Dear Somebody: How to get back up.
Five things from this week that I'd like to remember
A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:
MONDAY
In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write: about our trip to Mexico City, the first time T and I have gone anywhere, alone, since having N five years ago. The sights, smells, and sounds of a country so vibrant with culture and opinion and loyalty; how our two children missed us but were loved and cared for by hands that weren’t ours; of the new, incredible rush of knowing I can step outside of my own life without it falling apart.
In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write: about K’s visit the first week of November; about our children who are growing to know and think of each other daily, though they are hundreds of miles apart; of a friendship that grows and changes, no longer dependent on daily connection; of friendship that runs on an underground rail line, traveling under arbitrary state lines and handfuls of years spent apart; of friendship that moves forward, steadily, through fallen rock, waste, and insult.
In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write: about N’s first time seeing The Nutcracker, her eyes lit up by sugar plum fairies and the pure strength of a ballerina; about our Thanksgiving and the best part of N’s day; about F’s desire for everyone to be together, always, smushed inside a giant group hug; about how my two small children seem bigger and bigger each day—the roundness draining from their cheeks, the language falling from their mouths cleaner than Winter herself.
In the month since I last wrote, I’ve wanted to write. But I haven’t. Instead, like a genealogist, I’ve studied family trees, and how each of us carries what we inherit, including a good amount of rot. I can cut the rot away, if I have what it takes to do the cutting. Like an engineer, I’ve taken myself apart. Like an artist, I’ll put myself back together—not from the ground up, but from pretty far down, without all of the pieces I once thought I needed.
I want to write more—for you, for myself. In the new year, I hope to. But in case I don’t, I’m writing to remind myself that a full life—one that is truly bursting with adventure and risk and joy, requires a lot of falling down and a lot of getting back up.
Right now, I’m getting back up. And I’m taking my time.
TUESDAY
For K’s birthday, I made her a tiny book:
This was a joyful experience. I want to write a more in-depth process post about the making of this book early next year, but for now, I’ll say that making continues to be the foundation of my joy, hope, and health. The more I focus on the process of making, the less I focus on what I’ve made—and that makes all the difference.
WEDNESDAY
My annual joys include re-reading, watching, and listening to Raymond Briggs’ The Snowman—this year, we added The Bear to our watchlist. I’ve been listening to Elvis’ Christmas Album on repeat and sadly, I love it more and more with each listen. I still like watching the snow come down; I still like turning the space heater on; I still like drawing pictures on cold windows with my fingertips.
THURSDAY
I received a few copies of the UK edition of LEARN TO LET GO, titled LEARNING TO LET GO from my publisher Michael O’Mara, and I’m stunned by how beautiful it is.
I love the large format, with generous amounts of space for writing, the rounded edges, and the beautiful, thick paper they used.
If you live overseas and are looking for a thoughtful, encouraging gift for yourself or a friend—I ask you to please consider purchasing a copy of the UK edition. It’s available through numerous outlets: LEARNING TO LET GO (UK EDITION).
For my friends who live here in the United States, please consider purchasing a copy of LEARN TO LET GO (US EDITION) from any of the following locations:
Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, Books A Million, BuyOlympia (*includes special limited edition print!), Hudson Booksellers, Target, Walmart.
Please also consider leaving a review so this book can reach more hands and help those who need it most.
Thank you, always, for supporting my work and for being here. I look forward to writing this newsletter each week (even on the weeks I don’t manage to send one out!) and that’s because of you. <3
FRIDAY
I am learning to abandon the world
before it can abandon me.
Already I have given up the moon
and snow, closing my shades
against the claims of white.
And the world has taken
my father, my friends.
I have given up melodic lines of hills,
moving to a flat, tuneless landscape.
And every night I give my body up
limb by limb, working upwards
across bone, towards the heart.
But morning comes with small
reprieves of coffee and birdsong.
A tree outside the window
which was simply shadow moments ago
takes back its branches twig
by leafy twig.
And as I take my body back
the sun lays its warm muzzle on my lap
as if to make amends.
—I Am Learning to Abandon the World by Linda Pastan
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If you'd like to support me, you can purchase my latest journal, Learn to Let Go: A Journal for New Beginnings and my book of illustrated essays, How it Feels to Find Yourself.
My art prints, stationery, and books are also available through BuyOlympia.
Wishing you health, joy, and safe travels. See you in the new year!
xx,
M
absolutely love the tiny book!! wow <3