January Collage

Practicing Collage Writing Through The Year

1.

Harper and I like to shop. A lot. We like the discount and thrift stores the best. I think it’s something to do with the hunt and the originality of the find. We split up once inside the store, every so often bumping into each other, smiling, maybe even showing off what we have in our hands. I love that about us - that we don’t have to follow each other around, that we have our own little adventures independent of each other. Today though, I text her from the dressing room because I need her opinion on whether to get a cardigan or a crew neck sweater.

“Get both,” she says.

So I do.

“Starbucks?” I ask as we leave the store and get into the car.

Harper smiles. “Sure!” she says.

“Text Hadley,” I tell her. Hadley has been writing a novel’s worth of college applications and essays, and I’m beginning to think that it is easier to understand predestination than it is to understand how to get into college. “Ask her what she wants.”

2.

Watched Kenneth Branaugh’s version of Much Ado About Nothing with the girls. I haven’t heard them laugh at a movie or TV show since their “Wild Kratz” or “Dino Train” days.

“I didn’t know Shakespeare was funny,” Hadley says.

“Yeah,” Harper adds. “Why do we only read the tragedies?”

Later, Harper is looking for a book to read. She’s finished Katie LeDecky’s book and is wondering about another one that’s like it. I give her David McGlynn’s Door in the Ocean. “He’s a swimmer, too,” I tell her and add, “I kind of know him.”

Harper takes the book and begins to read. “It’s dark,” she tells me about a half an hour later.

She’s been reading it all month.

3.

I baked an apple pie at 425 for an hour and a half, and I was supposed to bake it at 325. It came out looking like something an Orechai would’ve baked. The thing was sizzling for about an hour after I’d taken it out of the oven.

I’m still trying to understand the concepts of sharing a screen, and waiting rooms on Zoom. I fear I’m making more mistakes than progress when it comes to teaching.

It takes me about three songs into a 55 minute set to stop feeling self-conscious when I’m teaching a dance fitness class. And then a lot of times I forget to call out the next move because I’m pretending I’m dancing at a club. “My fault, my fault,” I say over and over.

And then there’s writing. The thing I love that does not need me. The thing that makes me the most OK with who and how I am. The thing that makes the most sense and is the most confusing all at once.

Sometimes all the trying gets to me, so tonight I pull out the Jiffy box of cornbread mix. Eggs, milk, and whatever magic is in that sixty-five cent cardboard box. I stir and remember years ago when I was watching one of Hadley’s soccer games and a little girl was having trouble understanding a few of the key concepts of the sport. The ref would stop the game and explain what had gone wrong, and then give her a chance to try again. At one point, she was throwing the ball back into the game but had done it wrong and so the ref showed her how to do it correctly. She listened and nodded along but then started to laugh.

“I am so bad at this game!” she exclaimed, laughing harder.

She cranked the ball behind her head with both hands, threw it on the field, and ran back into the game.

I put the cornbread muffins in the oven, close the door and set the timer for 20 minutes.

I walk away, resolving to have the confidence to be bad at something until I get good. Because I’m still in the game.