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It Gets Better

The world felt wide and untouched and while I was scared to hope, I wanted to believe that this was the part where I would find the joy.

Type II Fun

That night I called my parents and tried to make it sound like I was having fun, when I really just wanted a dry place to sleep and a few moments to myself.

Joy to the World Anyway

Both spaces have shown me the need for traditions that bring us back to joy, especially when the night is dark and the howling, frigid wind finds its way through every single-paned window and every batten board of the barn. 

Farmers Markets

If I need a healthier item in a hurry, I can always spend my entire paycheck on just one item at the Lexington Co-op, which is located only a few blocks from my apartment.

My Childhood Palate

On other nights, Dad would come out to campfires we were so fond of building, cracking open a big can of baked beans to nestle into the coals on the edge of the pit.

Back to the Mountain

That’s how I felt, at 10 p.m. on a Sunday night, in a town that you may never visit—with my stethoscope around my neck, gloves on my hands, and ski boots on my feet. 

Lifetimes: The Gifts My Father Gives

Then there’s hunting, and the days that dad would pull us out of school for a “family emergency” so that we could chase after dogs who chased after pheasants and then watch as their iridescent feathers caught the autumn sun.

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