Things I'm thinking about

Visions of a human, being

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A song I’ve been loving:

A portal, 2017.

I’m thinking about how beautiful the world is while also thinking about how much more beautiful it could be if so much were different, if there were so much less violence and so much more love, if there were so much less judgment and so much more compassion, if there were so much less seeking superiority and so much more seeking community, if there were so much less pressure and so much more spaciousness… I’m thinking of the beauty of the world and the grief of the world.

And I’m thinking about how tough it is to be a person in public sometimes — how hard I try to let go of the empty feeling that can come from knowing someone might misunderstand me, or the grief that comes from being seen as an opportunity or comparison point instead of a person, or the loneliness that comes from being placed on a pedestal and then knocked off when I show I’m only human, imperfect and flawed; and I’m thinking about how lucky I feel to be a person in public sometimes — how much I’ve let myself grow and go out loud, how much integrity I’ve let myself embody even when it’s been scary, how far my words have reached by choosing to show up for them.

And I’m thinking about how much I miss my grandma, who died several years ago — how much I miss the six pies she’d make from scratch on holidays, and the depth of love she poured into every ingredient she added to the meals that covered the perfectly-set table in her home, and the way she’d rub the top of my head down, my cheeks to the bottom of my chin, squeezing a bit at the end as if to make sure I knew she was loving me with her touch. I miss her especially during this time of year, a time that was made so much more special and sweet when she was here.

And I’m thinking about how easy it is to romanticize another kind of life — the kind where I’m not the person I am and I don’t have the responsibilities I have and I don’t hold the limitations I hold and I don’t carry the wounds or history or experience I carry. It is so easy to think another kind of life would save us from the hard parts of the life we have, as if hard parts aren’t inevitable in any kind of life.

And I’m thinking about the Christmas textiles I scoured through at the thrift store this morning — the napkins embroidered with black Scotty Dogs wearing red checkered bows, and the piles of kitschy red and green tablecloths, and the worn silverware sets painted with holly berries on the ends, and who they belonged to, and what kinds of conversations happened at the tables they sat on, and what it was like to get rid of them, and how so many of our “things” end up being backdrops to some of our sweetest and most heartbreaking memories.

And I’m thinking about anger, and why it is still so hard for me to feel it through its entirety at times — how much I still want to buffer it or soften it on the edges with “but it’ll be fine” or ignore it altogether, and how much information it holds for what matters to me, for how my relationship to myself is shifting, for how I want to show up for the things my heart knows are important.

And I’m thinking about how freeing it is to remember we can always change our mind, always give ourselves and others a do-over where possible, always be open to another way of seeing, of being, of doing things, always allow ourselves and others to become different, to realize what’s true, to let go of heaviness that isn’t ours, to unfold from the comfort of being curled inward, to try again. And again. And again.

And I’m thinking about why we think we can take on the weight of the entire world when we won’t even let ourselves learn how to be with the weight of our own hearts.
And I’m thinking about how when we learn how to be with the weight of our own hearts, we can more clearly see the ways in which we might hold the parts of the world that are ours to hold, that are ours to tend to, that are ours to be the keepers of.

And I’m thinking about this tender time between Fall and Winter, between ending and beginning, between lights off and the sunrise, between tears falling and the relief of wiping your cheeks dry, between not knowing and the fog slowly clearing, between waiting and becoming.

And I’m thinking about how much we distance ourselves from babies and children, as if they are nuisances or distractions instead of real human beings who have so much to teach us, who we once were, who we still carry within us in some form, who we might benefit deeply from tapping into once in a while.

And I’m thinking about the time I drove from the Bay Area to Utah and ran around in the middle of Highway 50, no cars in sight, a balmy heat brushing my shoulders, one camera around my neck and one in my hand, noticing the ridges and crests beyond, noticing the expansion happening at the mere sight of nothingness, at the mere feeling of being so incredibly small.

Highway 50, 2013.

And I’m thinking about letting go of striving into the new year and what it might look like to start slow, to embrace when it actually feels like “new year” momentum in my body (Spring), to allow space for reflecting and just being that honors my pace, to pump the breaks on planning and light the candle, sit with the flame, and trust in right timing.

And I’m thinking about other people’s expectations: how we often blame ourselves for not meeting them instead of holding others responsible for managing their own, for allowing us to be human, for making space for something other than their own idea of how things should go/be to exist.

And I’m thinking about the balm of forgiveness — not as a way of bypassing boundaries, okay-ing something that isn’t okay, or continuing relationships/patterns/habits that are deteriorating our aliveness, but as a way of returning to presence, returning to our bodies, returning to our values, returning to our aliveness, and setting down what is too heavy to carry forward.

And I’m thinking about my shifting style: what a relief it is to stop dressing for impressing and start dressing for comfort, for wrapping my body in textures and knits and textiles that feel like a warm hug, for letting go of looking cool and embracing looking like myself, for using the last few years to turn away from fast fashion and toward a smaller, more intentional wardrobe of items I wear over and over again because I truly love them and they feel nurturing on my skin.

And I’m thinking about all the sunsets we haven’t seen yet and all the sunrises that haven’t been born yet, and what they might symbolize, and how we might turn toward them as a reminder of starting over, and how they might mirror to us our capacity to begin again, to trust in what’s next, to listen to the tinge of grief in our bones and allow it to move us, to know this all ends, and to let that guide us in the direction we might be wanting or needing to go.

And I’m thinking about writing — how I’m not the best at it, how I don’t always have something exclusive and unique and original to say, how I can’t always articulate the swirl in my brain in the form or brevity I’d like to, how I am not an expert when it comes to what I have to say or share… and how little any of that matters when the practice of writing connects me more deeply to myself and others in ways I once only dreamed of, in ways that make me feel incredibly alive.

And I’m thinking about listening to the nudges within us, and how hard it is to just do the things we’re called to do, and how much courage and strength it takes to move forward with embracing what we want, and how much audacity it takes to practice being who we truly are in a world that is hellbent on making sure we feel small, and how much uncertainty dangles on the other side of doing just that, and how every single morning, we wake up and face it all anyway, as if we’re anything but a walking and breathing miracle, as if we’re anything but a gift in human form.

It turns out I’m thinking about a lot. And it felt really, really good to listen to the call to write some of it out in this way. I wonder what you are thinking about and if any of these thoughts particularly resonated with you. I wonder what it would be like to make your own list and notice the through-line, notice what you might need next, notice what’s calling to you. I wonder what it would be like to just let all these thoughts linger a bit, to let them teach me what I need to remember. And I’m so glad you’re here.

△ Everything I wrote in this post and all the messages/comments in response

△ The joy we derive from others’ success

△ Creativity as an anchor in hard times

△ Queer Spaces Have Never Been Safe — But We Will Continue To Create More

△ Cultivating beauty and new traditions, like making simple dried citrus garlands

△ Grateful to give myself the gift of support as I begin a new program on Tuesday

△ How To Follow Your Gut And Stop Projecting The Future

△ The magic of the Sonoma Coast, as pictured on Thursday.

Coast Miwok and Pomo Lands, always holding me.

△ This essay from

Sophie Strand

stunned me

△ The poetry of Bernadette Mayer

With care,
Lisa

PS. Paid subscribers: this month’s writing/journaling/reflecting guide is here.