I’m going to go on for a while. So make some tea. We need to talk. I need to talk. You need to talk. We are off script. And our minds need to bend and move, just like our bodies do. This is not a time to edit ourselves. (Unless we’re being mean. Please don’t …
I’m going to go on for a while. So make some tea. We need to talk. I need to talk. You need to talk. We are off script. And our minds need to bend and move, just like our bodies do. This is not a time to edit ourselves. (Unless we’re being mean. Please don’t be mean.) It doesn’t help to say things like, “Well, someone else has it worse.” Or “My problems are small in comparison to…” No. Your problems matter. And we need to share them. All of it matters: whether you’re afraid of getting Covid-19, or if you’re afraid you’re going to lose every drop of savings in the stock market, or if you feel deeply alone and sorry for yourself, or if you’ve gone through all your mac and cheese and are pining away for sushi and feeling guilty about it, or if you’ve lost your job, or if you have no idea where your next paycheck will come from, or if your damn cable doesn’t work and you really need to watch Jimmy Fallon right now…because Jimmy Fallon is the only thing that makes you happy. Or if you don’t have any toilet paper and are staring at some old T-shirts you don’t like in a whole new way. ALL of it MATTERS! People: Let’s TALK! Normally I don’t answer comments on my blog, but I am now! COMMENT AWAY!
AND…there’s a special writing prompt at the end to help you. No photos to keep your attention. No promo. Just. This. I love you all. If you want to buy my book, you can find it. Please support indie bookstores.
Ok—here goes.
From my journal—two months ago. February, 2020 (very vulnerable so please…)
“Stop the world. I want to get off.” For months I’ve been saying these words. Privately. I’m not sure why, really. It’s just a feeling I’ve been having. The world is going too fast and I try to go fast along with it like so many of us do. All of us small business owner/entrepreneurs feel it. Our financial security is dependent upon constantly thinking What can I create? What hasn’t been done that I could do powerfully and uniquely? What do people need that I know how to give? And how do I give it and stay genuine, but not give it all away for free, which is my tendency? How do I value what I have to give? Part of me just wants to throw in the towel and give it all away for free and start an artist’s commune on my land in Montana. The world needs to stop. Right. Like that’s going to happen. I don’t even watch dystopian stuff. It’s too scary. But man…how much longer can we go like this? Why can’t people watch birds. They know everything that we’re too blind to see. Or afraid to remember.
I try with all my might to walk it in integrity. But still it’s: click that, heart that, join this, comment here, hashtag this, don’t you dare hashtag that, share there, show up, be yourself, don’t worry, but oops worry because it’s too late, too wrong, off brand, off off off. Shit. I need help with my business. I’m in deep. I’m overwhelmed. Stop. Breathe. I got this. Buck up– I made my bed so I should be able to lie in it. Shame has no place here. Another deep breath. Own what there is to own. Look out the window. Try to find a bird. A tree. But…stop the world, I want to get off.
Why can’t we all slow the fuck down? Why do people think it’s romantic at best to pay attention to birds? When I try to remind them, why do they give me a weird look, the look I used to give my grandmother when I’d hop on my ten speed as a kid, hellbent for a long ride in the only freedom a twelve year old knows, and she’d look at me so dire and tell me to wear a hat or I’d catch my “death of cold.” She lived through the flu epidemic of 1918. We lost people. Why don’t people understand that the birds and the trees are speaking to each other, based on an innate knowing? It may be romantic but it’s also scientific. Romance and science aside, all I know is that I can’t keep going like this. It might look like I’m keeping up very very well, and for the most part…I am. But I feel this deep, impending doom. Like I’m chasing after something that doesn’t want to be chased after. Like it’s done holding the torch. Like I’m done holding the torch to keep track of it. Like we all just need to S.T.O.P. Like I might need to put on a hat, this death of cold being what it really might be. I can’t shake it. This feeling of the world needing to stop.
