Dear Somebody: Tiny miracles everywhere

July 14, 2023

*Girl and sitar*, in the latest issue of Uppercase Magazine

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

The past week has been full of it’s one of those days days—the kind where the baby cries until she’s sunset purple, my lower back begins to crumble, the toddler vomits at two in the morning, and all of my friends feel worlds away. I wake up at eleven o’clock, two o’clock, and five o’clock, finally getting up at six. When I look in the mirror, I feel detached or disappointed or maybe nothing at all.

It’s been storming for two days. Like the people in my home, the entire outdoors has been cranky or crying. Rain stamps out any lingering spark from the weekend’s fireworks and when we finally step outside, after wrestling with diapers and socks and rain boots and zippers, a fine mist cleans my face. It’s cold enough to need a sweater, which delights me more than most things can, and I’m irritable enough that my own delight surprises me.

We walk. The toddler sings to herself and the baby sleeps. In this moment, no one is crying or calling my name. I know this will change as soon as I allow myself to feel relieved, but I try to be in the moment anyway. I only sort-of succeed. I wish I had some time for myself, I think.

T notices, because he reminds me that gratitude cultivates joy. He’s already listened to me complain a fair amount, so I don’t push the lesson away. Instead, I make a list.

There is much I am grateful for: children who are beautifully healthy and strange; a marriage that has learned to rise rather than crumble; a body that shows up though the neck always grumbles, the bones feel emptied, and the entire thing is tired of being tired.

There is much I am grateful for: the turned leaves, freshly watered from days of rain; a pleasing lawn, freshly mown; the sprinkled song of flowers. Four birds on a wire, whistling.

Clouds that cover the ruddy clay sun in July, that’s what I’m grateful for. A thunderstorm that claps the house, the stony sound of summer hail. A late morning walk. A baby taking her third bath—only the third one she’s ever taken in her entire life—and seriously feeling the warm water run down her face. A baby who listens to the running faucet and hears a waterfall or sea lions playing or her sister splashing. The awe in her eyes. The small wonder of children. The wonder of small children. A young family stumbling to find their way. A young family stumbling, finding their way. The coolest, most welcome breeze. Tiny miracles everywhere.

TUESDAY

I’m currently reading This Is How It Always Is by Laurie Frankel, on recommendation by a friend, and enjoying it very, very much. I’m not finished yet, but I keep thinking about the following conversation, which is similar to the one T and I have quite often, and the one I have with myself on a daily basis:

“Such a tough life. This is not the easy way."

"No," Penn agreed, "but I'm not sure easy is what I want for the kids anyway."

She looked up at him. "Why the hell not?"

"I mean, if we could have everything, sure. If we can have it all, yeah. I wish them easy, successful, fun-filled lives, crowned with good friends, attentive lovers, heaps of money, intellectual stimulation, and good views out the window. I wish them eternal beauty, international travel, and smart things to watch on tv. But if I can't have everything, if I only get a few, I'm not sure easy makes my wish list."

"Really?"

"Easy is nice. But its not as good as getting to be who you are or stand up for what you believe in," said Penn. "Easy is nice. But I wonder how often it leads to fulfilling work or partnership or being."

"Easy probably rules out having children," Rosie admitted.

"Having children, helping people, making art, inventing anything, leading the way, tackling the world's problems, overcoming your own. I don't know. Not much of what I value in our lives is easy. But there's not much of it I'd trade for easy either, I don't think.”

P.S. Do you have any book recommendations? Please post them in the comments for us all to enjoy.

WEDNESDAY

The latest edition of my column Being was published in Issue #58 of Uppercase Magazine. I wrote about creative breakthroughs and how to cultivate them.

“A mistake I continually made throughout my career was expecting myself to produce work without rest or creative input. It’s impossible to evolve your work, or your voice, without allowing yourself to be inspired or moved by the environment that surrounds you. Although the foundation of my work is rooted in emotional well-being and healing, I found myself prioritizing work over friendship, production over creative intake, and relying on old skills over experimentation. As a result, my work remained stale, almost forgettable. Each painting was missing a spark, the essence that would imbue it with meaning. To light the spark, I had to first give myself room to breathe.”

—Creative Breakthroughs from Issue #58 of Uppercase Magazine, available now.

THURSDAY

We should be ambitious about our friendships.

FRIDAY

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

—Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo

xx,

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Dear Somebody: For the love of sisters

June 30, 2023

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

I was able to speak with the wonderful Margo Tantau on her podcast Windowsill Chatsabout building a life of creativity and purpose. We also discuss living according to your values, being dedicated to your vision, and what I believe most holds us creatives back from success. You can listen to Episode 146 here.

TUESDAY

My sister and her family visit for a couple days, a trip that comes and goes so quickly that it feels like a blur even while it’s happening. In tow are my two beautiful nephews and my niece, Z, who was born only a handful of weeks before N. The two girls are as different in personality and behavior as they are close in age: where N is cautious and meditative, Z is adventurous and impulsive. Together, though, there is some semblance of balance.

