Mind & Body, Ponderings, Raw

A Letter

We were kind of hit with a lot last year. There were stretches of whole months in which I had to put on a brave face and push forward.

But I kept going because I had to, you know? Life still demand attention to detail and calls to action. I didn’t have time to mourn my grandmother passing because we were simultaneously evicted (new management) from our housing. I couldn’t deal with that either because we were put up in temp housing so we had to constantly be on the lookout for a new place.

On top of everything, starting a new position at my job which required all of my brain power.

And we both got Covid. GW was even hospitalized.

On Christmas Eve.

So when I tell you I’m burnt out, I mean there is nothing but cold, gray ash in my soul.

We’re in a better place now.

In the back of my mind, I fretted over this sense of apathy that took root in my brain. I find no joy in my old hobbies. I instantly lose interest in books. I could sit down and force myself to read, but feel absolutely nothing.

The apathy stretches into my personal life too. I could explain it as a general disinterest in, well, everything.

I know I’m happy. I put a little energy toward the house and yard. It doesn’t last long.

I’m reminded of something my therapist said long ago. She likened our emotions to our physical body. If you’re in a car crash – a bad one – it takes months, maybe years to heal fully. There might be residual scar tissue. It’s the same for your emotions.

What I take from that now in this season of apathy is kindness.

I’m being kind to myself. The apathy isn’t something to hate. It’s a part of the healing process. I’m allowing myself to feel nothing, knowing my emotions have been battered and smashed up, and it’s going to take some time to recover from that.

I remind myself I am still happy. I’m in a happy season of life. I don’t need everything to be as full and meaningful as it once was. I just need to be present in this season, smile because it’s good, and know that joy and meaning will return to me in time.

All we have is time, after all.

This has been,

Fanny Crispin


Do You Even Art?

I love how chaotic and interesting an artist’s workspace is.

There’s usually paint splatters.

Ink-blotched paper curls on tables.

Pallets of color display subtle shades.

There are other pieces of artwork, bursts of color, knickknacks, and things.

I love the look of a fully utilized studio. I love seeing dried paint on the wood floors and canvases leaning against the walls and furniture. I love that the furniture is usually unique and often old – hand-me-down or just eclectic.

There is something completely serene when entering an artist’s atmosphere. Everything you carried in slides off your back and settles to the floor. You’ll have to pick it up again before you leave, but for a few moments, you don’t feel its weight.

I would like a space like this. Not that I’m terribly artistic. I just want the atmosphere for meditation.

This has been,



The Great Quarantine

Wait, we’re STILL in quarantine?

By this time last year, the entire world was experiencing some form of dread and fear of the unknown while shutting themselves up in their homes and staring at the television screen with sleep-deprived eyes.

We didn’t know what was out there. After shows like Bird Box, Containment, Virus, and even the strange one that specifically focused on adults and killed them or turned them into zombie-like blood-suckers, fresh in our minds, we felt an edge of terror wondering if this would be our final hour.

Daybreak – that’s the one with the kids surviving in a Lord of the Flies style. Took a heck of a lot of googling to find it.

I haven’t been sick for an entire year. Not a single cold or fever. Imagine all the germs we’re protecting ourselves from by sanitizing and masking up – or SUIT UP! as I like to say. I suppose that is something to be thankful for. And we didn’t lose our jobs which is itself a blessing.

But we’re still here, aren’t we? We’re still living this hellish nightmare of an invisible murderer. Let’s face it – there are no answers, and looking to government to “save” us like some cosmic Superman is childish. No one has the answers. Even this vaccine is still in trial stage. You know it. I know it. We all subconsciously hold our breath when someone we know gets the shot, like we’re waiting for hell to lay down its cards and we’ve just lost.

But you know, my body hasn’t felt this tranquil in years. I don’t have office stress. I sleep more. I’m spending more time with my husband – and I STILL like being around him. I’ll bet a lot of families are enjoying the same. I’m sure it’s hard with kids. But I bet it’s also nice. I bet relationships are growing stronger in ways you won’t realize until much later. I wonder if this will cultivate a grateful generation – just grateful to have friends and be connected, go to school, sit in class, and some day sit in an office or behind a register just grateful for what they have.

This is my hope. Let’s see what we gained. It might not come to harvest for years, but keep watering the seeds of your labor.

This has been,

Fanny T. Crispin


The Glorified Footstool

The convenience of meeting up in January is the “how long have we been together?” math is super easy.

Most married folk can relate to the lackadaisical lounging attributes of the recently married but not yet geriatric couple. We’re quite comfortable together. Physical contact is built into our love language, so this sort of draping, lounging, languid touch means something. You don’t have to talk constantly.

I thought I wanted more conversation. That was important in the beginning. I make sure to ask how his day went and listen to the venting. But most of the time, what is there to talk about? Newspapers and books have been replaced by phones in this digital age. We discuss the big news, reflect on experiences, but all stories have been told at this point.

So our connection is this glorified footstool position. It’s human nature (for physical types, that is.) Just be a warm body in a room. Let me know you’re there. Reassure me I’m not alone.

Oh, and pick up your dirty socks. This isn’t a farm.

This has been,