Today, I changed the tires on my bike, readjusted my brakes, filed down the brake pads, sprayed alcohol mist all over myself and my bike, and eased those disc brakes into a smooth flow. Self sufficiency.

I asked for time when I needed it with a friend and rescheduled a phone date, though it was hard to do so. I am used to over-committing. Self time.

I sat silently and ate my dinner with candles burning. I sat in my favorite chair and rocked, my spinach, my hummus and I. Self nourishment.

The woman I said hello to on the street, after I complimented her Find Your Park/Encuentra tu Parque sticker, gave me a sticker. I asked to give her a hug. She said “No man, I’m sick,” hands held up in apology. Self care.

I will quietly do some yoga poses for my body after this post because my limbs want to stretch and I’ll put on my Women of the Moon playlist to honor this last day of my cycle that was so perfectly timed with the New Moon. Self celebration.

I dance naked. Self love.

I carried a big, heavy TV today, along with another woman, even when my dad asked to help. It’s sweet that he asked, but also, we got it. Women screwing things in, taking things apart, carrying heavy objects. Self strengthening.

I don’t yet want to say yes, and I’m not sure if I want to say no, and so I trust myself to say what I need to say when I need to say it. Self trust.

Call me on a telephone where you have to dial the merry-go-round of numbers; I’ll answer that call. Hold warm rocks up to my cheeks because that is where I can best feel the slipperiness of their skin. I am dancing somewhere within my body, and my limbs try to keep up to a beat that comes from star pulses. Child-eyed wonder of this earth; heart-hammock sadness. I swing between extremes and kiss foreheads.

I am tumble weed, bird’s nest hair, green-black painted toes, big ole eyes of constellations. A crooked smile and a furrowed brow. When I speak, my voice whistles its own melodic tune; catch me with my slithering s. I hold a handful of dates and my grandma’s red apron. I sing my grandad’s spontaneous opera and the frenzied yelps of birds during feeding time. I’m the old Folger’s coffee ground container, smelling decades old and like breakfast.

I am the part of my mom that let us play hooky one day in high school; she drove us down to Mexico and called the school to say we were sick. I am the part of my dad that gives gifts of flowers and cards and beer as messages saying thank you. I blend colors like a palette. I make mistakes; they hurt like stepping on the invisible thorn while walking barefoot. Sometimes, I wear shoes. Chatting tummy, creaky knee, funky hip, whirl mind.

Watch me dance like a flamethrower and melt like wax on your fingertips. Where you stroke my skin, a row of seedlings grow into shoots; the air feels too sweet on their open buds; they stand tall and gape. I am the meadows of my fingers on myself. Each row criss-crosses like a checkered cookie, like the chessboard in the park, like the red smeared streaks, like spilled gallons of paint. I roll in the wetness of color. I stick to the crunch of gravel.

Don’t hold me like a library book but turn down my corners like dog-eared pages. I was made for being read by curious minds. That’s how I’m writing myself.