Different doesn’t always attract. It was more than two decades before my sister and I discovered our own rhythm, mashed somewhere between college graduations, first apartments, and marriages. Each time I reached a life milestone she’d already passed through it brought us closer together. For awhile, we’d swim in the same waters, and then she’d go on ahead again.

Our personalities follow traditional birth order to a certain degree. As the older child, my sister tends to be a bit of a perfectionist while I enjoy making a good mess with my hands. She’s conscientious and thoughtful, quick to say the right thing and mean it; I have learned how to be less judgmental, more vulnerable. I am confrontational, she likes keeping the peace. We’re both cripplingly self-aware.

We take the kids to the City Museum, the emerald city of St. Louis. Z bounces off the industrial bridges and steel-roped ladders, climbing as quick as her agile little body allows. N clings to her dad hard. She doesn’t want to climb, she doesn’t want to run, she doesn’t want to try—or she does, but not now. I encourage her, and then fight the urge to continue. How often have I wanted the very same thing my parents have wanted for me, simply in my own time?

Z and her brothers are out of sight, lost somewhere in the noise of Sabreliner 40 aircrafts and frighteningly oversized slides. Slowly, N begins to open. She walks across a four-foot-wide Slinkie and peers through each square window. She watches. She avoids the vertical tunnels, opting instead for the narrow stairs, and climbs to the top of a castle turret. I ask her what she’s thinking, as I often do, but she doesn’t answer. She watches. Eventually, she lets her dad’s hand go and climbs a half-dome gym on her own. Slowly, I see her unfurl. She’s a lily, blooming—not hesitantly, but with deliberation, the way someone who knows herself well does.

After awhile, we all meet up and herd the kids inside for lunch. There, surrounded by half-eaten pretzels and hot dogs, ice cream cups and toddler water bottles, N and Z begin to run. They run back and forth across the 1870’s Vault Room, chasing each other with open arms. Z speeds across and N helps her up when she falls. N laughs hysterically, falling on purpose, and Z puts out her hand for the assist. They smile and hug, their faces full of childhood and joy. This is special, I think to myself, as I look at their eyes which are looking into each others’.

I’ve spent my entire life counting the ways my sister and I are different, as if it matters, as if we’d allow the very things that make us who we are keep us apart. I know, with certainty, that this is driven by the fear that we one day will.

I note this now, as I watch N and Z fall to the ground still hugging, still laughing, their arms braided together. At my age, it is obvious: the way sisters can fall apart if they’re not too careful, how all friendships—even those bound by blood—need nurturing, like young lilies waiting for bloom.

To N and Z, it is far less complicated. As it should be. The afternoon sunlight streams through the second-story window. One child’s tiny hand prepares to reach out in anticipation, in knowing—before the other child falls. Slowly, my heart grounds itself.

WEDNESDAY

On learning how to see in our creative work:

“I am astonished in my teaching to find how many poets are nearly blind to the physical world. They have ideas, memories, and feelings, but when they write their poems they often see them as similes. To break this habit, I have my students keep a journal in which they must write, very briefly, six things they have seen each day—not beautiful or remarkable things, just things. This seemingly simple task usually is hard for them. At the beginning, they typically "see" things in one of three ways: artistically, deliberately, or not at all. Those who see artistically instantly decorate their descriptions, turning them into something poetic: the winter trees immediately become "old men with snow on their shoulders," or the lake looks like a "giant eye." The ones who see deliberately go on and on describing a brass lamp by the bed with painful exactness. And the ones who see only what is forced on their attention: the grandmother in a bikini riding on a skateboard, or a bloody car wreck. But with practice, they begin to see carelessly and learn a kind of active passivity until after a month nearly all of them have learned to be available to seeing—and the physical world pours in. Their journals fill up with lovely things like, "the mirror with nothing reflected in it." This way of seeing is important, even vital to the poet, since it is crucial that a poet see when she or he is not looking—just as she must write when she is not writing. To write just because the poet wants to write is natural, but to learn to see is a blessing. The art of finding in poetry is the art of marrying the sacred to the world, the invisible to the human.”

—The Art of Finding by Linda Gregg

THURSDAY

“This is the true joy in life, being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it what I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”

—George Bernard Shaw

FRIDAY
Old friend now there is no one alive
who remembers when you were young
it was high summer when I first saw you
in the blaze of day most of my life ago
with the dry grass whispering in your shade
and already you had lived through wars
and echoes of wars around your silence
through days of parting and seasons of absence
with the house emptying as the years went their way
until it was home to bats and swallows
and still when spring climbed toward summer
you opened once more the curled sleeping fingers
of newborn leaves as though nothing had happened
you and the seasons spoke the same language
and all these years I have looked through your limbs
to the river below and the roofs and the night
and you were the way I saw the world

—Elegy for a Walnut Tree by W. S. Merwin

xx,

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Dear Somebody: Should I be doing more?