And then the other voice. The one that’s watched a lot of Ted Talks:
You are doing your best and you are doing good work on this planet. Give yourself a break. Just do one meaningful thing after the next and do it in the way that only you can. Don’t give up. And don’t compare yourself to others. You are on your own path. But you need to learn when to call it a day. It’s midnight. Time to stop. Time to read Mary Oliver so that you don’t forget about grace. You are dangerously close to forgetting about grace. If you keep working this hard…you just might altogether.
And then this other voice speaks—the one I’ve never been able to shake, even with a lot of therapy. The mean one:
What are you even doing, so frantically pushing all those buttons all day, anyway. You don’t even really know how to push all those buttons. Forget your brand. You’re a writer. You should sell everything and find some little shack somewhere and eat beans and rice and write books and that’s it. Your kids will be fine. They don’t need their family home. There are other good writing retreats out there. Time to rip up your business model and start again so that you can finish those books sitting there on your computer and in your heart. Gnawing away at you for not finishing them. Why don’t you create an online course? Really good one. Not to replace Haven. But just to give yourself a break and to get some great content out there for people who don’t want to come to Montana.
Panic. Ish. I’m not good with panic. I don’t believe in it. And yet…
But…I love my Haven programs. They’ve changed so many lives. We need weeklong interludes from our lives! I can’t just stop. No way! And, I love leading them. I love those brave seekers. I get to help people find their words, find their intuition, find the connection to themselves and other kindreds that they long for, get un-stuck, come into rich self-acceptance. I love creating these small communities, group after group, and the large community it has become seven years in, and 1,000 people from all over the world. If it weren’t for those buttons I push all day, I wouldn’t be able to do this work. And…I love my home, and I love that my children have a safe, steady place in Montana, and that it’s our sanctuary. I’m not letting go of our sanctuary. Stop talking to me like that. Please. You’ll never win. I was put on earth to do this work.
And then the oldest voice I know…one from as far back as I can remember…a small, defeated, scared, stoic voice whispers, “Stop the world. I want to get off.”
This wasn’t a suicidal thought. Not at all. But it was a feeling of severe world-weariness.
In short, in the last few months, I was experiencing a level of anxiety that I’d never known before. I am usually a grounded human being, even in chaos. (Not great in an airplane stuck on the tarmac or in elevators…truth be told, but otherwise, yes. Grounded. Bring me a horse emergency in the mountains of Montana, and I’m your girl.) But I was at war with myself and our society in a way that was foreign to me, trying so hard to be grateful for the internet, because without it, how would I book my retreats, some of the most fulfilling work of my life, and without my retreats, how would I have any time to write because they are my main source of income? But on dark days, I would sit in my bed and stare out the window and wonder why a writer has to push buttons at all. Except the ones through which we tell our stories. And then I would just feel like an asshole. Because I lead a lucky life. I love my work. I love my incredible children. Still…again…I would catch myself whispering, “Stop the world. I want to get off.” I told precisely no one. Told myself it was self-indulgent. Just keep on keeping on.
But anxiety is new for me, and it was scary. I kept telling myself that it was because I was about to go on book tour and all that I’d invested in it in every way. Seven years of writing draft after draft of my novel, Willa’s Grove, and a year of planning the publicity for it, eighteen events in thirty days in eight cities and beyond. As any author knows, it’s a lot to go from creating this book with a beating heart, and then passing it around for people to scrutinize, fall in love with, reject altogether. And to do it from coast to coast, in person. Fortunately, I’m an extrovert and love being on the road. But even for an extrovert, writers are highly sensitive people. And it takes a spectrum of stamina to go from writer mode, to that person on the stage, to that person writing authentic, loving messages in books, and then on to the next city. I was ready for it. I believe in this novel with all my heart. I love its theme of community, especially during crossroads moments. I knew it would land in many hearts, and it was my job to be its tireless messenger. Also…having a published novel is my oldest dream. I was ready to prove myself as a novelist, and not only a memoirist. I was leaned in. And I was cranking! Zero anxiety. In the flow. I was watching the book come alive in people’s hearts from New York, to Boston, to Chicago, and Minneapolis. Ready for some of my favorite cities on earth: San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and beyond.
