Let's write for ten minutes and see what happens.

Now that I've explained to you that my bones are breaking and that I think I am inhabited by both a menacing sea creature and a benevolent boa constrictor, I should probably tell you that I'm ok.

I think I'm ok.

More importantly, I can see a future me that is ok: a me that still feels far away but I know is real. I think about each year when I see the first crocus flower of the season, this tiny burst of purple or orange that appears every March only to find itself buried in snow a week later.

I'm here. I survived the winter. I find myself buried in snow more often than I'd like.

Future me, someday me, is just as strong but more permanent. Something fed by deep roots of contentment while the wind carries seeds of happiness throughout the yard, something that travels and explores while growing older and steadier at home.

She shimmers right in front of me. The future is joy. Someday every lost thing will return, and every broken heart will mend, and every cell regenerate.

So when my hands freeze and stiffen into a set of purple claws designed to scrape away ten feet of snow and ice, I tell myself it's only temporary. It isn't someday yet, just today.