June 9, 2023

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

So many friends and peers have been sharing How it Feels to Find Yourself, which means a great deal to me. Some highlights are linked below:

The May/June issue of Spirituality & Health features a palette from the book on the back page. It addresses an overwhelming dilemma for my generation: Should I Be Doing More?
A beautiful excerpt and look into how I crafted the palettes in this book, featured in Issue #57 of Uppercase Magazine:

A shout-out in The Daily Good, one of my favorite newsletters!

My conversation with Julie Bogart of the Brave Writer Podcast, where we discuss confidence in parenting, adapting to new stages in life, and prioritizing what matters most.
The Artist’s Life: my conversation with Tessa Tovar of Outside the Studio, where we discuss embracing fear to mitigate major life changes, a formula for finding inspiration in everyday life, and how to keep going.

TUESDAY

Although How it Feels to Find Yourself just came out, I’ve been working on a new journal proposal for the past few months. Inspired by my sister, I’ve been focusing on the idea of letting go: how it’s only possible to change, grow, and blossom by leaving large swaths of ourselves—and our beliefs—behind.

I’m really thrilled, and humbled, to say that this journal will be published with TarcherPerigee, an imprint of Penguin Random House, in 2025:

I’m on maternity leave for the rest of this year—let’s see how long I last—but I’m excited to develop this journal come January.

As you can probably imagine, not working is pretty hard for me. I’ve measured my self-worth in terms of accomplishment, productivity, and ladders climbed for decades now. I’m using my time off to unlearn these habits and thought patterns, though if I’m being honest, it’s slow going. Some of the questions I ask myself in the middle of the night sound irrational, but I wonder if we don’t all consider them from time to time. One in particular that I keep coming back to is: If I’m not in service of someone or something else, am I still of inherent value?

For now, I’m savoring where my work has brought me, appreciating those who have helped me, and learning to…let the rest go.

WEDNESDAY

“As someone who thrives on receiving recognition for my work, the private daily work of intentional parenting has been challenging. Still, there are days when it sounds appealing to simplify life and settle solely into a singular role at home, especially knowing that this choice would be praised by at least one segment of society. But, if I were to completely exit the paid labor market, would I be supporting an ideology that I disagree with? Would I inadvertently be acting as an obedient pawn of the patriarchy if I fully embraced the role of stay-at-home mom?

Clinging to my space in the workforce isn’t necessarily the progressive conscience-liberating solution it masquerades as. It doesn’t absolve me from participation in a suppressive system; it simply shifts my actions to participate in the parallel system of capitalism. Any labor outside of the economy (housework, caretaking, etc.) cannot be recognized as valuable in a system dependent on the fallacy of financial achievement being the ultimate goal. This creates a lose-lose situation for those seeking a path of theoretical progressive purity.

Naming the inability to win at this tug-of-war game might be just what overthinking mothers like myself need. Once we accept the impossibility of escaping perceived participation in either system, we mentally free ourselves to design lives that make sense based on our unique individual situations, partnerships, and desires.”

—How One Mother is Reframing Her Relationship to “Work-Life Balance” by Ellie Hughes

THURSDAY

F has been sleeping fitfully for the past few nights, waking up every hour or two in tears, screaming for something I can’t provide. At five in the morning, I nurse and T rocks her; at six she wakes and I bolt straight up in bed; at seven she wakes and I again bolt straight up in bed; at seven-thirty we get N out of bed, brush our teeth and head straight for the coffee.

All morning F fusses. I try to do a load of laundry but she cries, I try to nurse her but she cries. I check for gas and boredom; I try tummy time and give her a tour of the house; I rock her, swaying side to side. She cries, stopping only to scream. She cries some more. I take all her clothes off and for a few minutes she holds onto relief, kicking the air like an acrobat, smiling broadly at the ceiling fan. When I finally exhale, heaving a sigh of relief, she opens her small bow of a mouth and again, begins to cry.

I’m not sure what else to do, and for once, my being at a loss doesn’t seem to matter: sometimes another person will feel hurt or angry no matter what you do. Instead, I choose not to panic; one can only do so much at the mercy of a six-week old. I put a diaper back on F, and then follow with her clothes. I pick her up slowly and put her on my chest. I sit down on the couch and put my feet up. I inhale deeply from my stomach and exhale audibly through my mouth.

After a moment, I realize I’m being watched. I look down and see two large, brown eyes looking back up at me, like a fawn wandered into my arms. I wonder what F is thinking; I wonder how someone’s face can be so small and so sweet. She is quiet. I am quiet. For the next twenty minutes, we just sit—quietly, and listen to each other breathe.

