Catch You In June
A quick note before I take off for a while
For the past 16 months, I’ve been posting weekly writings here on Substack. In that time I’ve published 65 essays, gathered precisely 100 subscribers (8 of them are paid), widened my audience beyond people I know, and generally get between 200-300 views per post. Not too shabby, I guess.
I love sharing my work with others. It thrills me when folks comment or message me or click that subscribe button and I get a Substack notification in my email saying so. Even still, my efforts are far less about these things than they are about my relentless adherence to a daily habit. I had a professor in my MFA who said that as practitioners of a craft we are committed to “touch it every day.” I took that adage seriously. Working on my Substack has become as regular as my morning cup of Aeropress coffee. It’s at the top of every day’s to-do list. It sets the stage for the rest of my day’s tasks. I am a better person, perhaps even a better writer, for having remained diligent.
Some weeks I catch a great flow and the piece doggone writes itself. Those are wonderful weeks and everything feels light and easy. Other times I struggle. Often inexplicably. I can’t think of what to say, I run out of time, don’t feel creative, or I just, for various reasons, don't want to deal with putting something together before my ambiguous deadline.
In every case, the most important thing I can do is get started. That first step—stopping everything to sit down in front of my laptop—is always the catalyst for the second step. Which then, of course, leads to me type something, which is usually garbage, but it’s also necessary garbage that uncovers what I’m really trying to say. But it’s always that first step—that stopping—that gets things started. When I stop, I know something interesting is going to happen. Writing is full of surprises.
Lately I’ve questioned my rationale for maintaining a Substack filled with personal essays. The world’s issues are WAY bigger than me, obviously, and I often feel self-serving or guilty for posting such personally indulgent essays. Who cares about my recent challenges with my mom’s health? Who cares about my travel, my hiking adventures, or my insistence to deepen my self awareness? Who gives two flying shits about what I’m thinking about when I watch the seasons turn out my living room window? There are so many more important things happening. I mean, the US government is destroying peoples’ lives!
As I battle this issue, I’ve found that the simplest way for me to reground is, ironically, by creating even more. Whether I draw or write or make a collage or bake Icelandic licorice cinnamon rolls or carve a spoon, or even sit down with another person to have a heartfelt chat, it’s precisely this process of making something that brings me back to a semblance of peace. To my center. I recently read that we, as basic human beings, desperately need the things that don’t make sense in a crumbling world. We need the things that make us human. The realest bits of our universal condition. Whether we need it or not, we need art. It’s always been a solid foothold. A place of aspiration. Of dreams. Of world beyond our belief. Of relatability and story and connection. Art is where we summarize love in our own unique way. And by sharing it, we inspire others to feel it, too.
This weekend I am getting back on the Appalachian Trail after more than a year away. I’ll pick up where I last stopped—Harper’s Ferry, WV—and head north for four or five or six weeks. I don’t really care how long I am out there or where I end up. I just want to go. I want my walking to be my art.
When I went to the Canadian Arctic last summer, I pre-wrote and scheduled Substack posts to go live while I was rekindling my friendship in the far north with my best friend, Kent. Scheduling the essays felt prescribed—as I am sure the reading of them also felt. For this trip I’m stopping altogether. Hitting pause as I step away, quite literally, for a burst of time. Frankly, I need this distance right now. I need this gap in doing, in routine, in habit. I need this break from all the scrutinous considerations that have been occupying my mind. I need this emptiness—which is to say, I yearn for the fullness that comes from it.
So, I wish you all a spring filled with long walks of discovery. I wish you days filled with all that uplifts you. I wish you singing birds at your windowsill. I wish you unexpected blooms in your yard and mind. I wish you hand-holding. I wish you intimate conversations. I wish you heartfelt connections. I wish you health. I wish you the answers you need. I wish you peace.
And most of all, I wish you love. Because all is love.
I look forward to reconnecting with you when I return. Thanks for saving me a spot at the table.
I’m sorry! Did you say you bake Icelandic licorice cinnamon rolls? I’ll be waiting at the table for your return! 😉 Have a great trip, Tom - & I love that you’re unplugging. Plug into the Earth.
Have a blast out there Tom.