2021, a reflection.

2021 has been…an anomaly. the very quality which makes reflection such a difficult task, is the same quality that deems reflection almost necessary. last new years’ eve unfolded at an inlet house party, with an assortment of virtual strangers, and one who would become a good friend. late night, cheap beer, the most excitement i’d had in months. i had a good feeling about 2021, and turns out i was right.

as the year rolled over, i kept walking on the beach— with new faces and old— still with an affinity for picking up shells along the way. and somehow, as the days passed, the place i was “biding my time” in while i “figured things out” started to feel a little more like home. and in the last days of february, before spring snuck in, i wrote my number on a napkin. and it turned out to be the unassuming start of something good.

i quit my job making coffee and started two more jobs making cocktails instead— like i’d wanted to all along. i went back to nashville for the first time since november 2019; its familiarity was endearing, its restaurants still special, its people still deeply important. but it didn’t feel like home anymore, and it felt peaceful to say so. i drove back to the beach fast, only stopping for gas, and left a barstool open beside me.

spring faded into summer in a haze, as less of my moments were spent on my own: bike rides for coffees and beers and pizza, walks around brookgreen to see the otters, late-night cheerses once we closed up the restaurants. friends came to town, and i found friends here. i turned 26 with my favorite dog in the world beside me, and i spent the day on a golf course in the rain. i found my first ever sharks tooth, and then i went out a few times a week to find more.

autumn found me on the go: a whirlwind weekend in new york for blue bottle and bars, for broadway, for long walks and friends and a surprise slice of delivered birthday cake. a quick, eventful trip to atlanta to see st. cloud played live; it felt like floating. a weekend in north carolina for pinegrove and the delight of being let into day-to-day ordinary. a 24-hour jaunt to greenville just to have dinner and breakfast with my friends.

and now winter leaves me with a routine i’ve come to love: coffee before work, cocktails as the day ends (new recipes each night), kitchen dances and card games, golden girls on the tv as my eyes close. 2021 may have found me writing less and reading less, but it also found me open— to change, to sameness, to hope, and love. and open is all i ever wanted to be.

here’s some music i loved this year, in no real order:

1. true love - hovvdy

2. cool dry place - katy kirby

3. del water gap - del water gap

4. if this isn’t nice, i don’t know what is - still woozy

5. you have to watch your teeth get worse - james lockhart jr.

6. sunflower - briston maroney

7. imaginary people - charlie martin

8. changephobia - rostam

9. history of a feeling - madi diaz

2020, a reflection.

the first moments of 2020 were mostly laughable— i was surrounded by strangers in a charleston apartment, flecks of glitter stuck to my clothes from those flimsy, cardboard glasses. and then i was piled in the booth at a restaurant i never knew the name of, watching a half-serious fight break out while an unopened bottle of yuengling somehow spilled out into my bag of chinese take-out. driving home on january first, i chalked it up to a night i’d laugh about. or maybe one i’d even forget about, as living a life in new york felt like it was finally in reach. i guess instead, that night became some sort of omen for the year at hand: unusual chaos, collapsing plans, and the semi-sweet discomfort of becoming reacquainted with south carolina.

though nothing about this year has been foreseen or consistent, i knew i’d still inevitably dust off this space i take up on the internet to look back on how i spent 2020; and that in itself feels like enough of a victory. it’s been a year in three parts, distinguished by c*vid, by disposition and locale.

part 1 found me at the height of determinism, sitting in my hometown starbucks every morning, eyes glazing over at the massive spreadsheet of jobs i’d applied for in new york. i sent emails, fumbled through interviews, wrote an ungodly amount of cover letters. i started writing for a music publication and reading multiple books a week. i listened to the news every morning, ran every evening at the park down the street, watched a movie every night with my parents. i went to new york for a few days and flitted from bars, to shows, to parties with my friends— not knowing our glory days would be so short-lived.

in march i bought a plane ticket to california, and a few days later i cancelled it— so began part 2. i spent most evenings walking around our dead-end suburban neighborhood, on the phone with one friend or another. not having seen a friend in months, i really didn’t mind this new pesudo-reality at first. i exited out of my massive spreadsheet and re-opened the draft of my second book; by april, it was finished and printed. i baked bread and poptarts, perfected crispy zucchini and the NYT brown butter lemon pasta. i made a new cocktail recipe every night, which accidentally turned into my third self-published book. the week i sent it to print, the country plunged into unrest— and i sunk into an unshakeable state of frustration and apathy.

i got myself out of it the only way i knew how—making a move on a whim. enter, part 3. until june, i hadn’t been to litchfield since i was 18, but in july i applied for a barista job and drove down with a carry-on suitcase and very few expectations. yet, these months have held a barrage of reacquaintance: with the strip of beach i’ve always known, with family i haven’t seen in years, with versions of who i’ve been. most days i’ve biked to the beach, walked to the end and back with a beer, continually amassing a collection of shells i’m proud of. i’ve become a regular at my favorite restaurants and i’ve made friends. i’ve seen a blue moon, and more sunrises and sunsets than i can count. i’ve watched the tide change again and again, and over time, i fell into a rhythm that somehow, for now, feels right.

as this confusing question mark of a year comes to a close, i can’t help but feel grateful in the face of all the misplaced hope, lonely days, and re-routed plans…i wouldn’t be who i am now without it.