FRIDAY
I’m not feeling strong yet, but I am taking
good care of myself. The weather is perfect.
I read and walk all day and then walk to the sea.
I expect to swim soon. For now I am content.
I am not sure what I hope for. I feel I am
doing my best. It reminds me of when I was
sixteen dreaming of Lorca, the gentle trees outside
and the creek. Perhaps poetry replaces something
in me that others receive more naturally.
Perhaps my happiness proves a weakness in my life.
Even my failures in poetry please me.
Time is very different here. It is very good
to be away from public ambition.
I sweep and wash, cook and shop.
Sometimes I go into town in the evening
and have pastry with custard. Sometimes I sit
at a table by the harbor and drink half a beer.

—The Letter by Linda Gregg

xx,

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Dear Somebody: How to stop feeling guilty about not being productive

May 26, 2023

A paint palette and accompanying essay from *How it Feels to Find Yourself*

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

When you know yourself well, it’s easier to locate the significance in every small moment. Your capacity to retain peace during difficult transitions increases. You understand that most situations have more than one correct answer. You feel freer.

The most important relationship we can spend our lives nurturing is the relationship we have with ourselves. The lens through which we view ourselves determines our connection to the world. If that lens is cracked or cloudy, each of our relationships begins to suffer. Building a strong internal compass that skillfully guides you through life’s uncertainties is possible only by developing an intimate, healthy relationship with yourself. Through this process of continued self-exploration, I began to learn who I am, what my purpose is, and how to intentionally shape my life into one I recognize with joy. Living well means adapting to life’s constant transition; evolving with purpose and clarity is a skill I now practice regularly. This is how I found myself—for the first time, and then again, every time after that.

—An excerpt from the introduction of How it Feels to Find Yourself

TUESDAY

It’s 4:00 in the morning and How it Feels to Find Yourself will be published today. I feel sloppy and underprepared, like I’m about to take a test I haven’t studied for. In all the chaos of the last few months, I’ve barely been able to put much time into promoting this book. As fellow authors know, especially those who write for adults—your work isn’t over when you finish writing the book. The publicity and marketing aspect of publishing is overwhelming for those of us who prefer staying out of the limelight. I personally prefer being behind a desk than a camera; book promotion demands I summon the extrovert inside me, however well she may have hidden.

Anyway. It’s 4:00 and we’re up to feed the baby, it being 2.5 hours since she’s last eaten. I stumble around in a haze, changing her diaper and tending to her spit-up, shoving a pacifier in her small. sweet mouth as her little lungs get ready to scream. I hand her to T who looks like a zombie but sits in the recliner to give her a bottle anyway. I gotta write my newsletter, I mumble sleepily, and he nods.

Back in bed, it’s 4:30 am. I open my laptop and begin to write, promising myself that this is the last crazy thing I’ll do in a long while. I’m going to sleep instead of writing newsletters at 4:30 in the morning, I tell myself. I’m going to exercise instead of giving birth a few weeks prior to completing graduate school, I tell myself. I’m going to delight in healthier cooking and eating instead of working myself to the bone.

I finish writing and close the laptop. I check on T and the baby, both of whom are asleep again, the steady rise and fall of their chests following each breath. I pull the covers up to my nose and exhale deeply. This is the last crazy thing I do, I repeat to myself.

This is the summer of long walks and less running around. This is the summer of cookouts and lazy pool days and no homework. This is the summer of breathing in baby and being crazy with toddler. This is the summer of new recipes and friendships and sleep and smiles. This is the summer I see more and do less. This is the summer I read more and write less. This is the summer for rest and replenishing. This is the summer of silence.

I will not feel guilty for not being productive. And maybe, months from now, when I feel good and ready—I will begin again.

WEDNESDAY

Most of us who hit 40 have had enough experiences—winning and losing—to know that it is all actually “winning” and “losing.” The best job in the world can also cause you profound stress. Getting the promotion, raise, book deal that you always wanted, might feel like a hard-won achievement in certain ways, and in others, it is likely to be anti-climatic and send you spinning off into a moment of existential confusion. If you’ve experienced the texture of work long enough, you start to sober up about what really matters to you, what you are really made for, and what you want to spend your precious energy and time on. You understand that the deepest sense of self-realization doesn’t come through paychecks or titles, but through genuine, intrinsic pride that you have done something you are delighted by with people who delight you. Midlife is a moment to seek a more finely calibrated understanding of all of this and start advocating for yourself within work settings (whether that means joining a labor union or saying no more to freelance work or not tolerating assholes). Of course the most insecure your financial situation, and the less lucrative your life’s work, the more constraints you face on living into these truths. Which is why economic disparity is about so much more than “food on the table,” but people’s ability to give the world their best gifts and live their fullest, most realized lives.

