January 1, 2022

You’re in the middle-of-nowhere Idaho. There’s a field of golden grass yawning toward heaven, a 14 year old dog named Moonshine, a lake that takes a gracious bite out of the 95 degree days, and a lot of drugs. Someone brings like 10 kayaks even though no one asked them to, as far as you can tell. The projections turn the trees into a moving wall of water, and even Drunk Jon, H’s dad, can’t stop exclaiming how incredible it is. He’s right. He is also concerned about a wheelbarrow, which he repeats again and again and again. It becomes mantra. H looks a little embarrassed, but you, who is also me, find it kind of comforting, the single focus. Shins warming by the fire, a few beers down, you are loosening.

You have been living inside a tight grip, in part, of your own making. You have forgotten how to not know. You have been saying yes, but not to the right kind of things. So, this weekend, you lean allllllll the way in. Take to the lake. Wear your swimsuit in front of a bunch of people you don’t know. Say yes to shooting a gun. To kayaking, I guess! Say yes to rubbing a strangers back, which, oddly, seems to have been your idea. Say yes to touch. To sitting on a rooftop. To being in your body. To the sudden un-drunk of being like…. perceived???

The sailboat’s name is Cricket. You have a sunburn! There’s a vat of pasta salad that was cooked by someone naked, and no one minds, that’s just Jason. At some point there's a kiddie pool full of mac n cheese and it's being wrestled in. A literal stone bowl full of molly is passed around like communion. We lick our fingers and dip like some sort of twisted adult fun dip party favor, and you’re pretty convinced it’s not working but there’s no way to be sure. And honestly? Maybe that’s close enough. The effect is that you are falling in love with everyone in the way that it happens with just-barely strangers: stupidly, all at once.

A 7.5 hour long car ride with someone you don't know produces a new best friend. At hour 7 you both realize the radio’s been whispering a low static the entire time, you didn't notice. A beer left on your blanket in the yard for when you come back is an expression of care. Everyone seems to find it miraculous and charming that Being Outside™️ is not really Your Thing™️. Mid-sprawl in the field of lights, just hours before the sun is bound to rise, you sit bolt-upright and make an ill-advised call to the person who recently broke your heart. A handsome stranger (with eyes so bright you can’t ascertain if they’re hard to look at because of the drugs or because you’re just plain overwhelmed) wanders through the grass and hands you… a kazoo?

Your therapist will say that there’s a certain kind of Mary Poppins quality to it all. Strange magic. She won’t bat an eye at any of this. She’ll tell you “JENNA–since the dawn of time, people have wandered out into the wilderness in community to do drugs, and make out, and get healed. Go on a spirit quest of sorts." And maybe this was yours.

It’s all occurring to you here and now. You suddenly remember your capacity. Suddenly learn about leaning towards the utter hotness of reciprocity. To find people holding up a mirror to your worthiness. People who want to salsa dance with you on the porch even though you don’t really know how. People who will touch your hair, rub your head for hours because the colors are too bright. People who haul an entire cooler full of beers up to roof just in case. Who'll cheer you on. Who aren’t afraid of muchness, of bigness. And that you can wait patiently, sweetly. That you can be bold and quiet when you need to. That you can show. That you can not feel scarce. That you can simmer, simmer, simmer, simmer. And then? Who knows.