Notes from the Heart (Email Newsletter, October 11, 2020)
(1,240 words)
Hello sweet friends,
One of my saving graces this year has been an enormous Madrone that fell in the park near my home. Surrounded by old growth, I go there Saturday mornings to sit on the three-foot-thick trunk and breathe. Stretching the muscles of my screen-weary eyes I look up, left, down, right. Birds whisper, the scent of cedar cleanses, and once a coyote spirited by. We looked at each other for a long moment, suspended. The year has been strange.
First, I'd like to thank those of you who sent kind words my way after my last note, when I asked for advice on how to move through the first year after losing my dad. Your messages all landed softly and were so welcome. I tried to reply to everyone, but if I missed you please know I did read every message and took it to heart. Here are a few small pieces from the thoughts you so generously shared:
"Look for the ways his spirit might talk to you through nature, blowing the wind a certain way so a flower nods, or a particular bird that stays longer than you would expect."
"Try to stay in the exquisitely awakened state that death can often bring, where time is honored as precious and love is known as infinite."
"Grief catches us unaware even years later. I have always found it helpful to have creative outlets like art or writing."
Looking Forward
Next spring, I am going to plant dahlias.
I've been wandering through the past seven months--like so many of us--uncertain about what will come and unable to plan for it, at least not in the traditional way with a planning calendar and pen. I'm even debating not buying a planner for 2021 at all. Imagine that.
As I mentioned in my last email, I've been slowly working to create an online space for a collective. At the same time, I've become cognizant of the fact that I do not feel like spending more time online right at this very moment, and I'm probably not alone in that feeling. What I long for, what I need and cherish most, is time in-person or on the phone with my women friends. The conversations, the listening, the witnessing. The sound of their voices.
I can count on four fingers the number of walks with girlfriends I've taken in the last six months. We wear masks. We talk about how much we miss. We make eye contact while forgoing hugs in favor of being responsible, of good health.
Last weekend, Sarah came and we walked through the neighborhood, winding our way up and down tree-lined streets, listening to each other's stories of what is challenging, what is uncertain, and what is bubbling unexpectedly in our lives. We paused every so often to gaze in admiration at the dahlias in their early-October glory. The beauty of these flowers is a balm.
““You should become a dahlia farmer,” she said to me.”
My chest instantly filled with the exquisiteness of a possible future, one that had been totally unimagined before that moment. This is what good friends do. This is how we hold each other. We inspire.
When the news of the president contracting COVID-19 broke, it sent me sliding into old habits I had fought so hard to break a few years ago--namely, scrolling Twitter to see what all of the journalists I follow are sharing, as if I could somehow find safety in knowing the news before it reaches the headlines. Over the course of one week checking Twitter, I watched my brain change, my thoughts change. I felt agitated, like a sugar-addict looking for another cookie, another tip, another clue. My boyfriend said,
““I can tell by your voice when you’ve been reading the news.” ”
Then yesterday I stopped. Cold turkey. I did not look at Twitter, not even once. I think the dahlia-growing dream saved me.
I spent the evening searching the web to find dahlia growers, reading their websites, watching videos about how to dig and divide tubers, bookmarking local farmers whose tuber sales will begin in December, and following over a dozen new Instagram accounts.
My parents were flower farmers, so this idea is not out of the realm of practicability. I do have experience growing things. I grew up north of Salem, Oregon, in the rich soil of the Willamette Valley, working our family's eight-acre farm, Lowery's Greenhouses and Carousel Floral.
Shortly after my dad passed in February, I started to feel his presence in every bloom I encountered. Not just one particular kind of flower, mind you, but quite literally all of them. Now, when I miss him, I find the nearest flower and he's always right there. I can talk to the petals and practically hear his warm, gentle reply.
While I still do not know what else to write in my planning calendar for next week, or next month, or next year, I do know this:
In the spring, I will plant dahlias.
Volume Four
With all that has happened this year, I've not been able to complete Volume Four of Lucia. It remains a beautiful work in progress, and I am looking toward 2021 to bring it into the world. Thank you, thank you, for being so patient and supportive.
There have been so many gorgeous submissions and now I am enjoying the slow work of laying out pages and weaving them together. If you submitted work and have not yet heard from me, you will soon. So much about "home" (the theme) has become more intensely felt this year, of course.
There is still some space in the layout. So, if you have an essay that lives in your fingertips and would like to write it down and share it our way for consideration, please feel welcome. Lucia's writing guidelines can be found here.
Something else Sarah gave me on our walk was a piece of delightful advice for how to approach my desire to create and write during this time, when I cannot plan or focus well, and when creativity hides away from the pressure of performance.
““We have to approach it a little bit side-eyed.” she said. ”
What she meant (or at least, what I interpreted) is that we have to take the focus off of creativity in order to find it. Make the space, but be okay with whatever arises, even if it's just laundry, dishes, raking leaves, making soup or watching the rain. Then, out of the corner of your eye, totally unexpected, be surprised and delighted when creativity comes. It feels like, "Oh! What's this? This is fun, I am going to do this now."
"Remember," she texted me, "side-eyed."
I am bringing home as many dahlias as I can, knowing October's first frost will be the end of their blooming season. I am staying off of Twitter. I am being gentle with myself and letting go of my desire to plan 2021. I am shopping for tubers and laying out Lucia.
I hope this autumn brings you plenty of rest, inspiration, and good long conversations with friends. Be compassionate with yourself, we all need to expect less of ourselves this year. It's okay. You're doing a good job. If you could only see yourself, you would know, you are magnificent.
Remember you are beauty, you can create beauty, and you can grow beauty, and that is a gift to this world.
Love,
Laura
P.S. I am listening to this new October mix on Spotify. I made it for us, inspired by flowers, dreams, non-planning, and golden autumn vibes.
P.P.S. I am reading four different books right now. The first is Becoming by Michelle Obama. I started it months ago and am in the middle. It is so good I want to savor it. Oh, and have you heard her podcast yet? Girl. So, so good. The second book is The Circle Way by Christina Baldwin and Ann Linnea, which is making me feel excited for the day when we can gather in real-life circles again. The third book is Nonviolent Communication by Marshall B Rosenberg, PhD, and this is changing the way I think about what other people say, what I say, what we truly mean, and where there are similarities rather than differences. The fourth book is Resilient by Rick Hanson, PhD. I've read the first two chapters and am practicing lots of self-compassion which really is helping me feel more resilient.
P.P.P.S. Speaking of beauty, Amanda recommended a Netflix documentary to me this week that is absolutely stunning: My Octopus Teacher.
P.P.P.P.S. To purchase Lucia's print volumes, visit our website, here.
Laura Lowery is the founder, editor and publisher of Lucia. She does her best to lead a creative life. Whether triumphant or stumbling, Laura shares daily notes (that are often weekly) here on luciajournal, including stories, behind-the-scenes happenings, little doses of inspiration, and large quantities of curiosity and heart. She is pleased to meet you.