—An excerpt from Grow Bigger Not Bitter by Courtney Martin

THURSDAY

A simple photograph to celebrate this week, this book, and a vow to be less measurably productive:

FRIDAY
My shadow said to me:
what is the matter
Isn’t the moon warm
enough for you
why do you need
the blanket of another body
Whose kiss is moss
Around the picnic tables
The bright pink hands held sandwiches
crumbled by distance. Flies crawl
over the sweet instant
You know what is in these blankets
The trees outside are bending with
children shooting guns. Leave
them alone. They are playing
games of their own.
I give water, I give clean crusts
Aren’t there enough words
flowing in your veins
to keep you going.

—The Shadow Voice by Margaret Atwood

xx,

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Dear Somebody: It's publication day!

May 23, 2023

Hi, friends.

I’m sending out a special note today because it’s publication day for How it Feels to Find Yourself!

This book is a hard won piece of my heart. I wrote the proposal and sold the book to my publisher during my first, extremely difficult pregnancy, while isolated on our farm in Nashville during the beginning of the pandemic. I then wrote the book, while still isolated on our farm, throughout the pandemic—this time with a tiny, crying newborn by my side.

*The various sunrises I captured from our Nashville farm, while writing before the baby (and the world) woke.*

I often woke up at 4:30 am to write in the darkness before the baby woke, watching the sun creep up over the tree line. I wrote in the bathroom, my laptop balanced on the vanity, wearing the baby while the exhaust fan hummed her to sleep. I wrote in a room full of unpacked boxes and utter debris during our move from Nashville to St. Louis, desperate to finish the manuscript before beginning my first semester of graduate school—which I was unable to do. I wrote the book in the mornings before and the evenings after class, while T took N to the zoo or the playground. I wrote on the weekends, around my homework and N’s nap schedule, wishing I had a little less on my plate. Like all good things, the writing in this book grew from a combination of determination, persistence, many tears, and a lot of support.

I could not have written this book without my husband, T, who helped make it a priority for me to write, even when it came at the cost of his own work and ambition. I could not have written this book without my parents, who put their lives on hold to live mine with me throughout graduate school. I could not have written this book without N, who was with me first in my belly and then in my arms, and about whom so many of these essays are written.

*Early mornings with N on the farm, after I’d spend a few hours writing while she slept.*

Purchase HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF

“The book that we all need…It reminds us that regardless of the day we’ve experienced, we are still beautifully and devastatingly hopeful and human.”

–Cyndie Spiegal, best-selling author of Microjoys

HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF is a collection of paint palettes and short essays. Together, they work harmoniously in offering guidance for navigating the most important relationship in our lives: the one we have with ourselves. The book is full of thoughtful reflections on parenthood, friendship, love (for others and ourselves), family dynamics, and the larger questions we carry about finding our place in the world. Each essay is accompanied by a vibrant paint palette designed to help you find your way through the moment you’re in.

If you enjoy reading this newsletter, this book is for you.

Purchase HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF

Because of the year I’ve had (pregnancy, graduate school, and now a newborn), I’ve decided not to commit to my usual book events, interviews, or in-person signings. Instead, I’m hoping those of you who are really interested in my work will choose to support this book—and I hope that it will help you find a part of yourself that’s been hidden.

Here’s how you can support How it Feels to Find Yourself:

Order a copy (or like, five) of How it Feels to Find Yourself
Forward this newsletter to someone who will appreciate this book!
Ask your local library to carry the book if you can’t afford to purchase it—knowing that your entire neighborhood will now have access to it!
Ask your local bookstore to carry the book. I love local bookstores and want to support them as much as possible throughout this launch.
Write a review on Amazon so more people can find this book
If you want to review or write about How it Feels to Find Yourself (or know someone who might), feature it in your publication/podcast/etc., or interview me — just reply to this email to reach me. Every little bit helps.

Purchase HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF

THANK YOU for reading and for all of your support and encouragement. It means the world to me.

See you on Friday with a new edition of Dear Somebody, where I’ll go a little bit deeper into the making of this book.

xx,

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Dear Somebody: When the ceiling becomes the sky.

May 19, 2023

*The bound dummy book for my MFA Thesis project,* When the Ceiling Becomes the Sky.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

Two days ago, I successfully defended my Master’s Thesis in a room full of faculty, all of whom are working illustrators, writers, and historians. I presented my critical essay, Mothering as Feminism, which proposes a new theory of feminism centered on the liberation of all people through the fundamental viewing of a mother as, first and foremost, an autonomous person worthy of value and care. I also presented my picture book dummy, When the Ceiling Becomes the Sky, which follows a child as she navigates the uncertainty that accompanies the birth of her baby sister and her mother’s postpartum depression.*

I felt strange. Although the notion of discussing the work I’ve agonized and toiled over for the past year is exciting and opportune, I don’t like being the center of attention. On top of that, I was barely three weeks postpartum, didn’t fit into any of my clothes, and hadn’t slept more than three hours at a time since F was born. In the ten months leading up to this moment, I’d fretted about defense day. I’ll mess up, I told myself. I was convinced I wouldn’t be able to talk about my work in my postpartum haze—hormones surging through me, brain addled, body rearranged. I knew I’d probably cry.

