I’m feeling meh. You know the kind. And I don’t want to explain it—it’s just there. So I retreat, happy enough in my turtle shell hotel. I’ve got all the amenities: a thick duvet, headphones, and a dark corner to stare into. I don’t need much. In fact, it’s best to have almost nothing. Still, the thin veil separating me from an unfiltered eff you is inching closer than I’d like.
For how little I give myself credit, I’m feeling resentful of… myself. The constant ask for “just one more thing,” the quiet expectation—it feels like I’m the bully stealing my own lunch money. I don’t know if that makes sense. Maybe it doesn’t. And I don’t mean to sound mean. Did that sound mean? God, I ramble. I hate that I do that.
Sometimes I think I talk just to calm my anxious feelings, as though words are a form of downshifting. But it’s not, is it? Lately, I feel like a stranger to myself, running on assumptions without ever really checking in.
This vacation couldn’t have come at a better time. I need quiet. Reflection. Connection. A chance to remember that I am okay. To settle into myself—the ghost of me that keeps tugging in every direction. Like Peter Pan chasing his shadow, I want to say: Get back here. Settle with me. Tell me your tale.
Meanwhile, I did something small but huge: I conquered the bagel dough. The first two attempts, I only understood the rolling step in words. This time, though, there was a mind-body connection. I could feel the pull of the unfloured counter, the smoothing of the dough as it tucked into itself, the dimpled surface turning almost like paper. For a moment, I swear my imaginary baker sensei nodded at me in approval—welcoming me to the morning crew.
Now the bagels are rising, soon to be boiled and baked. The car is mostly packed. The plants are either in the sprinkler’s path or resting in two inches of bath water. The bunny’s all set too, with heavy bowls of water he can’t flip—though of course, he’s tried.
It’s quiet now, except for the hum of the refrigerator. This is what I’ve been needing: the stillness after a snow globe has been shaken, when only a few flecks of glitter are left drifting down.
And then—it happened. I mastered the bagel. Out of the oven, perfectly round, crowned with everything seeds. I can hardly believe it: real bagels, in the comfort of my own kitchen. They said it couldn’t be done. Okay, maybe no one said that, but it makes the story better.
Alright, I’m off. Next stop: Florida.
Take care.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 