myself and an invitation to someone else.
Is there a topic you would like me to write about in a Monday Missive? Cover in a podcast episode? I am curious about what you are curious about and would love to hear from you so leave a comment below or drop me line.
Oh my gosh Hella! You’ve written some beautiful pieces but this one is my most favorite! I love your definition…..“Longing is a deep desire that holds the promise of joy. It is not about taking. It is about receiving.” And it is in the present, in the now. I love you my dear friend. Thank you for the sharing your sparkle ✨
Beautifully told…from the heart! 🩷 Well done, Hella!