As most postpartum people will tell you, birthing a child doesn’t automatically revert you back to your old self; instead, it catapults you into becoming someone new—someone you haven’t met yet, someone you’re not certain you’ll even like. This new person feels oddly present—and even more oddly—at peace. This new person feels confident, certain of her capabilities and her power to create change.

The birth of my child also birthed a new me: one who can not only start over, but who does, and always has—again and again.

* P.S. I am interested in publishing both my picture book and my critical essay. If you know a publisher who may be a good fit for either project, please let me know.

TUESDAY

Now that my picture book pitch is nearly finished, I’ve moved onto feeling both intimidated and excited at the prospect of pitching to children’s book agents and editors—along with a fair amount of post-adrenaline despair. The following interviews with artists I admire has brought some levity to this next stage of work:

Michaela Goade on cultural respect, representation, and advocating for Mother Earth in her work. I also appreciated how open and honest she is about her path into the picture book world.
I recommend: Berry Song by Michaela Goade
Jericho Brown on small truths and other surprises, and a wonderful look at how he constructs a poem (first: cut them apart).
I recommend: Bullet Points by Jericho Brown
Cátia Chien on the not-balance between motherhood and work, and again on how beautiful art blooms from creative struggle.
I recommend: Things to Do by Elaine Magliaro and Cátia Chien

WEDNESDAY

What I’ve been reading lately:

A look into Beatrix Potter’s journals, where her fascination with nature—particularly mushrooms and rabbits—influenced her illustrations and ultimately, the development of characters for her Peter Rabbit books.

Inside Out & Back Again, a novel in verse by Thanhhà Lại, about a young girl fleeing Saigon for the United States during the Vietnam War.

Lisa Olivera on the ongoing practice of being present.

THURSDAY

When I stepped outside after my defense, T was waiting for me.

We’d agreed to quickly celebrate by grabbing margaritas at our local taco place for a few minutes before picking N up from school. Sitting on picnic benches in the warm sunshine, I filled him in on how it’d gone—the advice my professors had given me; the praise that had fallen out of their mouths and seeped into me, warming my bones; how I felt about next steps; what I wanted from my work and career moving forward. How it was all finally over.

It’d been 2 years since I first started graduate school; it was difficult to believe it had all come to an end. I’d sat through full days of class after waking up at 4 am with N; I’d written a book during each year of school, working nights and early mornings to fit it all in; I’d endured another difficult pregnancy while developing my thesis work, and I’d given birth to my second child a few weeks before my Thesis exhibition and defense. It was a lot, and often, I didn’t have faith I’d actually get through it.

Me and T are both lucky enough to work for ourselves. While this means we have immense flexibility, it also means we work constantly—out of necessity, yes, but also out of a deep love for what we do. During the first year of graduate school, we argued out of sleeplessness, fatigue, both feeling our work had been deprioritized. During the second year of graduate school, we’d settled into a healthier rhythm: both prioritizing each other’s work and each other’s health, with the understanding that each stage of compromise was temporary and for our family’s greater good. The hard year gave way to the healthier year: we learned and grew from our own fallacies.

T moved us from Nashville to St. Louis, driving a 36-foot U-Haul. He renovated a condo for my parents to live in so they could help care for us; for 2 years, he did every single diaper, nap time, school pick-up and drop-off; he took N to the playground or zoo while I wrote my books, he made lunches while I did homework, he cleaned the house while I studied and wrote papers. He listened to me gripe about pregnancy, gestational diabetes, the body leaks, the brain fatigue. He thought through story plots with me, studied my character development, my concepts, my sketches. He told me to rest; he told me to stop working; he told me when he believed I could—and should—do better; he told me to try again.

In the sunshine, we sit across the table from each other for 23 minutes. Since having children, time is allotted to us in minutes—a few here and there—usually less than 60, in which to shower or write or make a meal. T tells me how proud he is of me; I thank him for helping us all get through the past few years. My eyes well up and when his do, too, I finally understand it—what he has told me over and over again, what has been so difficult but necessary for me to believe—that my win is not my win alone. It is also his, and ours, and our family’s. No one at this table is alone.

FRIDAY
May they never be lonely at parties
Or wait for mail from people they haven’t written
Or still in middle age ask God for favors
Or forbid their children things they were never forbidden.

May hatred be like a habit they never developed
And can’t see the point of, like gambling or heavy drinking.
If they forget themselves, may it be in music
Or the kind of prayer that makes a garden of thinking.

May they enter the coming century
Like swans under a bridge into enchantment
And take with them enough of this century
To assure their grandchildren it really happened.

May they find a place to love, without nostalgia
For some place else that they can never go back to.
And may they find themselves, as we have found them,
Complete at each stage of their lives, each part they add to.

May they be themselves, long after we’ve stopped watching.
May they return from every kind of suffering
(Except the last, which doesn’t bear repeating)
And be themselves again, both blessed and blessing.

