Linden Griffith
Stories (6/0)
The Heart is Where Home is
I was reminded of my heart today. I realized its presence is shamefully easy to forget. It beats, and it speaks, yet I haven’t a moment to notice. I forget about the life it pumps into me, reliable, consistent, patient, unyielding. How it expands to be with whatever comes my way. It breaks for me, aches for me, and reminds me of what is important. My heart swells with pride, flips with excitement, and pounds for love. She breathes life into me and continues to beat when the world comes crumbling down. I think my heart and I have always had a thing for each other. I have a soft spot in my head for my heart. I’ve never criticized her, never hated her, never wished she were different. I’ve hated other parts of me. I’ve criticized every part of me. I’ve wished most of me was different, but not my heart, never my heart. I love how she makes me cry when she feels other's pain. I admire her for opening and re-opening, the only part of me strong enough to show up for life’s next challenge. She softens and steels and softens again.
By Linden Griffithabout a month ago in Psyche
Stuck in the Grey
My eyes are clenched tight, whether it is to block something out or to search inside, I cannot tell. It feels like I’m trying to find a reason that doesn’t exist in a haystack of steel colored, gray nothingness. The nothingness is closest akin to a dense fog and has mottled striations of black and dark grey; they blend together, tumbling without moving, moving without movement. There is a glass-like reminiscence to the fog. It’s impenetrable, and at the same time, the desire to go into it conflicts with the energetic resistance it radiates. I feel like the answer that will allow for peace and freedom is in that grey mottled, molasses-like chaos. It won’t let me go into it, so I take a different approach and breathe deep with the hope that my deep breaths might shift the fog to yield some insight or perhaps to make the density of the fog dissipate.
By Linden Griffith2 years ago in Psyche
- Top Story - January 2022
Smells like ChocolateTop Story - January 2022
It occurred to me the other day as I pulled back the sheets on my bed that I never smell like chocolate. I had a flashback to the days of my youth when I smelled like a distillery the day after drinking. There were moments in hot yoga rooms in those days when I was worried the person in triangle pose next to me might get pulled over for a DUI on her way home. She would be unable to explain to the police officer why she was blowing above a .08 on a Sunday afternoon, now late to make Sunday dinner for her two happy children and her adoring husband, what a bummer. Guilty by proximity of the yoga mat.
By Linden Griffith2 years ago in Psyche
Letter to my Lindes
Dear Linde, I would not have been a good mom, I was too fucked up to think about anything but myself for my childbearing and rearing years. Moms have the hardest job in the world and the world decided to have mercy on me and my unborn children. I would have loved them fiercely, but, you see, I didn’t love myself enough to love another being as deeply as a child deserves.
By Linden Griffith2 years ago in Psyche
Cheese Shamed
I allowed myself to be cheese shamed at the store the other day and it wasn't even done by a proper monger. As I walked to the back corner of the store where the cheese lives, I could feel my heartbeat quicken with anticipation. You see, I had just found a brand of cottage cheese called “good” and not only is the company super responsible with how they source their milk, but they also make really good cottage cheese, which, in my opinion, is almost as rare as a well-fitting pair of 9-inch high rise bicycle shorts. There is a meal in England that properly captures that experience for me; two sausages topped by something soft and amorphous...yes, bangers and mash.
By Linden Griffith2 years ago in Psyche
These Boots
These boots came into my life a semester, a house, a marriage, another house, and a year ago. My sister in law has narrow little feet, we call them flippers. I have wide feet, we call them floppers. I remember walking into my parent's foyer and seeing these boots on the staircase. I’m not good at asking permission, but I think I got out “WHOSE ARE THESE!?” as I was putting my floppers into them. They called to me from across the room the second I walked in; so at that point, ownership had already been defined. I was smart enough to keep that knowledge in my head at that point. Turns out, they were temporary housing for my sister in law’s little flippers. She brought them to my parent’s house when she and my brother came to visit because her flippers were swimming in the toe box that could park a Fiat.
By Linden Griffith2 years ago in Humans