Hi!
This is my first Substack post. I’ve always loved to write and now I’m committing to myself, and to you, to publish something meaningful once a month. Like my annual New Years card to family and friends (some of you are here, hello!), I hope it connects us through story-telling and reflection on life’s seasons and pivots.
Just reading is connection enough. You can also share your thoughts publicly (Comment using the roundish little speech balloon) or privately (send me a Chat using the squarish little speech balloon). I’m still figuring out the platform, so bear with me!
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I know some of my audience at this stage, the ones I’ve coaxed here anyway, and I’m pretty sure Substack is a new adventure for you, too. So, onward together!
Find the beginning.
– Homer, The Odyssey, as translated by Dr. Emily Wilson, 2017
August always feels like a month of beginnings and endings. My son was born in August, as was I. School starts, storm season gears up for us East Coasters, I started writing a book this time last year. This particular August brought news that two poems I’d submitted to a contest (last August) were quietly recognized as a “contender” and an “entry that came close”. Just yesterday I got the Wordle in two, and all socks that went into the laundry miraculously came out as matched pairs. Every. Single. One. Wonders never cease.
Summer ends, days shorten, our family attention narrows to calendars and homework and cross country meets and band performances. My husband died in August 2014, and with him, so much of my world. There will be more on this in the future.
The Power of Hellos
Something I noticed this summer, really felt in my body: the warmth of a heartfelt greeting. My kids and I travelled a lot, visiting people we adore at various cabins, cottages, and campsites across four states and two countries. Each stop began with our dusty minivan pulling up, then spilling its contents of road weary teenagers, dog, and endurance driver mom into the arms of people waving and smiling as we threw ourselves into chaotic embraces of welcome. Hugs lasted longer than usual, some rocked back and forth, the joy of being together again like a magnet pulling us all together on a gritty driveway as trees swayed overhead and the sun beamed down.
One such stop was Chocorua, New Hampshire, pictured here. Thanks to the family I was born into, I have spent a small portion of each year in this picturesque, somewhat remote part of the White Mountains. Depending on the weather, a version of this scene greets us every time we drive down the dirt road toward our driveway moment. It is always and never the same, just like us, reflecting and refracting the surrounding elements, a tree in shadow here, a paddler ruffling the water there, water striders jittering about so the lake never truly stills.
Mount Chocorua has been a family climbing destination since I was five. Ever the eager (both my kids were preemies), my son summited when he was three, and my daughter when she was five, “but a younger five than you were, Mom”. Most summers include this day-long excursion, and every time we return weary, dirty, wobbly-kneed, content. Humbled by a view that hours before we enjoyed in complete reverse, looking down and across miles of landscape, our perspective that of the birds or a wayward bear, scale and scope flipped entirely around. Awed and anchored by natural beauty.
More and more this year, I’ve found myself grounded by people as much as place. When January blew in and I packed away Christmas decorations, I left the holiday cards I’d hung on a clothesline draped around our kitchen where they were. That tapestry of familiar smiles and handwriting, all those Snapfish adventures and Shutterfly moments, framed the central part of our home as one year turned into the next.
It still does. These people, known casually or held closely through the years, watch over our comings and goings, silent passengers on our roller coaster of 21st century-adolescent-midlife mayhem. They will be replaced in a few months with their future selves, a collection perhaps bigger, perhaps smaller, made wiser (if not wizened) by another turn of the seasons.
My theory in starting this “muse-letter” is that many of us feel better knowing we are part of such a collective, tethered to others through shared experiences and feelings (if not hanging around a friend’s kitchen as expired holiday decor). A true introvert, I used to go inward when the going got rough, or just confusing. Now when things feel shaky, I tend to reach out, write more, connect one-on-one with people I care most about. Not always, just more than before.
I think you know the kinds of people I’m talking about, the ones you know you’re going to leave feeling like a better, more whole version of yourself after the simplest of interactions. A coffee or crossword date, fifteen borrowed minutes to check in on a friend, a quick catch-up through car windows rolled down in the school pick-up line. A walk in the woods, pouring your heart and soul out, while the other person helps carry it all just by listening.
I know a virtual newsletter isn’t the same as those connections. (And Substack has its issues, I’m learning). But why not try to approximate them, even scale them up depending how many join us? I’ll try anything that channels our collective energy into constructive pursuits.
The next post should be out in a week or so. It’s a bit heavier as we enter National Suicide Prevention Month. I have a few things to say. Until then, I hope to hear from you, and if you feel so inclined, please share this with others! (And if you’re a Substack veteran with pro tips, I’m all ears/eyes!)
