Today I ate breakfast, read a book, and went for a two-hour walk. Along the way I spotted The Yellow Umbrella, a tiny burger/fries/milkshake stand that’s uh-mazing. I didn’t have any cash on me, but I thought, I’m so excited. I’ll come back in a while. I’ll get a milkshake! So later I went back, but The Fucking Yellow Umbrella had closed for the day. Ten minutes ago. Talk about a disappointment.

Turning around, I thought, Hardee’s has burgers, fries, and milkshakes.

That was six hours ago, and I still feel bloated. Of course, I did just eat dinner (pasta). Maybe that has something to do with it. Either way, I’ve had a lot of calories. Recently I heard Rihanna say she knows when she’s having a fat day. I thought, Me too, girl, me too. But she also said, “I accept all of the bodies,” so I’m trying to do that too–embrace who I am in every changing moment.

This evening I went by my parents’ house to set up my mom’s new tablet (her portal to the rest of the world). Naturally, this took a while, entering her email address and password into each app I downloaded, transferring information from her old tablet to her new one. I actually love doing stuff like this, organizing things, putting everything where it belongs. Granted, the tediousness of it all can wear on me, but I do enjoy figuring out new devices and solving problems. I remember being like this as a child, wanting to understand how the world works, taking things apart, putting them back together.

Recently my friend Bonnie pointed out that as a child, your whole worldview is different. For one thing, you really have no concept of time (whatever that is). You bury yourself in a book, a project, a game, and the rest of life simply falls away. You’re not checking Facebook every five minutes. You’re not thinking about your to-do list or calendar. You’re just–well–the only place you ever can be.

Right here, right now.

I realize a lot of things necessarily change when you become an adult. It’s hard to function in today’s society without a day-planner. But personally I feel a lot of anxiety about having my whole day, week, life scheduled out hour-by-hour. This may sound ridiculous coming from someone who sleeps in past noon and doesn’t currently have a job (you may be thinking, What does HE have to schedule?), but my default is to at least mentally plan everything I do every day. First I’ll read a book, then I’ll go for a walk, then I’ll eat 2,000 calories in a single meal.

I think this behavior, this attitude, stems from my need to control. As if the world’s going to fall apart if I stop planning. As if I’m going to. Of course, it’s not–I’m not. And would it be so terrible if I did? Along these lines, I’ve been thinking that I could adjust my habits. I could adjust–well–me. I’ve been reading that rigid thought patterns and emotions affect the physical body, that sometimes our bodies develop illnesses and issues as a way of saying, “Sweetheart, something needs to change. We can’t go on like this.” Regardless of whether or not this is true (I personally have a love-hate relationship with theories like this one), I know that I could alter a few things upstairs. I’ve talked about this before, but I demand a lot of myself. I’m nervous a lot. I feel “less than” a lot. (It’s wearing me out.)

Sweetheart, something needs to change.

I really am working on this. God, am I working on it. This afternoon during my walk–unplanned–I detoured through one of my favorite cemeteries. Maybe this sounds like a morbid thing to say, but I actually like cemeteries. They’re quiet, they’re peaceful, and that’s how I want to be. Plus, this cemetery I went to today has two stunning weeping willows, and I love weeping willows. There’s just something about them, the way their leaves fall helplessly toward the ground and yet their branches reach proudly toward the sky. It’s like they understand both pain and hope.

Walking toward the weeping willows today, I stopped at several headstones. Only one belonged to someone I knew, but the rest belonged to strangers–people like you and me, really–people who once worried and made too many plans, ate too many calories. Going from grave to grave, I adjusted some of the wind-blown flowers. It felt like a sacred act. I thought, They can’t organize this themselves, and I hope when I’m gone someone will put all of my things where they belong. Then I sat down under the shade of one of the willow trees and–for no apparent reason–began to cry.

I hope this makes sense. There I was, surrounded by thousands of dead bodies, and I realized I was breathing. For a moment, it was so clear to me–I was alive. We get so little time on earth, and I thought, I have choices down here. I don’t want to live the rest of my life beating myself up (about anything). I don’t want to go on feeling nervous and less than. I can’t–I just can’t. Sweetheart, we can’t go on like this.

Leaving the cemetery with my headphones in, I literally danced down the gravel road. I spun. I did the grapevine. Considering the fact I had dead people on either side of me, perhaps my dancing bordered on gloating. Look what I can do, suckas! But this is the way the world works–it’s ironic. And perhaps this is the gift the dead give us, a reminder to live our lives unbridled, to be at home here, to dance when we feel like dancing, to cry when we feel like crying, to be okay with whatever arises in the moment, to let even a tree hold you while you simultaneously take yourself apart and put yourself back together.