Bathed in something new

and what I want to tell you

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A song I’m loving:

where to lean, 35mm film

I want to tell you my cat is resting his old, fragile bones right up against my hip as I write this, and letting his warmth feel like community is deepening my breath.

I want to tell you how exquisite it is to have an embodied realization of what you are holding onto that is truly not yours to hold — how exquisitely grief-filled, how intensely relieving, how wildly illuminating, how excruciating and confronting and itchy and also, somehow, like finally opening a door you long thought was locked, suddenly letting fresh air into what was once a tightly shut room.

I want to tell you watching people protecting their neighbors, practicing care with both wobbliness and precision, and extending their imagination to something much more beautiful than this gives me courage to keep becoming the kind of person who can do the same in my own corner, in my own heart, and each of us contributing our hearts in doable ways means so much more than any of us becoming a hero.

I want to tell you there are many ways I could be more courageous than I am, and staying connected to the humbling of truth is a pathway toward embodying who we want to become.

I want to tell you dancing is akin to being bathed in something new, if you need something new to wash over you in any given moment. (this week’s dancing song)

I want to tell you, again and again, that imperfect is literally the only option, and remembering it over and over might offer you permission to start.

I want to tell you your grief for the violence of this world is a mirror of your heart refusing to close, and a heart refusing to close in the face of all this is a subversive act, and the quiet, subtle subversive acts matter right now, too.

amongst it all, 35mm film

I want to tell you how fucking tender and courageous it is to share your heart via your art with the world. No matter what kind, what it looks like, or how it's received. Don't forget to honor the guts it requires, the quiet unseen willingness, every single time, while others might assume it’s easy or natural for you. It is no small thing.

I want to tell you what a balm it is to drive to a local community center and sit in a circle of people every Thursday night, creating an altar, sharing the ways we are being impacted by the myriad of crises arising around us, the gift of feeling held in uncertainty without attempts at eliminating or even soothing it, and the profound care that comes with deliberately undoing our aloneness.

I want to tell you the audacity of abusive, rich men makes me want to be more audacious in how I share my heart with my people, in my work, in my life.

I want to tell you the times are urgent, so we must slow down.

I want to tell you similarly to a pot of broth on the stove, sometimes things need to stir for a long, long time before we get to digest the nutrients. Sometimes, things need to stay mixed up, swirled, unformed, and unfinished longer than we’re comfortable with before clarity comes, before fullness comes. What can you learn from letting what’s stirring stir a little longer? What can you root into so as to not rush what is meant to take a while?

middle ground, 35mm film

I want to tell you how brave it is to move through old, once-needed layers of protection to practice loving as widely, freely, and expansively as we’re meant to, and it gets to be a lifelong practice, and it’s okay if it still feels so hard sometimes.

I want to tell you it’s okay to let yourself not be who others might think you are — that you are allowed to step out of the narrow visions others hold of you and walk into a wider container for parts of you that have never been able to see the light of day. Even if no one else knows how to let themselves see it in you.

I want to tell you my book comes out in 72 days and I am still misty-eyed when I read the wildly generous things so many people I admire have shared about it.

I want to tell you I think about these words from Pema Chödrön often: “It's hard to know whether to laugh or to cry at the human predicament. Here we are with so much wisdom and tenderness, and—without even knowing it—we cover it over to protect ourselves from insecurity. Although we have the potential to experience the freedom of a butterfly, we mysteriously prefer the small and fearful cocoon of ego.”

I want to tell you nearly everyone I know is finding themselves spinning in an unfamiliar web of some kind right now, and remembering we are not the only ones is a salve for the heart.

I want to tell you sometimes, moving your body can move so much more energy than sitting down to journal can. Sometimes, letting energy be put into literal motion can shift what trying to do more internal processing can’t. Sometimes, taking on the shape and movement of an element might bring more relief than making another list.

land/sea, 35mm film

I want to tell you there is so much I am finding beautiful during this season of life, which feels like a surprising gift as someone who long did not know how to be with beauty amid pain, who long thought doing so meant I was betraying what hurts instead of bolstering myself to truly face it.

I want to tell you I find myself clinging to what I know at times, even when what I know is begging me to let it go, and there is a lot of grace to be had with the parts of us that aren’t quite ready to listen to what we’re ready for.

I want to tell you it is deeply vulnerable to practice letting the good in amid so much uncertainty, yet letting in the good, trusting the ordinary miracles somehow still all around, and letting them bolster us as we face the unraveling feels like real wisdom.

I want to tell you my daughter just brought me a waffle made of Play-doh as I was finishing writing this, and there is generosity all around us, asking for more of our attention, and I’m going to let this waffle be a reminder to pay attention, pay attention, pay attention not just to the nightmare but to the sweetness that is right in front of me. May we all.

the aforementioned waffle (& cat)

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ These two episodes on Epstein are so incredibly clear, wise, and a must-listen for anyone trying to understand what is (has been) unfolding

△ Survivor power

△ The sweet delight of these two together

△ The love we see in Minneapolis isn’t exceptional — it’s how we survive together

△ I don’t know how to age as a trans person

△ How the Healing Comes

△ "The line between good and evil runs through the landscape of every human heart."

△ Currently reading (also loving his podcast)

△ Communing with nature’s wonders, always

Sonoma County or Ireland?

With care,
Lisa

pre-order When the Ache Remains <3