As the dark crescendos

and 20 things

(A song I’ve been loving:

Rising through, 35mm film

The dark is crescendoing here (as far as Northern California goes, at least), close to its peak on the coming solstice. The sun sets while we eat dinner now; yesterday, I caught a glimpse of it through the window while finishing roasting sweet potatoes. I scooped my daughter up and ran to the front yard so we could stand in awe as scattered blue clouds turned pink, then orange, then neon, then even brighter neon, then darker red, then dark blue, then night. I wrapped her in my sweater with me as we watched the rise and fall of light, right before our eyes.

I both thrive and struggle in winter: thriving with the extra candlelight, the quiet, the slowness, the ample time for reading on the couch and baking and brisk walks and favorite sweaters; in some ways, it feels like my truest self can breathe easier during this time of year, a time that matches my most natural pace, way of being, way of seeing. I've always felt more at home in the depths this season seems to naturally invite. It’s my favorite season to take photos in, to go on drives in, to tune in.

And yet it isn’t without struggle — the pressure and expectations, the reflecting on a whole year that has felt both beautiful and hard, the movement toward January’s flurry of performed motivation and readiness for newness in the dead middle of what should be our fallow season, the deep, amplified loneliness and grief, the melancholy of cheerfulness not always feeling in reach, the missing of those who aren’t here. The exhaustion. The heaviness. The chaos and news spinning rampant. The silence.

I need so many reminders, all the time. I need to write down what my wisest self knows, what my body registers as truth, what my teachers help me see, what nature helps me remember. I am turning toward these reminders as the tenderness seems to feel extra soft to the touch, as the world's madness continues on, as my heart turns more and more tender, as light continues to fade before it returns, as 2025 looms with all its unknowns and fears, wonderings and possibilities, somehow all at once.

A bright spot, 35mm film

Here is what I am turning toward, whispering to myself, and practicing in this great spiral of decay, quiet, and trust in the renewal that is also coming soon —

1 — That sadness you feel swirling in your gut? That most tender sense of grief in your chest, that heaviness in your heart, that weighted feeling on your feet? These don’t mean anything is wrong; they mean you’re listening. Thank you for listening to more than the insistence on only feeling one way this time of year.

2 — Also… that relief? That inner permission to rest? That ignited sense of imagination, that excitement for what’s unfolding, that desire to stay rooted to what you long for? Those get to be here and be felt/tended to/heard, too. Those don’t negate anything hard, but they might help you through the hard if you really let them in.

3 — It is wise to slow things down when you see slowing all around you. It is anything but lazy to give into the need for extra rest, to let sleep take up more space, to do less. Listening to your body’s rhythm is intelligent, even when the seeing of your humanity is so often stripped away in these sick systems we’re living in. Let yourself betray these systems by mirroring all that requires a death before becoming renewed again.

4 — I promise being a silly weirdo sometimes won’t make you any less deep.

5 — You don't need to figure out your whole life in your free time. You don't need to plan an entire year in a day, or in one coffee shop visit, or in one morning page. You can let things unfold in time, with trust, without the urgency of seeking to control how it all goes. You can invite in good outcomes when imagining what could be, too, even when there's no way of knowing yet.

Dark, light, 35mm film

6 — Staying off Instagram feels hard because it’s addictive — not because you’re bad or a failure. Pay attention to the sensations that come with logging off. Notice what you get more of when you log off. Take the risk of listening to what you need. Stay gentle with the struggle of it. Also, log off.

7 — You miss people because your heart knows love. You miss people because your heart knows love. You miss people because your heart knows love.

8 — The discomfort of doing less than you see everyone else seeming to do isn’t because doing less is bad; it’s because we’ve all been conditioned to see busyness as something to take pride in, to strive for, to be a marker of a full and good and important life. Your choice to do less, to not attend all the things, to prioritize time for slowness and ease and quiet and literal rest, isn’t a waste; it will ignite you when you’re ready for more momentum.

9 — Just Say Yes to candles, always.

10 — Listen to Patti Smith quoting Allen Ginsberg: there comes a time when we must turn our mourning into dancing.

11 — You’re not going to get to where you want to go right this second, so you may as well stop obsessing over how to get there and start taking one small step, then another, then another, all while surrendering to the outcome of those steps, because who really knows what’s coming? This is hard, and it is still worth practicing.

13 — Not everyone is going to like or understand your choices, your changes, you. This was once impossibly painful; notice the ways the pain of it is lessening. Notice the ways the pain of not being your true self hurts more than being misunderstood. Notice the ways you’ve been practicing letting misunderstanding take the place of performance. Find some celebration in that, even as it is bittersweet. There is medicine in slowly remembering how to be your truest self.

Cliffside, 35mm film

14 — There is beauty in your expanding willingness to stay with what’s hard, with what hurts, with your forever companion of grief. And yet there is also beauty in letting your capacity to trust, to imagine, to stay close to possibility, to dream, to let the good in also expand, knowing doing so won’t lessen your capacity to stay with the grief but will only widen it even farther, and then farther. Goodness doesn’t cancel out pain; it just widens your ability to hold both. Collecting beauty doesn’t negate the hurt; it just deepens your willingness to face it.

15 — Take stock of the simple ways you can nurture and nourish yourself this season. Don’t overcomplicate it. Take the two minutes to make your overnight herbal infusions. Make a meal rotation instead of coming up with new dinner menus every week. Go for a walk instead of worrying about how to maximize your movement. Let it be easy where it can be easy. Let easy be enough.

16 — Try to meet the sunrise or sunset most days. Notice what the light does for you.

17 — Look through old photos. Feel the sensations that come with how much beauty you’ve seen, how much sweetness you’ve noticed, how many moments you’ve chosen to witness. Let them be a balm for now, for what is to come.

18 — Bring your body along in all you do; don’t get too centered on your thinking self; let your feeling self guide the way as often as possible.

19 — Trust the discomfort that comes with releasing, with moving toward something new, with planning futures, with hoping, with going for it. Let the discomfort be a symbol of mattering instead of a sign to stop trying.

20 — One breath. Then another. Then another.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

ps. After finishing writing this from bed, I overheard my daughter in the other room say, "I want green pancakes for breakfast!”, so I also want to remind you food coloring can make the ordinary something else, can turn a pancake into a monster, can bring a little whimsy to the day. These bright spots can be medicine when we linger in them. I’m practicing.

△ My most listened-to artist of 2024 according to Spotify Wrapped

△ Monthly medicine for December from Lindsay Mack

△ The case for inviting companionship into your to-do list

△ “Valuing art for art’s sake and the art is in the creation. It’s not in the production. That’s the thing that I would like for people to transfer their understanding to. It’s not the finished book that matters, to be perfectly honest. It’s the sitting and dreaming and working through the problems and the struggle and actually engaging and getting better and writing toward this platonic ideal that hovers above your head and shining beams down on you. I mean, this is what we’re working toward, right?”

△ Taking a red pen to your life

△ A novel that is tending to my heart

△ Taking in the goodness

△ Time with the quiet —

Reaching into the underworld.

With care,
Lisa