Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of August 7, 2022
My backyard is home to very depressed worms. I keep finding sun-dried worm corpses on my walkway. And not even after a hard rain—as they might be flooded to the topsoil. It’s like they just have had enough of being a worm living underground and wriggle to the surface for that long-elusive moment of warmth before being cooked to death.
I give myself permission to be a living, breathing, learning, failing, succeeding, complicated human being. For if I don’t, there’s no point in celebrating a birthday.