writing my way through emergency

the space between aleph and om

yes, this is my 🪥and yes, I have since replaced

It began when I went to brush my teeth, which means it could have been any day, except, on this particular day, there was no toothbrush. The ceramic cup by the sink?

Empty.

hmmmm

I opened one drawer, then another. I checked the shower, checked the garbage, checked the empty tumbler again as if somehow I’d missed it the first time. Nothing.

My toothbrush was simply gone.

I returned to the bedroom, completely baffled, only to discover said toothbrush sitting atop my dresser as if it were its rightful home.

“I found it in our bed,” said John.

😳😳😳

If you are of a certain age (follow me), you may remember back in the 70s when battery-operated smoke alarms became more common in suburban track homes. Every family was instructed to have a plan, an escape route, a place to meet, usually a tree, and to practice implementing the “plan” in case of emergency. When I was ten, my parents held such a drill in the middle of the night to see how my brother and I would respond.

They set off the alarm and waited.

And waited.

As the story goes, after fifteen minutes, I stumbled into the hall, sound asleep, holding a spider plant. My brother never woke up at all.

Neither of us made it to the tree.

We never had another fire drill, and gratefully, we never had a fire.

If I could pull a thread between two moments, I liken my missing toothbrush to the spider plant as proof that I don’t always know how to show up in case of an emergency.

lately, the world feels like an emergency
and I don't know how to respond

They say things come in threes, and if that’s true, then my missing toothbrush is but one in a personal trifecta, causing me to pause and pay attention, as there was also:

• the errant tickle in the back of my throat—the one I was so sure was seasonal allergies, until, in the midst of teaching, my voice dissolved into a scratchy rasp before disappearing entirely, plunging me into six days of silence.

• and a savage dream—the one in which I was kidnapped, the nightmare only coming to a screeching end because I awoke howling into the dark, something I don’t think I’ve ever done before.

but then again, nothing feels like anything we’ve ever done before

It’s not normal to return to this country to dire warnings about measles. It’s not normal to watch democracy devolve in real-time or the global economy chaotically teeter to the brink of collapse upon the whims of a 34-count convicted felon who has filed for bankruptcy six times—a man who believes anything can be bought or sold.

A $5,000 incentive to have a baby?

Sure!

$1,000 (plus airfare) to self-deport?

Why not?

It’s not normal to be scooped up off the street by masked agents in unmarked cars. To be detained without due process, to consider suspending habeas corpus, to disregard a unanimous judgment from the Supreme Court, of any court, as if the rules do not apply.

if this can happen to one person, it can happen to anyone, and it’s happening now

It’s not normal to have words such as equality or sense of belonging excised from government documents because they are considered to be “woke.” Are you on this list? I am, and it’s not for who I am but what I am.

a woman

Dear friends, if this is “woke,” none of us should be asleep because every word has consequences. Every silence, too.¹

Voice. It can be complicated, although it seems as if it should be utterly natural. Sound expressing sound as desire uniquely one’s own. And yet the act of speaking, of finding the words, or maybe it’s finding the right words, doesn’t always flow.

When I think about voice, I think about a work by Ann Hamilton, a video of her mouth filmed in close-up, filled with stone marbles rolling and clattering against one another, on the verge of either spilling forth or suffocating her in silence, not knowing which action to be the more dangerous of the two.

(aleph•video) 1992/93, 3.5 x 4.5 inches

How many times have I, too, felt the coldness of those marbles stuck in my throat, constricting my words from within? How many different ways have I allowed myself to be silenced, or actively silenced myself, in fear that to speak from the heart came at the peril of choking or swallowing myself whole?

All I really know is that these past hundred days have brought me to a space of questioning my voice or my ability to speak or what I wish to say—be it the hoarseness of whispering silence, a mislaid toothbrush, or a scream in the middle of the night—the signs are there.

and I don’t know what they mean

I’ve always felt more comfortable expressing myself through writing, speaking through my fingers, words flowing onto paper, layer upon inky layer.

Yet, for the past month, every time I sit at my desk, my words come out garbled, my thoughts unresolved; it feels more like I’m reacting rather than writing and in the process, I have written myself into a corner. I’ve become overly concerned with the preciousness of my words to the point of paralysis, believing there’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been said.

so I’ve chosen not to speak at all

Hamilton’s work is titled aleph, a reference to the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet as both symbol and sound, but also to the shape formed by the larynx as it moves fully from silence to speech.

