Today I’m granting permission.
Not that I have the power or authority, but I don’t see that anyone else has the job or is doing it, so I’m volunteering. You can be the permission granter tomorrow.
I grant you permission to:
eat pie and ice cream for breakfast. And lunch. And for all your snacks.
not take a shower today. And tomorrow. Or to take a very long one (which, if you live in California, now means 5 minutes).
not make your bed. Or make it, even though your partner hates a made bed, the sheets tucked in. Go ahead, enjoy your bed.
run today. Run 7 miles even though you have only ever run 3. You will be fine, a little sore, and it doesn’t matter if it takes you 3 hours. You can stop as long and as often as you want. You can invite your friends.
or don’t run today. In fact, stay on the couch or in bed or in the recliner. Get a book and a beer and read all day.
Don’t answer your phone today: not the calls or the texts or the emails. Pretend it’s broken and when people get impatient, when you talk to them tomorrow, don’t explain it or acknowledge it.
Go blueberry picking and eat all the blueberries as you pick them.
Wear whatever is most comfortable and go to the grocery store. Do not hide when your friends see you. Talk to them, give them a hug.
Write. Badly.
Imagine your other lives. The ones you didn’t choose. The places you left. Imagine the apartment on Chopin Street and the small back porch that looked out onto an alley. You wanted to believe it was romantic but you also knew it wasn’t. Imagine now that it is.
Imagine you are living in Ilha Grande, Brazil. You have learned Portuguese, though it’s not flawless. You live alone and you track sand into the kitchen. Your friends promise they will come visit but they never do and that makes you happy. You have permission now to spend the day looking for a particular yellow, just to see it. You have permission to grieve this. You do not need to be grateful today.
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