129 // Tomorrows After

It’s getting easier. I woke just after my alarm and though my body protested and made sweet promises, if only I stayed in bed cozy under the covers, I still managed to make my way to the kitchen table to write. The words flowed without needing to be forced. And though I wish I could stay here all day, I’m happy enough with my progress that I can get on with the rest of the day free from resentments and regrets.

Coffee, as always, is the catalyst, but I’m starting to appreciate the motivating effects of a good breakfast and proper hydration. The mind, it turns out, is easier to wrangle when it isn’t preoccupied with your most basic biological needs.


I think this year’s Mother’s Day celebrations were a success! My mom was happy with her nails and the Your Mother’s Story Lined Journal I got her. She’s lead a remarkable and tragic life and I think it’s time we start writing some of her memories down and organizing them into something that could be passed down. My mother-in-law loved her homemade quiche and the signpost my wife built with all her children’s names and the number of miles away they are in any direction.

Now the focus turns to Father’s day, and then a barrage of birthdays through the summer and fall before the end of the year holidays. Looking ahead, suddenly, the time between now and 2022 seems too short and far too filled with stress. Suddenly, looking forward through time, I can feel my chest tighten with the panic of time tick, tick, ticking by. Suddenly life itself is too short.

And just like that, my mind has run away with me. Just like that I can start to spiral. This is why practicing mindfulness has become such a priority in my life. I tell myself that’s why a year lasts as long as it does. You cannot take it all in at once, the way my mind keeps trying to. You have to live it day by day, or, preferably, moment by precious and surprising moment.

This day, this holiday, was a good one. Tomorrow belongs to tomorrow and all the tomorrows after.

Published by

Lisa Marie Blair

Painfully aware. Profoundly afraid. Perpetually falling in and out of love with humanity. She/They.

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