—Prayer For Our Daughters by Mark Jarman

Guns are now the #1 killers of American children and teenagers. We will continue to demand action; please donate to Everytown to support those trying to keep our children safe.

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If you'd like to support me, you can pre-order my upcoming book of illustrated essays, How it Feels to Find Yourself, for yourself, a loved one, or both! To receive a free archival art print from the book, please pre-order through BuyOlympia. My art prints, stationery, and books are also available through BuyOlympia.

See you next week!

xx,

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Dear Somebody: The moonlight is here

April 28, 2023

*A sketch of me and baby Frida in the hospital.*

On April 21, we welcomed Frida Iyla into the world. Frida means peace in Old High German and Iyla is based on the Turkish Ayla, for moonlight.

Writing this newsletter weekly is important to me, but if needed, I’ll take some time away from the world to care for myself and my family. I have no schedule or particular ambitions; I’m planning on taking it exactly one day at a time.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

It’s no surprise that I admire Frida Kahlo as a woman and artist; as a human, she has the enviable ability to embrace her strangeness, her differences, and to find strength in them. As I learn more about her life, I am stunned by her endurance, determination, and ability to find romance—that is, beauty and value—in even the most treacherous moments of her life.

My favorite words by her are below:

“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me, too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.”

—Frida Kahlo

TUESDAY

My experience with birth the second time has been vastly different from the first, and a positive reminder that the past does not have to be indicative of the future.

What do I want to remember most?

• The way I was cared for by my surgeon, my doctors, my nurses, my husband, my daughter, and my family. The friends and classmates who’ve called and comforted. The editors who have stretched deadlines, the cohort who has taken on my Thesis installation, the publishing team who has taken on more work in my absence.

• The humanity of those that gave a little of themselves to me and my family, though we were perfect strangers—during many moments of great vulnerability over the past week.

• A never-before-felt grace towards my body, which always tries to care for me, and endures far more than I ever give it credit for. A promise to give you rest.

• The joy of experiencing motherhood with a lot more patience, a lot less anxiety, and priorities—and a perspective—that suits my values, my needs, and the life I want for myself.

• The sweetness of you, my little Frida, who has brought out such unexpected, dormant sweetness in me. At six days old, you have already changed me.

WEDNESDAY

“When things go well, it is easy to celebrate our bodies. But when things go poorly, or not how we imagined, it becomes much harder. I could look back and think about the ways my body disappointed me—and I did, a few times. But whenever I went down that road, I found that it was a dead-end street that made me feel terrible. Hating my body remains a waste of time. At some point, just for the purpose of survival, I chose, deliberately, to focus on all the things my body did right, what it did so well on my behalf. Everything it tried to do.”

—Like a Mother: A Feminist Journey Through the Science and Culture of Pregnancy by Angela Garbes

THURSDAY

Frida’s childhood home in Mexico City, Casa Azul, was turned into the Frida Kahlo Museum in 1958. I’d love to visit one day — many of her paintings are still on display, including Viva la Vida, her final work. In true Frida fashion, she remains in the house as well: an urn containing her ashes lives in her bedroom.

Below are a few of my favorite paintings by Frida:

The Two Fridas

The Wounded Deer

Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird

Thinking About Death

FRIDAY
I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark
morning streets, I point and name.
Look, the sycamores, their mottled,
paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves
rusting and crisping at the edges.
I walk through Schiller Park with you
on my chest. Stars smolder well
into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,
the dogs paddling after their prized sticks.
Fall is when the only things you know
because I’ve named them
begin to end. Soon I’ll have another
season to offer you: frost soft
on the window and a porthole
sighed there, ice sleeving the bare
gray branches. The first time you see
something die, you won’t know it might
come back. I’m desperate for you
to love the world because I brought you here.

—First Fall by Maggie Smith

xx,

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Dear Somebody: Preserving the humanity in our work.

April 14, 2023

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

Last week, Dan Blank asked me why I decided to make elegy/a crow/Ba into an accordion book. He wanted to know why I would spend precious time gluing and assembling 50 accordion books when I’m: 9 months pregnant; in the middle of writing my Master’s thesis; finishing my Master’s thesis project—my first picture book pitch; promoting my upcoming book of illustrated essays; preparing for baby’s arrival in 4 weeks; and, you know, keeping atop of my regular work load, toddler, and home life.

So why am I gluing and assembling and folding and mailing? The answer is that I've been trying to figure out how to get back to myself for a long time now. I want to pay attention to the artist and the creativity in me, which has taken a back seat to the business of being a brand and artist. As I told Dan: This accordion book brings a lot of humanity back to the art I'm interested in making. This book isn’t about making money or sales or generating publicity — it’s simply about writing a story from the heart and putting it out into the world to connect with others.

For our full conversation and more of Dan’s thoughts on the power of handcrafted, read the latest edition of his newsletter here.