And then it happened. The world stopped. And I took my book and went home. Asked a friend to buy beans and rice and some duct tape and whatever else felt important at the grocery store—too late for toilet paper…and drop it in my mailbox (because it’s a small town and who knows what I was exposed to on the road!), and spent the next day doing the acrobatics it takes to get two kids home from far and wide in a time when everyone was trying to do the same thing. They’re here. We’re here. The birds are back. I self-quarantined, and two weeks later, lockdown officially started yesterday in Montana. We are blessed that we can still roam around in the woods. And I feel so grateful that it’s spring, not winter.
Never did I dream that the theme of my new novel is what we’re all asking right now: So Now What. I walk the house, looking at my ancestors’ belongings that survived wars and pandemics and the Depression. I open their letters for wisdom and clues. “I knit you this sweater, but Papa doesn’t want me to send it to you for fear of the packaging infecting you with the Grippe. Please burn when you get it.”
How is this time in history any different from 1918? That’s what has us all shocked. How could we have been so clueless? Careless? What do the dolphins in Venice know? We’re asking them now. We’re asking the birds and trees. It’s no longer romance. Because for certain…turns out—we don’t know a lot, even scientifically. We’re still pushing our buttons, trying to keep a semblance of what was just weeks ago. But suddenly we are evermore clear that if those buttons stop working…we really will have to know what it is to truly stop. And we can pretend that would never happen. Or we can get real. Radically real. Do you know where your waste goes when you flush your toilet? Do you know where your water comes from? Do you know the person who lives in the apartment above yours? Have you called your neighbors to see if they need bread? Have you asked them if they have an extra egg or two? Have you bought seeds? Or are you still complaining about toilet paper?
The world has stopped. So Now What.
I just keep looking at birds. And trees. I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to live on land in Montana. But even out your window, I bet you can see a bird. Or a tree. Somewhere. It’s time we drop to our knees and bow to the thing we call “nature.” There’s a scene toward the end of “Willa’s Grove” when one of the characters talks about how connected with herself she feels, having spent a week in Montana. She worries how she’s going to bring this feeling back to her suburban/urban life. And Willa says to her, “Jane. You are nature.” Never before have I felt more desperate to convey this message. It’s time we stop thinking that nature is separate from us. We don’t go “out in nature.” We are nature. We are nature in an elevator and in an airplane. We are nature right where we are, whether standing on a rug in our living room, or a concrete sidewalk, or climbing a tree, or standing in a field of migrating snow geese. We. Are. Nature.
We are also one organism. That’s another part of “Willa’s Grove” that I love, and why it has its title. Willa points out that a grove of aspen trees is one organism. By the end, these four women vibe like one organism. It’s undeniable and they are deeply schooled by it. But it’s more than just a grove of aspens. We are all one organism. The world stopped and we’d be absolutely dead inside if we were to refuse this reality right now. Never before has the whole world united against the same “enemy.” How is this not the most massive opportunity in our civilization? Let’s take it! We must!
So what are we going to do with it? Are we going to let our children play X-box for hours on end until this pandemic is over? Are we not going to gather at the kitchen table and talk about our fears that it will be a long time before it’s over with more lost lives than we can imagine, including our own? If all the buttons stop working…are we going to just keep pushing them, because they used to work, and they should work, shouldn’t they– so that we don’t have to feel what there is to feel? There is so much to feel. Now is the time for deep feeling. And the most honest living that we’ve ever/never imagined.
Writers, highly sensitive types, always feel what there is to feel. And that makes us unpopular sometimes. But in a time like this, people are looking up from their bubble of what has “promised” security, and realized…a bubble is easier to break than they were willing to admit. All it takes is one…sharp…needle. And this one…is sharp. And exacting. Doesn’t matter what’s in your bank account. Or what letters you have after your name. If you’re a prince or a homeless person. We are all in this together, whether we like it or not. So…let’s like it. So we can beat it. Learn from it. Finally…be the change. I keep picturing Mother Nature dancing. And she’s saying, “Stop.”
