solstice, story, see

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hi friends,

It may come as no surprise, but I’ve always been a (not so) secret scribbler, drawn to writing poems and riddling rhymes—words that delight in play.

I must have been around eight when I typed the following fragment on my parent’s manual Smith Corona. The phrasing may be off, but I can recite the notes by heart:

i am weaving a basket of

love

hope and

sanity

for eternity

Okay, as a poem, it’s not great. There’s definitely a 1970’s “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” vibe going on, but there’s material to work with nonetheless.

The poem became one of a small “collection.” I don’t remember all the other verses, but I recall folding four sheets of A4 paper against the grain to be hole punched and looped with red yarn. On the cover was a picture of a granny square afghan, a mosaic of color, cut and collaged from the pages of my mother’s subscription to Better Homes and Gardens. I titled the pamphlet A Patchwork of Poems. Early strands of my narrative threads.

Every writer has only one story to tell, and he has to find a way of telling it until the meaning becomes clearer and clearer, until the story becomes at once more narrow and larger, more and more precise, more and more reverberating.

James Baldwin

When I made the decision to cancel my June retreat, I made myself a promise: to treat this time on island as a gift from the sea, allowing it to become a form of residency, a container of both writing and rewriting. To intentionally return to my work (and to the words of others) as an endless ocean, receiving whatever might wash up along the shore with gentleness and ease.

The process is never as simple as it sounds because, besides arriving with a stack of journals and an embarrassingly large number of untitled Google docs, I travel with an inner critic who hisses, “You have no idea what you are doing.”

You’re right; I don’t. But I’m not going to let that stop me.

Over these past weeks, I've devoted considerable thought to structure itself as a space to hold a story. I mentioned before how I'm a fan of wordplay—I delight in their ability to press up and tease one another, the way a poem becomes a curious question. Yet a riddle has another definition meaning to pass through a large coarse sieve.

My time on Monhegan is always an unknowing form of structure, a container of time to reflect, sift and refine. To receive my words as my riddles, not as means to confuse but rather to find clarity. To see my story and change it up. To see what else is true.

This year, Gertie has been an unwitting part of my process.

If you follow me on Instagram, you might be familiar with the antics of Miss Gertie, you know, the dog that allegedly didn't get on the furniture? 

This girl spends A LOT of time staring out windows, surveying the scene. My alert-y Gertie.

It's not that I don't gaze outside the window, but my eye has always been drawn in the opposite direction, beyond the horizon and towards the ocean, a boundless body of blue touching blue.

seaview

I find myself curious as to what she is noticing; other possibilities I may have missed outside my window, what more there may be to see that’s always been in plain sight.

Looking to the left, I spy a Lilac hedgerow climbing along the hill. It's also what's been there the whole time.

This is my way of saying that although I arrived with specific projects, I’m allowing whatever arises to spill forth—to look left when I'm used to looking write. I may have one story to tell, but I'm discovering new ways of telling it so that the story becomes at once more narrow and larger, more and more precise, more and more reverberating.

see•vue

Over the past 19 years, I've taken a lot of photographs on Monhegan, nine-thousand three hundred and eighty-three, if I was one to count. Last summer, my friend Miki decreed, "No more sunsets!" and I've done my best to abide. This year, I'm trying a new practice.

Every day Gertie and I traverse the roads and the trails, back and forth, through Cathedral Woods and across the Headlands. These walks are a form of silent mediation. Rather than see through the lens of my camera, I look for images through color, shape, and texture, and as the words arise, I speak them gently into my notes app to become my lines along the trails:

snow in summer 

lily day

a lone 

pink 

lady's slipper

word play

I’m trusting this process to hush my inner critic, to color outside the lines, creating a yet-to-be-known container of time and physicality, and allowing myself to be generous and generative with both. Just like the ocean, I’m choosing to write from the blankness of the page to create fluid forms, lyric essays, pillow books. I’m discovering new ways to receive the words that have always been there.

Jillian Hess

is the author of Noted and one of my most cherished reads on Substack. Her newsletter is a deep dive into authors' and artists' archives and notebooks, considering how they work and what we can glean from their process. She wrote in her recent essay on the work of Keith Haring; of course, as a visual artist, (he) thought about the page in terms of space. Writing, he explains, is a way of "putting time in boxes":

I'm learning to trust the speed at which I read and write, to take my time, and to release my urge to control. To lovingly lean into the same lines and (hope)fully write a new story with the same material. To weave a basket.

It's not easy, but it's possible, and it's magical.

On this solstice, in the Northern Hemisphere, the day we see and are seen in the most brilliant light, what might emerge for you?

thanks for reading ~

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When Women Were Birds: murmuration, memoir, meditation

September 22 - 26, 2023

Monhegan, ME

word by word, the language of women so often begins with a whisper… . .

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only one room left... . ..

if you have ever wished to experience Monhegan for yourself, this retreat is your invitation. It’s an embodied book group: to journey and journal through the words of Terry Tempest Williams's poetic memoir When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice with the seasons of the sea. It is for anyone who longs to learn or return to the practices of writing and meditation, to discover our stories through silence and speech. all the details • 2022 retreat highlights here

I felt like the bright, salty sunshine and air of Monhegan scrubbed the corners of my soul, and I saw all the cracks and creases and also cleaned the gunk that needed to be moved. It was a deeply satisfying and nourishing experience. I feel like my personal bucket as a woman, mom, midwife, and human became filled to the brim with trust that we can have hard times and find meaningful ways to re-visit reintegrate into ourselves when the opportunity presents itself—Elsa, Philadelphia, PA, 2021 + 2022 retreater

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current contemplations

if you know me, you’ll already understand why Gayle Brandeis’ memoir Drawing Breath: Essays on Writing, the Body, and Loss would call my name. Drawing Breath is nothing short of breathtaking—I devoured it in a single gulp.

also this perfect essay by David Abram, Creaturely Migrations on a Breathing Planet:

What is this allurement, this seasonal memory that rises in the muscles, calling one skyward, drawing one back and back again to the place of one’s begetting, to that precise blend of wind and rock and glistening water?

Although I’m ten miles out to sea, I’m looking forward to attending Phosphorescence. Ocean Vuong, Joseph Fritsch and Yanyi will read their work and discuss what poetry and Emily Dickinson mean to them. This free, online event takes place June 22, 6pm ET and you can register here.

I know it’s hard to believe, but there are many places in Maine I wish to experience other than Monhegan! Someday. Until then, I keep lists and live vicariously through the adventures of others, especially

Chelsea Diehl

. She shares her bimonthly adventures in her newsletter, Gadabout Maine. Check it out!

Yes, I’m still swift-ing out in all the ways Taylor reminds us to “borrow (her) strength, embrace your pain; make something beautiful with it—and then you can shake it off.”

and finally even though the NBA finals are over, we’re all still playing ball

one of the best ways to support and sustain my work is through the act of sharing. if you know somebody who would enjoy this newsletter or the experience of being on retreat

as always, you may share or crosspost on social media, follow me on IG, leave a comment, or send me a message privately

and if you want to know more about me you can read my full newsletter archive here.