When the Ache Remains

the tenderness of sharing good news

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A song I’m loving:

Misty SCF garden morning, 35mm film

I’m writing to you on Wednesday instead of Sunday this week because life has been so, so full and I finally have space to sit down and write. I also have some big news to share, news that feels both like a long time coming and a whirlwind all at once.

First, a few things I want to say:

1. What a gift it is to ourselves to let things take the time they take, even if the timeline is different than we think it’s supposed to be. What a gift it is to not force, to not push, to not rush what needs a slow, steady pace. What a gift it is to trust the unfolding, to trust the process, to trust the aligned timing of ourselves, our work, our capacity, our desires, or hopes, our lives. What a gift it is to allow ideas, dreams, and ways of being to morph from confusing to clear.

2. There have been countless times where I’ve thought it was too late: too late to try, too late to go after what I want, too late to start something new, too late to start over completely, too late to be taking my time, too late to wait for the right opportunity, too late to trust my desires or dreams as possibilities. Yet something I am learning, slowly, is that “too late” is so often just fear in disguise. It’s fear of failing, or not getting there eventually, or not being good enough, or (I could go on). I have been in the practice of asking myself when I notice these “too late” thoughts coming up, What is the fear here? What am I really afraid of right now? How can I tend to that fear instead of tending to the belief that it’s too late?

3. Allowing celebration, beauty, joy, and connection amid heartache, grief, anger, and fear is a reminder of our range, our capacity to be fluid and contain multitudes, our ability to hold the wide spectrum of our human experience at once. I used to lean away from celebration, as if it was a betrayal to pain. It is a constant practice to see celebration, goodness, beauty, and joy as necessary pillars of being alive, as methods of staying with all parts of our aliveness.

4. The tenderness of trying is worth acknowledging over and over again.

5. The tenderness of finally letting what has long been behind closed doors be witnessed and seen is worth acknowledging over and over again.

6. Following your heart’s longings takes such courage and fortitude. It takes consistency and trust. It takes the willingness to let others think what they think about you, and the willingness to get it wrong before getting it right, and the willingness to stumble and, also, to let things go well when they go well. It’s no wonder so many of us are afraid to name what it is we long for, to go toward our longings, to let others see us in the practice of trying. Seeing others trying, whether or not they fail, will forever inspire me and remind me of what’s possible. Seeing others trying helps me try, too.

7. Let it be possible. Let it be possible. Let it be possible.

It feels so incredibly tender and dreamlike to get to announce my second book, my heart’s work, WHEN THE ACHE REMAINS. It is the most personal yet also the most universal project I’ve ever made.

The official announcement <3

The last few years have taken me into the underground of myself in ways that have been private and quiet, deep and revealing. I’ve written snippets here, but the bulk of it has remained tucked away in my own small life. It has been mostly wordless, ineffable, hard to describe, let alone share. My body and heart have been doing most of the sense-making, which has felt so different than leading from the mind. I’ve needed to keep it all close, to tend to it with my own gaze first, to be with it in intimate and deep ways before letting it see the light.

Yet underneath it all has been a pulse, something coming alive, a project being slowly tended to before I even realized it was happening. It was wordless for years and then, all at once, it was so obvious, so clear, and so me. I am deeply grateful I gave it the time it needed to become itself, to form, to take shape without force. I am so grateful I’m giving myself the time I need to become myself, to form, to take shape without force. I’m so grateful to be collaborating with what wants to come through me.

When the Ache Remains was born of my own unfurling, weaving my experiences of meeting familiar depression and pain in new ways with the wisdom gleaned from learning to live with my heart fully open, even when it hurts. It is deeply inspired by nature, depth and humanistic psychology, poetry, the body, and the heart. It blends the personal with the therapeutic, offering nourishment and relief for all who live with their own aches, who tend to wounds that may never fully close, who face continued challenges while also, somehow, opening more and more to the wide expanse of beauty, presence, and joy within and around us, too.

It is the book I’ve been slowly writing in my marrow since I came here, since I looked up at the sun and cried out for someone to find me, since I decided I needed to stay, even as I carried a longing that would never be fully met. It is the closest to my own medicine I’ve ever felt, my heart’s truest offering, one I hope will provide a balm of comfort, relief, and connection in a world desperate for it. It truly feels like the greatest act of service I can offer in the way I’m uniquely able to during this season of life. I’m afraid and overjoyed and grieving and in gratitude. I’m feeling the pulse of the book living in me: the ache and the beauty, all at once, forever intertwined.

Alive, 35mm film

I will be in deep devotion to finishing the manuscript until the early spring. Endless gratitude to my literary agent for the last five (!) years, Laura Lee Mattingly, and her steadfast support of my evolving work, and to my editor Diana and the team at Hachette and Balance for believing so fully in the vision for this project. Lastly, thank you to my dear readers, you, for supporting my ever-evolving self over the years and receiving my heart with such warmth. It is a profound honor to get to keep writing, a sacred gift, really, one I do not take for granted. Thank you thank you thank you. 

May we all find our way to our own medicine, to expressing our heart’s longings, to leaning into what calls us — even when it’s scary. May we try anyway.

△ My most listened to On Being episode of all time

△ 30 LGBTQ artists on when they were 30

△ The lovely wisdom of Rosemary Gladstar, on For the Wild

△ A favorite veg-out pastime: watching house tours

△ Chronic Pain is Psychedelic

△ This heart-opening piece from my beloved friend

Speak Your Peace

△ Don’t Rush the Redemption

△ My girl thriving on her first camping trip on the Mendocino Coast—

Her truest self in nature, just like mama

With care,
Lisa