Thank goodness for the trees.

-the meaningful glow-

My feet move across the dirt path. Something in me has been aching for weeks. Depending on the moment it can feel like a tug at the last thread holding my life — myself — together, or a looming wave about to wreck whatever is left.

Children run ahead of me with their arms outstretched in flight, linger behind to squeal over acorns, or slip a hand quietly into mine.

All thoughts dissipate except this: thank goodness for the trees.

It comes so suddenly, the noise sucked out of my mind, that my throat tightens and my eyes lift to whispering leaves and it’s as though they are speaking only to me.

I’m not a religious person, and yet it becomes a sort of prayer, a gift from the forest, to repeat these words to myself.

Thank goodness for the trees.

Over the coming days it surges under my skin, an undercurrent of longing, of permission to let go.

Utterances of thank goodness appear like beacons, moonlight illuminating what has always been there. What I mistakenly thought missing or gone or completely out of reach.

Thank goodness for the trees. Thank goodness for therapy, psychiatrists, and Zoloft. Thank goodness for the friend who quietly slips in beside your dysregulated child who just hit you, hard, giving you the opportunity to obtain an efficient 30-second sob only to gather yourself up again.

Thank goodness for beads of hot water down my skin after a day of never being alone. The hard conversations with a partner often trapped by his mental health. The voicing out loud that I am alone, too, when he is so far from me in the same room. For his hand reaching for mine in the dark.

For text threads aka lifelines with friends. The way light begins to slant in my kitchen when Autumn hints at its arrival. For poetry and stories to nourish the underfed parts of me. Thank goodness for the croon of Brandi Carlile and pulses of concert lights where my skin isn't actually 36 but 16 and I am barely heartbroken.

Thank goodness for the ending of a first marriage in which he drank and chose other women and told me I was never his priority and I folded myself up so tightly I forgot who I was.

Thank goodness for my realization that these things are worth saying. That I matter, too, and for saying I want to feel I do after holding it in for years, trying to keep everyone else cared for and alive and surviving.

I matter, too.

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We clamber down the bank, finding the water. I remove my shoes and then my children’s. Their delight in the stream, the cold water on my toes and the mud underneath them, disarms me. I pick up my second born and we spin and wild laughter leaves my lips and his. The way he looks at me, a love so intense.

I matter.

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I dye my bangs white blonde and get a wolf cut. I daydream of the floral tattoos I want to climb my arms. I stop wearing bras and opt for cute midriff tanks because my boobs are so small anyway it's not like a bra does anything and plus, I hate how they feel. I keep wearing dresses, lighting candles when the kids go to bed or at dinner even if it's chicken nuggets just because I like to.

My oldest sees me so thoroughly at times —my intense love of words and buttercups in mason jars on the windowsill and garden dirt on my knees or flour on my face and cozy corners and paintings of trees. I find myself tearing up when he does because often I am lost in the trenches of diapers, meltdowns, endless bedtime routines, trying to not lose my own shit, clinging to whatever is left of me and feeling like purse strings - some drawn too tightly and others about to give way.

He notices.

I matter.

---

Thankful for the camping towels I remembered to pack this morning, we dry off and set out again. The kids look for fairy glens under the trees and that brings me happiness words can't quite claim. By the time we reach the van we are hungry and a bit cranky, but we are happy. After the usual resistance everyone is buckled into car seats and eating lunches. I put an audiobook on for the kids and let my mind wander.

Thank goodness for the trees.

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life with littles

We've had a lot and very little all at once happening with this crew. It's our first year officially homeschooling, though we've been in a loose rhythm of it for a while. I started an early years nature group and it's been great to co-lead with other parents and come home with kids who look like they took a bath in dirt, which they basically did.

My oldest is officially on the spectrum as of July, which is no surprise to us, and we continue to teach him that being autistic is not bad or weird - it simply means his brain is differently wired and processes things in ways he will learn to navigate as he gets older. In the meantime, we navigate it with him. Some days this is easy, other days it's not. But we are in it together, and quite honestly his father and I would not be surprised if we are neurodivergent as well.

My 3 and 1 year old are almost 4 and 2. Big feelings. Cute knock knock jokes that make no sense. Lots of snacks.

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in other news

After all this time, I'm excited to say I feel like I'm back.

What have I been up to in the last 6 months?

Taking a course in audiobook narration, recording my demos, setting up my internet presence, planning to go on a cruise just for narrators, and starting my reachouts to publishers.

I am so proud of myself. I can't wait to get started and continue coaching with the best out there.

https://jessmoranvo.com/

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currently reading/listening

Listening: The Midnight Library, written by Matt Haig and beautifully narrated by Carey Mulligan. I tend to procrastinate on books I hear a lot about, and I'm finally getting to this one. Loving it.

Reading: The Tuesday Girl: A Memoir by

Tanya Eby

. Tanya is a voice the narration community adores and respects. The candor of her writing, of her story, is visceral and I can't put it down. And I mean, this cover is an absolute stunner.

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As always, thank you for being here.

Warmly,

Jess