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2020 BEST OF: ALBUMS, SONGS, BOOKS

FAVORITE ALBUMS:

Saint Cloud - Waxahatchee — my quarantine companion that somehow made southern suburbia sound beautiful.

Moveys - Slow Pulp — the definition of what it means to adapt, the echoes of my past lives in cities i’ve loved.

The Baby - Samia — an instant alone-time favorite, every track a piece of poetry.

Down Through - Gleemer — the emo small town soundtrack i’ve always wanted.

FAVORITE SONGS:

How Many Years? - Brother Moses — i never knew it was possible to pack so much heart into just 6 minutes.

Oxbow - Waxahatchee — one of the greatest track 1s in existence. “i want it all, all.”

Guest In Your Life - Sinai Vessel — this one will forever remind me of my one-song bike rides to the beach.

peace - Taylor Swift — the sound of an east coast sunrise, the sound of how it feels to be tethered to your life.

FAVORITE BOOKS:

during 2020, I set a goal to read 40 books—i ended up reading 61. which is WILD, yet a goal i’m really proud to have stuck to and exceeded. choosing favorites was nearly impossible, but here are 6 that changed me:

Book of Delights - Ross Gay — a practice of gratitude via essayettes. simple, human, observant; beautiful in the most rare and real way.

Swing Time - Zadie Smith — a novel about rhythm, about race, about friendship and love. there’s this quote that struck me deeply: “sometimes i wonder if people don’t want freedom a much as they want meaning.”

Find Me - Andre Aciman — i don’t think anyone has ever written dialogue and subtle banter more beautifully.

Where the Crawdads Sing - Delia Owens — a book that truly lived up to the hype; so many small moments of beauty and an ending i won’t forget. “…because people forget about creatures who live in shells.”

Trick Mirror - Jia Tolentino — the essay collection that made me think the most this year; there’s no critical thinker/writer i admire more than Jia Tolentino.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith — a book about nothing and everything all at once— in the best way.

not what i planned, an ode to my own:

today is september 30, 2020. this day last year, i was splitting a plate of ribs with my friend on her birthday, trying sakè from someone else’s ceramic cup. by the time october crept into the dark skyline, we were drunk off PBRs, giggly and waiting for the subway to take us home. 

this morning i’d all but forgotten about the subway, the sakè, the thoughtlessness. i woke up at 6:11am, in a room i had half a hand in decorating when i was 10 years old, when i really liked Vera Bradley’s Java Blue. it was still dark out when i grabbed my apron and my mask, and glanced at my freshly bleached hair. it was still dark out when i got in my car to drive to work. 

this… this life is not what i planned on at all. i did not plan on knowing that Mrs. Renee likes her iced coffee with caramel and classic and extra heavy cream. i did not plan on growing a collection of Atlantic Slipper Snail shells. i did not plan on reading a book of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s interviews, mourning her passing, while i wait in the prescription line behind a car with a Tr*mp sticker staring me in the face. i did not plan on the bartender knowing i like the Peach Wheat beer after just one evening. i did not plan on watching America fall apart over and over on my computer screen. i did not plan on so many people and places i love getting comfortable existing in my rearview, in my phone’s speakers. i did not plan on returning to the beach i grew up on, i did not plan on… the South. 

i didn’t want any of this; i’ve continually kept weaving between the lines of disbelief and acceptance of my current reality. but tonight i saw a gathering of surfers honoring one of their own at golden hour with sunflowers, with beer, and what we once called thoughtfulness. i looked up and out at the ocean, placid and ever changing, always there. i walked back to write this, so i might try to honor my own too. 

i’ll consider this an ode of sorts, a gratitude list during a dumpster fire year. an ode to what’s mine:

• to the kind woman who spent six hours making my hair look magical again, to community that can tether you, whether you ask for it or not.

• to the seashells that surface, broken and fragmented. to the tide’s steadiness and shifts, to the endless possibilities that exist on a single shoreline.

• to the beagles that walk by as i write part of this on an iPhone note, sandy and free; leashless and loyal to their people.

• to the one-song bike ride it takes to arrive at the boardwalk i’ve always known. to my care in picking that song thoughtfully.

• to those [current] songs, and my friends and/or heroes that make them: acolyte - slaughter beach, dog. over my head - fleetwood mac. guest in your life - sinai vessel. old friends - pinegrove. rive - louis prince. this feeling - alabama shakes. moments / tides - goth babe. here comes the sun (cover) - nina simone.

• to the one birthday i can’t help but remember in the midst of my perpetual forgetfulness. to the people that’ve made me, even if i didn’t realize the extent until after we’ve moved and changed, until after we’ve become strangers.

• to the library card that no matter where i live, seems to crack the world wide open. to fighting against the notion that youth is wasted on the young.

• to the dead sunflowers still whirling about the shore on october fifth. to the way i cannot choose between a smile or a frown, so i choose both.