When I first encountered this artwork, I had not yet converted to Judaism, and I was a far way from knowing, nor could have imagined how aleph would reverberate in my life and rub up another sacred sound.

aleph
as ancient as 
om

In yoga, om is often interpreted as the primordial vibration from which the universe began—the sound of infinite creative possibility as the lips part and the shape of the mouth moves from fully open to closed. Om is the invocation we chant at the beginning and end of an asana or meditation practice. It is our invitation to remember that every ending is more than a mourning.

every ending holds the possibility to begin again

Whether between the lips or deep in the throat, aleph and om interrupt and initiate. Nested within one another, aleph and om open the door to be in the fullness and the longing of all that is yet to be.

What I’m trying to say inarticulately is I’ve been writing my way towards something that is still taking shape, something new and unknown. I’m leaning into uncertainty, not as something to fear but as an act of faith.

It is for this reason I have paused all paid subscriptions indefinitely. Your support has been invaluable, and I am so grateful, but as I experiment with new newsletter formats and topics, as I move my way through this tangle, I want to embrace the page as a place to play rather than write only to please and to pull some new narrative threads with abandon… . .. from breath to pen.

sometimes, 
remaking begins with unraveling
it begins with 
(k)not knowing

I may never know how my toothbrush got into our bed, but it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m sleepwalking through this emergency. Perhaps it’s the grace I can give myself. Perhaps it’s the permission to change—to receive the blank page not as terrifying but as a gift.

As long as I keep writing. As long as we all keep writing.

I’m signing out with a poetry swatch, a divination by Maria Popova on Twenty Ways to Matter perhaps there’s a line within that also speaks to you…. . ..

The black hole of your devastation
is a wild strange expansive place.
We are really good at coming up
with reasons to not go there.
Go there.
You will find the seeds
that become galaxies of growth.
You will find
what the soul and the spirit and the heart
need to know.

Be on the inside of your heart,
make a home inside yourself,
for to keep other people happy
is distraction from the real work of being
in which there is no final test
for how to be human —
only the open question
of how to be yourself
which you must answer daily
with all the strength and kindness
that you’ve got.

And remember
that life is an extraordinary creative collaboration,
that if we keep shining a light
on the things that mean and matter the most
the light overcomes the darkness,
that love is the oldest light in the universe
and when you live and work and listen
with open-hearted love
everything
     everything
          everything
is possible
for your life.

thanks for reading!

xosew

ps

Only two spaces remain for Braiding Sweetgrass: Breathing Stories. What can I say, except there is something about Monhegan and its stillness, something about being sheltered in the boundless blue sea and sky that offers me the clarity to connect deeply to what is true and within my capacity. This year, more than ever, I am grateful to know the island is there, waiting to listen to hold and behold the fullness of these current times. If you feel the same, it would be my honor to share Monhegan’s magic with you!

writing circle | gathering (in grace) notes

Begin your week gathering in good company!

Every Monday, 7:30 - 8:30 am ET, I host an online writing circle to encourage a creative start to the week. Honestly, I’m doing this more for myself than anyone else, but I’d love to have you join me because I know the power of accountability, coming together, and writing in community.

Each week, you are invited to come as you are. We greet one another before we sit in a moment of silence. I offer a poem and a prompt in the chat if you are looking for a way to begin, then we write for 60 minutes with our screens on or off—that’s it!

This is a free offering for all. If you find you are attending regularly and ever wish to make a donation in support of maintaining the space, you can always buy me a book. register once, and the link is yours forever ✍🏻

two spaces remain …. . join me on retreat … .. …. .

Braiding Sweetgrass: Breathing Stories

September 17-21, 2025 | Monhegan, ME

For the fifth year, I invite you to join me for an intimate retreat on Monhegan. Our program is an embodied book group, journeying and journaling through the wisdom and words of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s memoir Braiding Sweetgrass with the magic of Monhegan. I’m thrilled to consider the possible ways Kimmerer’s storytelling will become the guide to writing our own. Together, we will write through the island's topography, the geography of our senses, and our storied experiences. There will be ample time to search for sea glass and hike the trails through Cathedral Woods to the rocky shores of Pebble Beach.

Through writing, ritual, and restorative yoga, we will meditate, celebrate, and honor the variations of our authentic voices, as can only happen when you find yourself on this artist's island 10 miles out to sea.

and … . .. . . …. if you ever thought of creating your own retreat… . ..

my cottage still has three weeks open to rent at the beginning of the summer ~ contact Brackett Rentals for info, and let see•vue be the sanctuary for your story!

lingering line… . ..

true mystery is endlessly generative

Ross Simonini

1. Jean-Paul Sartre