Black pudding

This morning, I walked in the London sun. 
And I felt brave. 
The sky was very high, and very clear. 
And I felt brave. 
Very alone, but very brave.


Lately, I've been haunted by this line from a Mary Oliver poem-- "Tell me," she says, "what are you going to do with your one wild and precious life?" 

My one wild and precious life. 

Tell me. 

I'm trying to tell myself, trying to figure it out. 
All the time.
The next step, the next train, the next meal. 
It is so much. 
Sometimes the things I carry are so heavy on my shoulders. 
Abiola told me that there was nothing to be afraid of. 
Luca told me to just enjoy making the decisions.
Which is all simple and true and correct. 
But sometimes making all the decisions means you eat very weird British things like black pudding. 
And black pudding is actually fried congealed blood. 
I didn't know, so I ordered it. 
I ate fried congealed blood-- of my own accord.

Yet. 

It's really those moments-- the mistakes I make on my own, that are mine, that only I can correct, that make me feel brave.

The proof is literally in the pudding. 

So maybe right now I'm listening to too much Beyoncé, or wearing too much black, or am too trusting that I'll find the way, or even telling you too much. 

But fuck it. 

My one wild and precious life. 

I ate congealed blood. On accident-- but I ate it. 
And freakishly, I liked it. 

This morning, I walked in the London sun and I felt so alone. 
But I felt so brave. 

I felt flawless.