A Mid-Week Hello & an Essay from the Archives

Something is always falling...

When I woke this morning I was already anticipating the second half of the day. Wednesday afternoons are my most sacred work days—I get to be a writer. I love my work as a teacher and an artist, but writing has been my lifelong passion. I have the early morning hours of every day to work on my longer pieces of fiction, but most of the daylight hours are filled with wearing other hats. And so…Wednesday… I get to be a writer in the daytime.

The whole Substack adventure has been calling me for quite a while, and I admit I do not really have a plan. It’s better that way. No expectations, except to show up authentically, with heart, write about what is moving me, and talk about things with you, treasured readers. My hope is to post twice weekly: something fresh and new, and something from the archives of over 400 essays that I have written in the past so many years. Today is an archive day.

I love painting tiny, sparkling creatures lately. Both are watercolour on paper.

I would also love to hear from you about what kinds of things you are interested in seeing in this space. And would you be interested in a live event every now and then? I was thinking of a poetry reading, where we all bring one or two of our favourites to read aloud to one another if we feel like reading it, and then we could just visit. This space, I hope, will be as much about connection as anything. Nothing I could possibly say is as important as an hour of genuine connection between human beings from all around the globe. I’ve learned what an amazing thing that is from my monthly Patreon Zooms.

Okay, no more rambling. It’s time for some thoughts formed into a personal essay that felt especially appropriate for these current days. Would love to hear from you in the comments. And please consider subscribing and supporting this space, if possible. I am blown away by the generous support I have received so far, even Founding Members! I never imagined. It makes all the difference. 🌈 A deep bow of gratitude. Thank you, thank you.

Sumi and India ink on paper. All artwork in this post was created by me.

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Something is Always Falling

From the archives

(You can listen to my amateur recording 🙃 or read, your choice.)

It's a good thing, gravity. Keeps our feet on the ground, the cereal in the bowl. Keeps day and night as something we can rely on. It has another meaning, though. A certain solemnity or seriousness. A few weeks ago they kind of went hand in hand for me.

I started out feeling wonderful, waking after a beautiful night’s sleep, which can be a rare and celebrated occurrence in itself these days. The coffee was better than usual; the cat didn't miss the litter box. I had the entire day unfolding ahead of me and I didn't have much work that absolutely had to be done. I did some gentle yoga. Peeled a spectacularly bitter/sweet blood orange and ate it over the sink while the juices dripped down my chin. I even got back in my bed, an especially lovely place to be, and got a head start on my reading for the week. And then something shifted. I had a feeling I couldn't shake and when it was confirmed the room grew a little darker and bed felt more like a place to hide and close out the world instead of a place for peaceful reverie.

What happened isn't the point, especially since all is well now. The point, I think, is that it's good to feel something solid underneath you when the world starts spinning and you don't have a clue how to make the dizziness go away. When the emotion of gravity sets in, it's comforting to know that the physics of the other kind of gravity will support you for a while.

That may not make a lot of sense, but let me put it this way: sometimes dark clouds come when they're not invited. Sometimes mistakes, past and present, seem like they will never allow you to undo them no matter how hard you try. Sometimes you might trip fifteen zillion times in a day and find yourself prostrate on the ground with a mouthful of dirt—and thank god the dirt is there to remind of us of what's real. Making mistakes is real. Having something not so fun happen to us is real. Getting bad news is real. And despite how painful it can sometimes be, the best part about being human is being real.

Or maybe it's this way: you spend all of this energy and these minutes of your one precious life trying to juggle all of the things about you, or things that you've done, that you think people will disapprove of, that you think aren't exemplary, don't live up to that high standard you've dangled at the end of your life's stick. One day, (gravity...gravity) it's all going to tumble down. How many balls can you keep suspended in the air at once for any period of time? And maybe, (take a deep breath here) maybe that's when the ground, or whatever it is that supports you, will be there to break your fall, even to cradle you, and you can lie there a while and almost be grateful that you don't have to be the juggler anymore. That you're human, after all, and it feels good to finally admit it along with all of your failures and shortcomings, and all of a sudden, yes, you can breathe again. Because the world knows about failure and if there are people who are giving you the impression that they only feel good about themselves, and you are the only failure around for miles and miles...well, let's just say I don't think people can feel genuinely good about themselves without some kind of suffering going on underneath the mask.

It's kind of like having this image of being a really good housekeeper. Everything in your house is immaculate because before someone knocks on your door you scurry around and throw everything into one room and shut it all in. And then you spend your time worrying about when someone will open that door and figure you out. Everyone has some kind of metaphorical disaster of a room in their metaphorical house. I say better off leaving the door open, having a look see and maybe a good laugh or cry, and getting on with things.

Watercolour on paper, from a lesson on my Patreon

People, even really wonderful people, mess up. They do less than desirable things. And then they try to hide them, who knows, in fear of not being lovable enough? And it's hard to go through life maintaining that image of ourselves that isn't REAL. Even the most accomplished juggler's balls will eventually fall, as will all of us. Thank god the ground will be there with a mouthful of dirt waiting for us to remind us of what's real.

The people I admire most are those who are self-effacing and honest about their flaws. For one, they allow me to be more my true self, with all of my flaws and failures, than being around people who strive for perfection with a judgmental and disapproving eye for what isn't their ideal. I spent many years of my early adult life in a situation something like that. It's no way to live.

That day a few weeks ago was just a shitty day. There it is. I pitifully sunk into my blessed bed over and over again, like a little lost cloud searching for a rainbow to perch over, but instead found nothing but rain. I let my anxiety win. I had an entire day to be productive, even to make something beautiful while basking in the glow of many wonderful things. Instead I fell down and didn't really feel the ground.

Something is always falling somewhere. I am trying to be grateful for the things that catch me, the things that keep me on the ground and even the things that send me tripping there so that I am reminded, over and over again if necessary, that it's okay. I am trying to be grateful for the things that are worth getting back on my feet for, brushing my shoulders off and remembering what's good, what's right and what's important about being a human being instead of a pristine white marble statue in a museum somewhere. People fail. I fail. I love all of those people. And I love us all most when we are at our most imperfect.