day one: begin the begin

I think seeds and wings are the same things really. Because one pollinates and the other floats, and they're both moving fast towards new beginnings. Sometimes when I want a fresh start, I lay still and think about my lungs. My lungs look like seeds and wings. Like two pieces of a split heart, one east one west. And these lungs have sardine tin lids over them, the old-fashioned kind with lock-and-key openers. I hold my breath and poke at each lung, lifting my hands across this riblet continet, turning the tiny keys up and away until they pop off, fall rusty on the floor. And just then, my lungs are so clean I feel afraid. And then I run for miles.

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I've decided to blog thirty days of vignettes, observations, lists and images each day over this, the last month of my twenties. I'm calling the month-long project Thirtymoon. Which sort-of sounds like Thirtysomething, that TV show from the 80s my mom used to watch. And it sounds a little swoony, like Moonstruck, the chocolatier. Or like honeymoon and golden years in one, which is much more of what I'm going for.

I live in Seattle, in a vintag-ey place without a view, with a husband who's already six months into his thirties. He tells me I should just jump in, that the water's fine over there. To which I reply, "I have twenty-nine toe dips before I'm diving into anything, thankyouverymuch."