Moments of lightness

... and other recent noticings

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A song I’m loving:

Solitude at sundown, 35mm film

A few things today —

1. I’m a worrier, an anticipator, with a let-me-create-every-possible-scenario-in-which-something-could-go-wrong type of brain. If I’m not cognizant and careful, I’ll spend all my time worrying about the next thing, soon drifted entirely from the present. Yesterday morning, I was worried on the way to taking photos for a friend’s daughter’s birthday party: afraid I’d do a bad job or would disappoint her expectations. The last month, I’ve been worried about letting everyone down in my writing workshop that starts next week — something I barely shared about that had twice the amount of people enroll than I expected. I worry worry worry as a form of both perceived control and what often feels like self-punishment, leaving little room to enjoy the reality that most of the time, everything goes much better than my worries make room for. I’ve been actively practicing worry-catching: catching my worries when they arise and asking, “what else could happen? How else could it go? What else could be possible?” I’ve been practicing untethering from worry as a lifestyle, as a thing “I just do”, as part of my identity, and seeing if I can remember other ways of orienting toward trying, toward taking risks, toward doing new things. The annoying/relieving thing is that it works; the practice of catching these worries before they spin into beliefs, of noticing when my body is getting tangled with fears and actively untangling, of choosing to orient toward possibility instead, actually makes a large difference in how I feel. Sometimes, it’s as simple and complex as that.

   

   Fogged out, 35mm film

2. “To do writing practice means to deal ultimately with your whole life." Natalie Goldberg said this and it reminds me why I love writing, whether in this space or in private, so much: it gives me room to confront what’s here, whether it’s joy or grief or a hard question or a sweet moment. It gives me space to deal with my life. Recently, a friend asked me if writing something “deep” every week is unsustainable for me. I gave an initial answer — sometimes yes and sometimes no — but upon thinking about it more, I asked myself if what I write each week feels “deep” to me, and the truth is that it doesn’t. Sure, I often share about big topics and meaningful moments… but those are the things that ignite me, buoy me, keep me connected to what matters. The deepest writing I do doesn’t get shared (not yet, at least). Carving out time amid weeks often filled with mostly childcare and must-do tasks to sit down and explore what’s under the surface, what’s swirling, what’s here, in me, feels like a gift to myself, like a respite rather than a chore.

   There are times I wonder if I should spend less energy on this newsletter so I can focus more on the book-in-development or other things, but right now my energy here feels right-sized and it fulfills me in ways I don’t feel are taking from me but are instead giving me something needed: an outlet, a room just for me, a place to practice writing what’s real without too much preciousness, a rhythm and cadence, a scaffolding. When that changes, I’ll make changes. It seems important to remember that what is “churning out” for one person is an easeful amount for others; what is “too much” for one person is just right for others; what is “constant production” for one person is a welcomed respite for someone else. Some of us thrive in conditions that seem to be overload for others; some of us couldn’t imagine doing what others do; our assumptions about what churning, or too much, or constant production might be for others is often actually just a way of looking to see if what we do is okay, and it’s this continuous comparison that keeps us from listening to what’s best for us and just doing that. So, if you need permission: What’s best for you is just right, regardless of what someone else’s Best or Just Right looks like.

   

   Wildflower whirl, 35mm film

3. Moments of Lightness: It has felt more important than ever lately, with the heaviness and uncertainty of the world, to both notice and cultivate moments of lightness. As someone who veers toward the heavy and the depths naturally, this has felt even more necessary. What moments of lightness have looked like for me lately: baking a torte with my daughter. Slurping up the juiciest of peaches. Laughing at mistakes instead of shaming myself or others. Time in the garden. Continuing my no-self-help-book reading trend. Short walks. Dressing for comfort first, always. Ignoring the (literal) mess sometimes. Green smoothies. Raffi. Noticing cool cars in unexpected places. A date with my husband that involved burrata and mocktails. Film photos. Purging stuff I no longer wear/use/need. Not weighing myself. Pre-bedtime backyard visits with the neighbors. Good pastries. Upcoming chaos-free travel plans. Receiving help without guilt. Drives to the coast, the woods, the long country roads. Long chats with dear friends. Farmers Market fruit. Petting stranger’s dogs. My daughter saying “Annie Dillard”. Pointing to the moon. Regular visits from hummingbirds. Yarrow magic. Going to bed early, always. Laughing lots every day. Noticing where it’s easy. Noticing where there isn’t a problem. Noticing where it goes well.

   

   View from the car, 35mm film

4. I often feel like I’m not totally “part” of anything: not totally part of the writing community or the therapist community or the motherhood community or the adoptee community or the (I could go on forever), like I always have only one toe dipped in while others seem submerged, like I’m looking in from the “only semi-part of” sidelines, wondering if I’ll ever feel that sense of belonging. This, of course, is tied to some Core Wound stuff, but it’s also tied to the reality that I don’t do just one thing, that I’m not just one thing. For a long time, I felt like I needed to go All In somewhere so I could belong there, but when I remember our belonging is inherent and not something we need to prove or earn, I soften into floating along many different roles and identities during this season of life. I share this to remind myself, and perhaps you, that it’s okay to not be able to totally submerge all the time, to not always have the capacity or space to fully dive into something the way you might want to… and even then, you still belong.

Thanks, as always, for being here.

△ My current read

△ I made this plum torte a few days ago and it was delightfully inhaled

△ Giving your creative work the time it needs

△ I watch this touching and brilliant talk from writer Lidia Yuknavitch often

△ Stop Multitasking. No Really — Just Stop It.

△ Roxane Gay on how she arrived at herself

△ This important read from the wonderful

Katherine May

△ The sunlight on pink and white yarrow in our yard

I breathe deeper every time I walk by.

With care,
Lisa