Dear one,
It’s a soupy Sunday afternoon as I write this, dreary weather that’s welcome after an unusual extension of summer. This is my second fall back in a northern climate, after a few years in the vast expanse of California sunshine. Last year I was living in a barely-finished yurt, where blasting our lone space heater hardly cut the damp chill. I experienced the seasonal shift as aggravating and miserable. But this year the rain has been kind company, and the shock of flame-colored leaves combined with other kinds of autumnal decay has unexpectedly inspired an inner stirring. I don’t know why watching things die back would feel so enlivening, but it’s reminding me that things do change. It’s exciting drama, this evidence of the world’s constant turning.
I don’t usually experience the creep towards winter this enthusiastically, or at least don’t remember gushing about the rain like this. But it’s also been a long time since I’ve been able to shift my lifestyle and priorities along with the season, if that’s even something I’ve ever really done. There may have been one year in my unemployed punk hey-day where winter entailed hibernation, barely leaving the house I shared with about a dozen others—except for maybe bundling up and biking to a potluck or the grocery store, or canvassing for Sisters Camelot when I needed to make money. But even then I was so beset with restlessness that I can’t imagine the pause on external activity was all that peaceful. Whether self-induced or a symptom of circumstance, attempting to cram activity into every available crevice of time has been the through-line of the seasons. This was true when I worked in the service industry and forced myself to plow through fatigue in order to write, and it was definitely true inside of grad school’s incessant sway. It ended up being true last year, too, when I occupied myself with (among many other things) trying to clean up the messes left I’d accidentally made during those years of urgency. (I wrote more about this clean-up process in the letter I sent in March.)
How does one actually create (or protect) the space and time to focus on things that matter most? That question has recently moved from the background of my thoughts into the spotlight. I’ve managed to maintain a semblance of a writing practice since a new full-time job parked in my weekdays, but the cadence of constantly managed time has cast a pretty uncreative shadow. The problem isn’t necessarily my newly structured schedule. (If anything, it’s been relieving to work around that solidity.) But what I am finding is that less-important projects and endeavors—things that really don’t need to get done—are slipping into the precious time that is available for writing. Excess is crowding out creative breathing room.
Something I’ve been thinking about regarding narrative structure is this “California Closet” approach: trying to organize a mammoth assortment of things (from scenes and ideas to overarching concepts) by coming up with enough shelves and boxes to hold them all. While I totally do believe that playing around with narrative structure can be enormously enabling, I don’t think that’s necessarily about getting everything to fit. I’ve started thinking something similar about time management, a domain that feels just as tied up with my creative practice. This fall I am trying to let those things that don’t feed me (and which aren’t otherwise necessary) decay, conclude, or slip away. I’m also trying to approach the things I am committed to (like working on my book, sharing this letter, and teaching) and the things I do to take care of myself (like movement and spiritual practices) less like obligations and more like opportunities. I would like to stop dragging myself through the things I love the most, which also means reconfiguring them in ways that don’t encourage my resentment. I’m adjusting the form of those practices—like when and how they happen—and also what I pay attention to when I’m engaged with them.
I know that not everything about our lives and lifestyle is in our control, so I don’t mean to imply that finding calm and spaciousness is always a simple matter of choice. But I also feel the precedent I’ve set for myself has exerted its own momentum—one that has created friction and drag around dreams and goals. I’m grateful that its momentum is coming more and more into focus, and that along with that recognition, new possibilities have suggested themselves.
I hope this letter finds you well, and that obstacles to your creativity and rest fall away in the season ahead.
Yours,
Siloh
Culture list
A short list of things I’ve recently read, watched, or listened to that have nourished my thinking, imagination, or both!
I’m winding my way through The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald for a second time, and finding it a perfect autumn read with all its melancholy and reverence.
On the topic of rest: I just ordered Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto by Tricia Hersey (of Nap Ministry fame), and am excited to read! Hersey is a brilliant visionary and crucial public intellectual of our time; I feel grateful to be learning from her work.
For info on the ways that urgency and white supremacy are entwined, I recommend this quick read by Tema Okun.
Selah Saterstrom, through the Four Queens platform, is offering a series of recorded lectures (or homilies) throughout 2023, on the tarot Queen of the Year. Selah is a brilliant diviner who has taught me a lot about the overlap between creative practice and divination. I am really looking forward to this series, and it also feels good to begin filling the year ahead with fun and compelling things like this.
Happiness Touchstones
Quiet, empty, illuminated porches and entryways seen on a recent evening walk around the neighborhood with my dog
This cover of “Time of the Season” (and all other cover songs on this channel…)
Eating acorn squash with butter
Spiced milky tea in the evening