I’m not going to get into stats or political blame because I’m not geared that way. All I know is that we’re in trouble. And we’ve been in trouble for a long time. And we stand an extraordinary chance of getting out of that trouble right now. Can we please make it count? Can we please talk? Can we please speak heart language? Can we honor authentic self-expression in the way we always should? In the way we knew how to as children? Can we blow the dust off of that old journal and get real with our fears? Whether we are in leadership positions or not, can we admit that we’re afraid? Can we stop saying stupid things to people we love like, “You’re not the only one this is happening to, you know.” Can we make room for each others’ stories and fears? I bring communities together for a living. But I’m “preaching to the choir” when I facilitate those communities. These people already value the importance of sharing their truth, even if it doesn’t come naturally to them. Now we ALL need to value the essential nature of sharing our truth, written or spoken.
At the end of “Willa’s Grove” there is a letter to the reader which is a call to action for what I’m hoping will start a movement. It calls us to stop pretending and hiding and saying we’re fine when our hearts are bleeding inside. It calls us to step out of isolation and shame when our lives aren’t going the way we planned, and find safe circles of trust to speak our truth. A month ago, we were kids rolling our eyes at our grandmothers who were telling us to put on a hat for our bike ride, hopping on our ten speeds with all the open sidewalk ahead of us. Now we’re wrecked with a twisted pile of metal next to us, bleeding and cold and wishing someone would stop and help us get back home in time for dinner but ashamed to ask.
So I’m here to help. Not because I’ve never crashed my bike, and not because I didn’t crash my bike this morning when I opened my eyes and remembered that the world stopped and why. But because I’m willing to admit it to you. I’m willing to show you the bloody wound under the Band-aid. Please show me yours.
When I went out on book tour at the beginning of this month, so excited to share a book that I love profoundly with people across the US…I knew I needed a mantra. I used the mantra from my last book tour, because it worked then and that was a much harder tour because I starred as the main character. This time I was spreading news of the power of community, especially during So Now What moments in our lives.
I want to share it with you:
I give myself permission to be exactly who I am and have it be easy.
It was working beautifully from New York, to Boston, to Chicago, to Minneapolis…until we all knew that it was time to pack it up and go home. So many of us have had to pack up our dreams and go home. To do an overnight 180 and let go of all that we have saved for and planned for, so carefully, and for so long. And think about food and water and duct tape and whatever else holds our life together when we’re not pushing the almighty button and ignoring birds and trees. Suddenly grateful for getting the kids home. Suddenly grateful that we have a home…trying not to think how we’re going to pay our mortgage or our property taxes, or where our next paycheck is coming from, or or or. We’re not supposed to complain. We’re not supposed to worry. We’re not supposed to be pissed.
Well I can tell you right now, as someone who has devoted her life to self-expression, especially when it’s inconvenient or embarrassing…we need to be sharing how we really feel with those who will be kind and supportive and understanding. Choose carefully. But please…do choose.
So this morning, I changed my mantra. I figured I ought to go first before I ask others to do the same. Here it is:
I give myself permission to feel scared, desperate, and pissed. AND to surrender. Give up. Lie in bed lethargic. Not be a leader. Not help anyone. At least for this moment. I give myself permission to believe that in observing my true feelings, I may be opening myself to whatever needs to give itself to me. I give myself permission to believe: Maybe something miraculous is about to happen.
Something for you to do right now:
I want you to do this too. I want you to find a piece of paper somewhere and write down a few sentences. An honest love note to yourself, giving yourself permission to be right where you are. Keep it close to your bed. When you wake up tomorrow, write another one. Maybe it’s changed overnight. Or maybe it’s still true. You’ll know. This is the time for honesty, even if you loathe and despise your current feelings. Please…feel them.
We have an unprecedented opportunity right now as a civilization to honor the power of truth and self-expression.
To see that we are one organism.
To know at the center of our very being that…we are nature.
Watch the birds and trees.
They know.
And so do we. We just forgot.
We love each other. We love each other. We love each other.
Love,
Laura
