back to the beginning
dispatch 23
Snoozeletter is ONE! I kind of can’t believe it. I don’t think I’ve ever stuck to consistent writing for myself for this long…ever? And I know that would not be possible without all of you. I am so grateful for every moment that you give to this space and I know that your time and energy are so precious.
To celebrate I’m running discounted subscriptions through the end of this month. If that feels interesting to you, just sign up below and it will be applied automatically! The funds from paid subscriptions support my ongoing work (tools, time, research for my book) and help me give to causes I care about. As always, if you want to receive additional dispatches but aren’t able to subscribe right now, reply to this email and I’ll get you added!
I thought about writing a new essay for today, but in the end, I decided to revisit my very first essay today to acknowledge the cycles of time and life, and because it helps me reflect on where I was when I started this and where I am now. A lot has changed for me over the last year personally, professionally, and most importantly in the ways that I am moving through the world. You have all been a part of that change and I am forever grateful.
On learning to stay…
When I was small, I would spend hours laying in the grass. In suburbia, front lawns and back lawns become forests, entire worlds cut down into sensible, identically-sized plots. You are fooled into thinking that the outdoors are tidy, that life is tidy.
I’d concentrate on being deathly still on the prickly lawn until I could feel the ants crawling across my body. In the summer sun, I became more kingdom than girl, something conquered but unconquerable. Vast. Earth to a million tiny feet. When I would stand, the ants would scatter, falling from my impressive tower before rushing off seemingly unfazed.
Sometimes, hours later, I would find one still crawling up my leg, emerging from a sock and I would rush to put it outside, hoping it would find its family. Things linger for longer than we think.
I think I just liked to feel a part of things. Liked to feel the earth rush as I kept still. Feel the swirl of it continuing around me. There is a lot of my childhood that I don’t remember, but I remember the ants.
Adulthood is different; it’s faster and the things that linger are sharper. They hurt more in the places they make contact, an evolving map of scars. I speed through so much to keep myself detached, scared that like a shark, if I stop moving, I will die. Moving fast and moving on are survival skills. They keep me from sitting in the pain. They keep me from drowning in it.
Recently I lost my work, the dream job turned nightmare, but something that I was sure would break me to lose. I had carefully unfurled my identity within the safe container of this thing for so long that the removal of it felt like a dissection. Something I did not think I could possibly survive. I can see now that I used this thing as a shield. Something to demonstrate my okayness. Something to affirm that this unruly, creative, true version of me was alright. Was good enough. I used something outside of myself to affirm my worth for what feels like the millionth time.
And so the world did what the world does when you give your worth to something outside of yourself. It pulls it away without warning so that I could learn the inconvenient lesson that external validation is not reason enough to let something hurt me, over and over again. So that I could learn that my story is my own. I will never give it away again, not for anything. I will never orbit a false idol of my own making again.
Writing this, I feel raw. Hurt and tender, all new skin and fury. There is a part of me that thinks I should pretend to be okay. To pretend that I have processed everything neatly and moved on. But I haven’t. Nowhere close. I have no brave face to put on for you. Admitting that something had power over me is the moment before the wave crashes before it has even started to curl. The idea of a wave. The inevitability of a wave. Some force that I am not prepared for and cannot control. I do not know what happens next.
The urge to keep moving is strong. The urge to pick up things as I encounter them, to fit them over the tender parts of me, and hope they provide cover feels irresistible. The pull of wrapping myself in busyness until it smothers me. But I won’t. Not for today. Not for this hour, this minute, this second. For now, I will stay, if only to prove that I can. I will hold up these hurts to the light and examine their edges. Lie still in the grass and let the ants march, the earth spin.
I can stay. I’m not going anywhere.
Assorted, rad things:
Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys: More a haunting than a novel, this one fucked me up in the best way. Rhys’ backstory of Jane Eyre’s Mrs. Rochester is heartbreaking and complicated. It’s less than 150 pages and took me days to read because I just kept having to process it. The writing is so sharp and precise, it’s a truly incredible book.
Reverence for the Ferment with Kasha Ho on the Emergent Strategy Pod: This episode led me to the next recommendation and I am still thinking about it weeks later. I know I recommend a lot of these podcast episodes, but that’s because each of them is so dang good. This conversation about motherhood, embodiment, and community is one of my favorites.
Wild Fermentation The Flavor, Nutrition, and Craft of Live-Culture Foods by Sandor Ellix Katz: I have talked here about my struggles with food and one of the ways I’m rebuilding my relationship with food and my body is learning more about it through gardening, canning, and now fermentation. This book is a gift! Part radical commune, part celebration of queer community, part acknowledgment of the cycles of life…and of course a whole lot of accessible knowledge. Highly recommend!
Thank you for being here…whether you just got here or have been right here all year I am grateful for your time, your comments, and your support. Thank you.
in endless gratitude,
Lisa