It’s been a minute since I’ve been able to string any coherent words together but tonight, sitting outside watching the sunset in the high mountain desert (and inspired by my dear one, the brilliant writer and hilarious friend,
who just launched a Substack), I decided to try.For a few months now, I’ve been going through a string of bullshit, of bad luck, even, of expensive problems with complex solutions and then heartbreaking, enraging things that require my full attention. Every time I think I’ve reached the end— a new one pops up. Literal realtime whack-a-mole.
(Cliff notes— one of my best friends was diagnosed with breast cancer and I’m a million miles away, my partner also had to get screened for breast cancer at the same time (she was cleared), a lit agent who spent 9 months fully committed to working with me, asking me multiple times to send her more writing— including my whole new book— who then told me to start my book proposal so we could pitch it dropped me out of the blue because she’s having a hard time “selling memoir” and has too many clients (it’s not even a memoir— it’s a lyric essay beast of a book and this is truly not unique— happens all the time to writers— see here a piece from my friend Jennifer Dickinson), got into an unexpected car accident and totaled my car only to buy a 20 year old used car that I’ve now had for a month and I learned needs a new engine to the tune of $3000 and the woman who sold it to me is only willing to return $250, ’s truck dying in the driveway and unable to be used for 3 weeks, a literal fly infestation that was the result of a squirrel dying in a crawlspace and involved near constant management for a week (this one is nearly over thank goddexx because wow that was disgusting) and a few other things I dare not even mention.)
Like problem after heartbreak after problem. I often have defined myself as being someone who can “handle shit” (thanks childhood through adulthood abuse and trauma)— these moments of continuous problems feel harder and harder to handle.
And yet— many of these are manageable, in the grand scheme of everything we are all facing individually and collectively— the unceasing violence seemingly just in every direction— but goddamn like can life stop life-ing for a minute or no?!
Whenever I go through these moments there’s a part of me that goes “A Tower moment again? I feel like I just did this.” There’s a part of me that feels like I should be spared— very “Poor me, this is not fair.” There’s a part of me that just bucks up and keeps it moving, feels nothing. Sometimes there’s a part of me that can be gentle and kind, to myself, to others. Usually when I’m finally sick of my shit, I return to my practices— meditation, breathwork, plant friends, hiking.
When I get out of these thought loops, these habituated beliefs, when I look around me, talk to neighbors and friends, read the news I remember— it’s really not about me. I am not spared, nor do I deserve to be, no matter how “good” I try to be, no matter how “hard” I try. Really, none of us are spared.
To be honest, I think a lot about the end times and how I/ we all will get by— the end times that are certainly already here for so many of us. I have no illusion about that. But I think about what I need to put in place now, how I will find ways to both take care of myself and take care of the people around me. I’ve been trying to take stock of what fullfills me and what drains me.
I stepped back from Instagram recently because I could not handle the constant stimulation anymore. It feels amazing. Beyond missing connecting with folks and sharing my work and sharing ways to engage in community care, I don’t even miss it. Will it impact my micro biz? Unclear. Will I be back? Most likely but I plan to use it more as a bulletin board where I post, make it clear the feed is not regularly monitored, and then block the app until I have something useful or supportive to share.
I’m tired of scrolling. I’m tired of consuming endless content. In sort— I am tired of the game— and while I know exactly how to play it, I’ve never been very good at or interested in playing it— and I know I am not alone in that.
I couldn’t stand the way I, as a micro business owner whose work does not exist on Instagram but very much outside it— with people, with plants, with breath, with words— am expected (by a greedy billionaire megalomaniac) to constantly adapt to the ever changing platform. I got tired of feeling like I, with my little posts and my little pictures, am constantly punished by the algorithm for not spending every waking moment making reels about my skincare routine or the latest breathwork trend or a full-on lesson about xyz plant.
I feel infinitely grateful for the visibility being on Instagram with my little micro biz has allowed over the last decade but every passing year, it feels harder to be “seen” unless I’m handing over money to Meta. (I’d rather be spending any “extra” time or money I have on bottling tinctures for mutual aid or reading a book in a hammock or taking a plunge in the mountain stream behind my house or driving somewhere I’ve never been before to see a sunset like this stunner below.)
Awe is truly the antidote to despair. And I find myself needing more and more of it.
I’m a libra with a libra stellium— I will forever be seeking balance, will forever feels nuts when I can’t find it. Sometimes the scale swings and hits the bottom hard with endless bullshit to manage. Other times it swings up, buoyant with the awe easily accessed around me.
To think I have any control over the up-and-down is part of the problem.
Tonight
and I texted with our 79 year old neighbor Leo and he said “Hold up, we will find you a used engine.” and earlier today our mechanic Joncy, born and raised in this valley with knuckle tattoos like me, said “How about you guys follow me out to chop wood some time for the winter. I’ll help you load the truck.” And my new anemome tincture arrived in the mail. And some pretty good news about my friend’s continued breast cancer treatment arrived this week. And some unexpected support from my mom. And the prairie dogs are chirping. And a new, fun creative work collaboration is ahead. And the Black Cohosh I planted 4 springs ago is about to bloom for the first time (and it’s endangered in many states which is why planting and growing it is so important). And the dogs wake us up every morning with endless affection.And as I write this— the familiar cacophony of prairie dogs all at once means there’s a coyote in the field again— this time they run off with a prairie dog in their mouth. The threats truly are everywhere and no one is spared and I simultaneously feel grateful that I live so close to the land now that I know what these alarms mean, that I know how to listen.
There’s no silver lining here but what I do know is that as the times continue to get wilder and harder and more hard to “handle”, our relationships will save us, investing in our small communities will save us, meaningful work lives will save us, checking on our neighbors will save us, our plant and animal friends will save us, a little good news after a string of bad will save us too. It’s something, friends, and we have to hold on to the bounty that exists alongside the heartache.
And maybe these two songs will help you like they’ve been helping me:
Thank you for your vulnerability. It's all so relatable and so tenderly told. Sending you a big hug.
“none of us are spared” 🥲❤️🩹❣️ hits me as both comfort and thorn