Held by the sun

and answering the question, "what's here?"

Human Stuff is a weekly-ish newsletter. Please feel free to share parts of this letter that connect with you, or send to someone you love. Thank you for reading, ‘heart’ing, sharing, commenting, subscribing, for being here. It means something.

---

A song I’m loving:

Nature’s endless openings, 35mm film

Sometimes, my writing practice looks like sitting down at the computer and saying, “What’s here? What wants to come through?” I don’t know where it’s coming from. I don’t know how I arrive at what comes when I ask the question. I only know how nourishing it feels to ask it, and then to answer as honestly as I can. Sometimes, I share my what’s here? answers. Here are some of them this week, things I’ve been thinking about/musing on/wanting to say —

1- It’s hard to miss people who are still alive. It’s a unique kind of ache, sometimes unbearable. If you are missing someone who is still out there somewhere, who you wish you could talk to or see or hear… I see you. It’s okay that it doesn’t always feel okay.

2- I got a haircut this week and it reminded me how an easy and simple change can bring welcomed renewed energy amid bigger, less controllable changes. I’ve been looking for where micro-changes are happening, where momentum is occurring, even if it is on my own head. It feels like care, to notice the energy present in the micro.

3- Patience has been a deep practice lately as I wait for next phases/steps/knowings. My impatience reveals itself when I’m not able to rush the outcome of something I’m eagerly awaiting; the need to practice presence becomes much clearer. Something I wrote on a bright orange index card this week: In waiting is an opening. In waiting is a doorway. In waiting is a portal to a Next we might not be able to imagine quite yet. May our imaginations hold space for the most loving and expansive of outcomes.

4- Another thing I wrote on an index card this week: The longing is possibility’s proof. The ache is an open heart’s proof. The joy is multitude’s proof.

5- Life has been so full lately that sitting down to write long essays or complete pieces has felt impossible. Shorter, more fragmented writing. has helped me stay tethered to the practice while also honoring my capacity. Making writing less of an all-or-nothing thing and more of a place to tinker with what I have to give has lowered the stakes and brought so much relief. Making writing about what I have to give instead of about expectations, pressure, or overextending has been a revelation. Where else can I do this? I ask. Where else can I lower the stakes instead of stopping something altogether or giving up?

A favorite view, 35mm film

6- Cole Arthur Riley recently shared these words on the cost of integrity and I must have re-read them dozen times. They sunk in so deeply. We often talk about the rewards of being our full selves, of trying to speak our truth, of sharing our hearts, of saying what feels necessary and important to say, even if the voice cracks. Rarely, though, do I see anyone talking about the price we may pay and the grief of doing so: the grief of what, and who, we lose. The grief of being misunderstood. The grief of our wholeness feeling invisible when someone forgets our heart. The grief of trying to extend a hand and being turned away. Staying in touch with and listening to your own heart matters; so, too, does feeling the grief of those who don’t. For anyone else walking this path in any shape or form, feeling the tenderness of trying to stay true to your heart’s knowing, balancing the peace of mind with the ache of grief, I see you.

7- Let the warmth of the sun’s power hold you. Let the blossoming buds hold you. Let the sway of the trees hold you. Let the buzz of bees hold you. Let the bright sky hold you. Let the darkening sky, too, hold you. Let the whir of wind hold you. Let the stillness of space hold you. Let the bird’s chatter hold you. Let the water’s rush hold you. Let the fortitude of weeds hold you. Let the elements hold you. Let life hold you.

8- The amount I’ve been laughing has seemed to increase lately. My husband says no one on the internet knows how funny I am — that I keep my humor hidden, for the most part. It’s true; I’m a goofball at home in ways I’m not around most people, and especially not in my writing. I’m noticing more laughter, even though heartache hasn’t gone away, and I think that’s what wholeness is… accessing more of all of it. Being with more of everything. I want to keep being with more of everything. I want to let my humor unfurl right next to my depth. Maybe they wouldn’t exist without each other. I loved this piece by

Chela Davison

that reminded me of humor’s wisdom.

9- The amount I don’t know seems to be ever-widening. I think that might be the way it’s supposed to be.

Nature’s curtains, 35mm film

10- Turn to poetry. Turn to art. Turn to music. Turn to using your hands. Turn to moving your body. Turn to a walk. Turn to a glass of water. Turn to dancing. Turn to one small next step. Turn to asking for help. Turn to your own knowing. Turn to crying. Turn to running around with a child. Turn to listening. Turn to people wiser than you. Turn to a walk around the block. Turn to the garden. Turn to looking for a good rock. Turn to closing the laptop. Turn to a trip to the thrift store. Turn to a familiar meal. Turn to donating to causes in need. Turn to your neighbor. Turn to beloved friends. Turn to complexity as the only option. Turn to here, to now.

What do you turn to?

11- I keep asking myself, “how can I fit more love in here?” Sometimes, love looks like letting anger exist. Sometimes, love looks like asking for a longer hug. Sometimes, love looks like witnessing. Sometimes, love looks like feeling gratitude when it naturally bubbles up. Sometimes, love looks like trying again. I am thinking about how wide and vast the presence of love is. I am looking for it everywhere.

Wandering out, 35mm film

12- Yesterday, my husband took my daughter on some errands and they stumbled upon an unexpected play area at a store. She was, apparently, delighted beyond belief. When they got home, he showed me a video of J having the time of her life. He nudged me — “listen to what she says” — and when I listened, I heard her say, “I wanna come back here with Mama!” There is something profoundly special about someone experiencing something joyful and thinking they’d like to experience it again, with you. There is something profoundly special about my child wanting to experience her joy, her fear, her excitement, her everything, with me. It’s what I care about most.

13- How to fit more love in: notice the people who want to share their everything with you. Let them.

14- How to fit more love in: practice sharing more of your everything with those who want to receive it. Let them.

15- How to fit more love in: look for it. See it when it’s there. Let your gaze linger on it longer than you might normally. Let it seep in. Let it move you.

16- How to fit more love in: remember it is a never-ending well. It will never run out. There is enough overflow for everyone. You can always find it again when you lose it. You can always locate it in a person you forget it resides in. You can always count on it to be close by, to be in you, to be of you.

17- How to fit more love in: stay open. stay open. stay open. And watch your capacity for love expand as you do. Watch it change how you see. Watch it change how you be.

As always, thank you for being here. It truly feels like such a gift to get to share in this way, to read your comments, to know I’m never the only one. Thank you for making this space feel like a refuge, like something beyond just me. I’m grateful.

△ This is not okay

△ A gorgeous opportunity for artists of all kinds in search of a unique residency — I spent a week at SCF last spring and it was a catalyst in so many ways

△ A special piece on grief

△ This model on embodied responses to personal conflict

△ Maggie covering Joni, on repeat

△ Everything they write, including this

△ My daughter asking to dance to “Billy Eyelash”

△ Forest magic, always

Wish I could transport every hurting human here.

With care,
Lisa