I’m trying to make sense of what I narrated in my Voice Memo app this morning. I’d like to turn it into something.

I keep thinking of translucent gloves: wet and buried in mud. It feels like the stack of unanswered text messages sitting inside my phone, open loops that go against my character. Against my nature to respond, to signal presence, to say, I’m listening, I care.

I’ve written about a doughnut shop that opened nearby a few months ago. The scent is sweet and intoxicating in the air. I’m not a person who would ever go grab a doughnut, yet lately I’ve considered popping in and saying, “I’ll take a vegan glazed, please!” just to defy my routine.

A few of the shops on our walk are already decorated for Christmas. They remind me of my head around this time last year. One of them has cardinals painted on its windows, surrounded by branches with bits of snow. Cardinals always remind me of my mother. She’d say they are our loved ones visiting us. I see them and feel that little tug of spirituality.

The streets have been freshly repaved, and the contrast is striking. The smell of tar thick in the air, with parts of the plaza we stride through blocked off, forcing us to improvise new routes.

I find myself thinking about the coming weeks. I’m glad the days ahead are busy. I normally crave open days: space for my workouts, my self-care rituals, my beauty routines, and my vain indulgences. But something in me feels slightly disconnected, like I’m floating just above my own life, observing it without fully stepping in.

I’m happiest when documenting nature. Like the two herons I affectionately refer to as “Trash Herons,” because they guard the dumpster of a restaurant. They are path-keepers at the moment, and Gigi is alert and ready to charge them.

Instead, I steer her away, and we find ourselves near the stillness of a large enough body of water that the Muscovy ducks cut through it like small, purposeful ships. The way they shake their bodies as if they were dogs, sending up splashes that sound aggressive and soft at the same time. Near them, the tiniest Common Gallinule (with its dolphin-like stuttering cry and bright red-orange beak) stands above the water on an uneven branch.

And finally, yet another heron (this time my blue one, who has found a place in my blog before) stands proudly with his face tucked into his body. Quiet and observant. Without any need to express itself beyond deciding what it will eat next.

I don’t know what I want this piece to be. Maybe the urge to not edit it or make anything more of it is the strongest move. I’d like to return to reading poems, or open Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (thank you Guillermo del Toro, holy shit) and let myself find the voice that matches this drifting season.

Writing is such an important voice we have the fortune of developing. For me, it’s something that offers security. It helps me understand the shape of my thoughts. When my writing feels forced, stilted, or in need of coaxing, I read it as a sign that I’m lost. That I’ve misplaced some expectation of myself. That I’ve fallen into that floating mindset I mentioned earlier.

Until I sit with all of this and realize whatever state I’m in is perfectly okay.

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