What I want to say most
Strands of a year
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’ve been loving:
What I want to say most is January doesn’t need to be when you start anything; you get to start in March, or June, or September, or tomorrow, or right now.
What I want to say is I’ve never felt more soft, in every sense of the word: my belly, my heart, my lens of the world, my receptivity, my rhythm.
What I want to say most is I feel a piercing tenderness in the softness, not like a bruise but like the slow fade of a bruise, like the rawness of old hurt escaping, revealing fresh skin again, revealing my willingness to let in what I long kept out.
What I want to say most is that the more I grieve, the more I love — and the more I love, the more I grieve — and the more I let myself grieve & love, the more I understand what presence is — and the braid of grief & love & presence is teaching me most of what I need to know.
What I want to say most is how vulnerable it is to let go of your ego’s ideas of who you’re supposed to be in favor of letting out the parts of you that aren’t as well-known — that this act of slow freeing brings with it endless surprises, some that delight and some that sting, and what a thing to practice anyway.
What I want to say most is this year, laughter anchored me. Herbs anchored me. Trees anchored me. Deep friendship anchored me. The love of my partner and child anchored me. Learning anchored me. Movement anchored me. Embodiment anchored me. Logging off anchored me. Practice anchored me. My favorite salad anchored me. Honesty anchored me. Pulling cards anchored me. Letting go of being for everyone anchored me. Solo trips anchored me. Generosity anchored me. Privacy anchored me. Writing anchored me. Heart talks anchored me. Croissants anchored me. My therapist anchored me. Beloved music anchored me. The moon anchored me. Patience anchored me. Trust anchored me. Allowing change anchored me.
What I want to say most is rushing toward the light won’t give you what can only be found underground, what can only be found when you let the dark and depths pull you under for as long as is necessary., what can only be found in surrendering.
What I want to say most is you can give yourself permission to stop wishing you had done something differently — to accept what is and ask yourself, now what? — to pour compassion over every part of you that assumes you should have known better — that you get to practice being who you want to be, right now.
What I want to say most is medicine comes in many forms: a bowl of pasta, a text from a friend, the wind causing a shiver, a good joke, the perfect used bookstore find.
What I want to say most is how tender it is to feel something ripening within, knowing it may take a while for it to sprout and bloom but trusting the inevitable becoming of yourself.
What I want to say most is there are people who will love you in your wobbliness, in your unfurling, in your disintegration, in your unraveling, in your lostness, in your wholeness; how deserving you are of letting those people truly see you.
What I want to say most is the less I am concerned with myself, my image, with what people think of me, with proving myself, with obsessing over my own internal world, the more generous I become, the more of service I get to be, the more presence I can find in seeing the world clearly.
What I want to say most is you can walk away from what you’ve been known for and try on something entirely new, only to find yourself eventually walking back toward what you left behind, turning that thing into something entirely new because you are new now, too.
What I want to say most is “there is value in imagining a bit of star in each person’s soul.”
What I want to say most is the world’s atrocities become more obvious the more I let myself actually feel — that the act of feeling what is real often leads to right action.
What I want to say most is the unknown has never felt more endearing.
What I want to say most is a tree or a river or an ocean often has a lot more wisdom than can be found in an Instagram meme or workshop or podcast interview, and not being taught to listen to nature’s wisdom doesn’t mean it isn’t there, waiting.
What I want to say most is how humbling it is to release the story I have about someone and remembering they exist beyond my small idea of Who They Are, myself included.
What I want to say most is something profound happens internally when you stop needing to be important in order to feel okay.
What I want to say most is how courageous it is to let yourself be witnessed in the changing, in the trying, in the Going For It With No Guarantee.
What I want to say most is the amount of wisdom our younger selves held in developing strategies for self-protection, and the amount of vitality that is uncovered when we begin thanking those versions of us instead of being ashamed of them.
What I want to say most is Doing The Most isn’t better than doing less, and doing less isn’t better than Doing The Most: what’s “best” is doing what you have capacity for, which might be ever-changing, and listening to that range is kind.
What I want to say most is what a gift it is to hear whispers from spirit, from something beyond myself, from something unseen, and what a sense of belonging I feel when I listen to those whispers, when I let them lull me into inherent connection to everything outside of me, when I allow them to mirror all I am a part of.
What I want to say most is is serves no one to doubt your power, your gifts, your presence, your wisdom; you are allowed to know and trust what you carry within.
What I want to say most is “our tomorrow is the child of our today.”
What I want to say most is there is wisdom in letting your tenderness lead the way; there is wisdom in finding safety with less walls around your heart; there is wisdom in opening yourself up to be affected by the world; there is wisdom in listening to the impulse to come out of hiding; there is wisdom in trusting when you might need to turn back inward for a while; there is wisdom in keeping your shell close by, just in case you need it; there is wisdom in remembering this is our one and only life; there is wisdom in feeling the immense grief of that; there is wisdom in feeling the immense miracle of that.
This is my last letter of the year. Thank you dearly for being here — for your loving comments and emails, for engaging with my writing and work, for reading and absorbing, for taking the time to let me know how it lands with you. This is my 145th(!) letter here and each time feels like a gift I don’t take for granted, like a slow revealing of myself to myself because of the mirror we hold up for one another. It’s a tender and vulnerable thing to keep sharing in spite of not always knowing what’s coming, not always knowing exactly who I am, not always having something clear or certain to offer… and yet I’ve found so much warmth and connection in doing so, again and again, in the devotion to continuing with the waves. I am taking that into the unknowns ahead and letting the warmth be a comfort, a light amid it all. Thank you thank you thank you.
Closing the year with the opportunity to share a few new things I feel so grateful for and proud of —
△ Firstly, my newly updated website, including a new page for psychotherapy (coming next year); it all feels so much like Current Me and so representative of my heart. More to come. (see the About Me page for a nod to my many teachers from afar, the resources page for some of my current most beloved podcasts/books relevant to my work, and the media page for some of my past podcast interviews; these will be updated ongoing :) )
△ Second, this tender and meaningful conversation I had on the Scratch That podcast with two humans I respect and admire (who both happen to have the same literary agent as me!). It felt like a gift to get to talk so openly about being human.
△ And lastly, an invitation to let the dark do with you what it needs to do; to let yourself enter the descent with courage; to trust what will emerge on the other side.
With care,
Lisa
Lisa - over the last few years, I have opted out of lots of newsletters & people's writings because I just haven't had internal space to hold it all, nor the time to read them. HOWEVER, yours was one I stumbled upon in that same time frame and have intentionally subscribed & kept because of all the beauty, depth & needed wisdom for my own life. You have always felt like a kindred spirit with your reflective words, your deep appreciation for nature's beauty, the joyful desire to capture things and moments in photography and an encouragement to embrace or humanness, both the mess and miracle of it all. 💜 THANK YOU for all you give us readers!!! So glad I have kept you as a constant in my writer follows. May your December be calm, restful and full of the right amount of light.
Dear Lisa,
I am as always deeply grateful for your words, your tenderness, your wisdom, your learning, your kindness, and that you care enough to share. Wishing you much love and enjoyment as we approach the winter solstice and holiday celebrations.