Attempt at stepping through a portal

On thresholds, deadweights, and choosing a life of colour

Last week, a friend informed me I was about to travel through a powerful astrological portal. I’m not usually one to keep my finger on the pulse of planetary positions, but apparently, the upcoming total lunar eclipse was going to be a big deal—especially for me as a Pisces.

Over wine, I listened as my friend laid out the when, what, and why of it all: I was to gather my every disappointment and heartbreak and hurl them through this mystical gateway—then call in my most radical hopes and dreams, and wait for my life to change.

I was a little doubtful. Despite this newsletter’s name, Attempts at Optimism, I’m a pessimist and sceptic by nature. Still, I can’t deny the moon’s pull on the Earth—and if it can command the tides of oceans and wombs, who’s to say it couldn’t shape destiny, too?

My friend seemed confident, and as she’s one of those people who really has her shit together, I figured I ought to listen to her.

As a spiritual newbie, I began decluttering physical items first, waiting to see if I felt any lighter. I cleared my wardrobe of clothes that had long-ago been forgotten, then pared down my makeup collection, alarming hoard of toiletries, and the last of the cancer medicine I no longer need. It was oddly freeing. Tasks that had festered on my to-do list were at last ticked off, and anything earmarked for donation was promptly loaded in the back of the car.

As the clutter thinned, it hit me how stuck I’ve been lately.

Having finally moved into our new house, I’ve been incapacitated by decision overwhelm. Stacked boxes crowd the spare room, waiting for a place to belong. I know I need to build shelves, but I can’t decide where to put them. So many tiny choices—insignificant in the grand scheme of things—yet they’ve all begun to blur together. This indecision has started to feel like a mirror of my inner doubt. I worry I’m stagnating, afraid to sink my roots into the earth.

From my perch on the living room sofa—where I ought not to write but often do—I can see to the very top of the hill behind our house, to where a pack of coyotes live. Earlier in the summer, my dog Flynn chased one from our yard, and now they wait at the fence line, watching. Emboldened by his victory, Flynn furiously barks at them from the window. Even from here, I can tell they are nothing but dusty fur and bone. And though I cannot read their facial expressions, I imagine Flynn’s outbursts amuse them. Like the coyotes, I linger on a threshold, not yet sure if I can call this place my own.

And yet, while I hesitate, the seasons slip forward without me. Cooler weather has finally reached Los Angeles, and I remember the melancholic last dregs of August as if seen through a haze. Life is so often this way, isn't it? You are sad one moment, and the next you’re not. You put aside your doubts for a while and get busy with whatever your heart desires next.

For my part, I am ready for change. To cut loose my psychological deadweights. To reach out my hands and grab whatever’s for the taking.

And just like my old things, I’m decluttering my heartbreaks, too. All the little hurts of the last 6 years, scarred over and bright pink in their newness.

Lying in bed, I hold my old stories up to the moonlight and ask: Are there cracks in this? Is this for chucking or for keeping?

Perhaps it’s not as simple as stepping through a lunar portal. Yet part of me hopes it is, because I’d rather spend my time dreaming than hurting.

So, I’m building inspiration boards that evoke memories of English cottages, ordering swatches of celestial rugs and velveteen sofa fabric. I see myself hanging sea-green wallpaper, pressing a thousand tiles into a cream and cerulean mosaic. I picture myself writing in the sunlight of a handmade stained-glass window—dreaming, at last, of a life drenched in colour and comfort.

And I’m reminding myself that, during cancer treatment, I lived with one rule:

Just focus on the next thing.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the what-ifs. But who knows where we’ll all be in a few weeks, a few months, a few years?

Maybe this, then, is what stepping through a portal really is—claiming the life you’ve been brave enough to imagine.

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What about you—what portal might you be ready to step through? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Oh, and don’t forget to tap the 🧡 button on your way out.

(Unhearted posts are unopened portals.)

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