TUESDAY

A song: One of my favorite covers is M. Ward’s take on David Bowie’s Let’s Dance — on repeat in my studio these days as I draw, draw, draw.

A picture: I recently bought this print for N’s room from Anna Cunha’s shop. Her work is poignant and pure, often capturing the simplicity of childhood and living with the land. I was surprised to learn that her gorgeously textured work is mostly illustrated digitally.

A book: I’m almost finished with María Hesse’s illustrated biography of Frida Kahlo, which is devastating, mournful, and, of course, beautiful.

WEDNESDAY

An excerpt from Before and After the Book Deal that really hit home this week, as I do what feels like even less for my family and home, while juggling a million other things and preparing to give birth:

“I feel badly that my daughter feels bad about me missing today’s performance, but I don’t feel guilty. It took me decades to be able to live off my own creative writing, and in those decades I learned that I have to fight tooth and nail to defend not just my writing time, but my identity as a writer, because most people will want/need me to do something other than my art. From the minute I was presented with my long-legged, super sucker newborn, I realized that I now had the world’s most precious time suck in my arms. There would be no end to this baby’s needs, no end to the things she would want from me, expect from me, forget at school and need. Nina gives me a hard time about it, but I refuse to hide how important my career is to me. In the domestic framework I’ve set up and continue to fight for, my writing and my daughter are both tied for first.

But getting my daughter to understand that this framework is built from love and respect is a long, long game indeed. I believe if I model the example of a working creative who defends her time, sets boundaries, and is honest about what she wants and doesn’t want, then long-term, my daughter won’t be trampled by people who want to take and take from her, ask for favors that turn into unpaid labor, see her negotiating like a lamb when she should be negotiating like a lion. This will probably take two decades, or maybe it will take my own daughter one day having children to realize the values I’m trying to impart. Or maybe it won’t work.”

—from Can You Be a Good Mom and a Great Writer? by Courtney Maum

THURSDAY

The world has graced us with the most excellent weather this week—warm breezes and open windows, too early yet for mosquitos or sweat. We’ve gone on many walks, watched the grackles bathe in the alleyway puddles, filled the hummingbird feeder with simple syrup, and did lots of laundry.

N wore her yellow dress with flowers for the first time this spring and looked like a doll from somebody else’s drawing. I didn’t take a picture but I’m writing it here, now, to remember.

FRIDAY
in the dream of foxes
there is a field
and a procession of women
clean as good children
no hollow in the world
surrounded by dogs
no fur clumped bloody
on the ground
only a lovely time
of honest women stepping
without fear or guilt or shame
safe through the generous fields.

—A Dream of Foxes by Lucille Clifton

xx,

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Dear Somebody: How to keep going

March 17, 2023

The final essay from my upcoming book, *How it Feels to Find Yourself*

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

For a limited time, my friends at BuyOlympia are giving away a free, 5”x7” limited edition print of my How To Keep Going paint palette with every pre-ordered copy of How it Feels to Find Yourself.

This palette, in particular, is special to me. It accompanies the final essay in the book and is a daily reminder and source of encouragement to find the inner strength and commitment to keep going.

This illustration outlines the steps that I’ve always relied on in moments of hopelessness and discouragement: accepting life’s duality, finding meaning in the difficult and joyful, keeping what’s useful (while discarding the rest), letting go of “should”, making peace with change, and beginning again.

Pre-order your copy and complimentary art print here.

TUESDAY

“What do you think an artist is?…he is a political being, constantly aware of the heart breaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. Painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war.”

—Pablo Picasso

WEDNESDAY

“There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent of the other or more important than the other. Without art science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous.”

—from The Notebooks of Raymond Carver by Raymond Carver

THURSDAY

“Don’t wait for someone to tell you that your project is worthwhile. If you’re moved to write, draw, create, produce something, that’s all the permission you need to devote some time and energy to it. Make a commitment to yourself. Some of my most rewarding collaborations over the many decades have been totally homegrown, grassroots situations (like the Secret Society for Creative Philanthropy) that ended up reaching really wide audiences because—in part—they were unfettered by “too many cooks in the kitchen” bullshit or the bad advice of supposed experts.”

—10 Thoughts on Building a Life You Love by Courtney Martin in The Examined Family

FRIDAY
I.
In March the earth remembers its own name.
Everywhere the plates of snow are cracking.
The rivers begin to sing. In the sky
the winter stars are sliding away; new stars
appear as, later, small blades of grain
will shine in the dark fields.

And the name of every place
is joyful.

II.
The season of curiosity is everlasting
and the hour for adventure never ends,
but tonight
even the men who walked upon the moon
are lying content
by open windows
where the winds are sweeping over the fields,
over water,
over the naked earth,
into villages, and lonely country houses, and the vast cities

III.
because it is spring;
because once more the moon and the earth are eloping -
a love match that will bring forth fantastic children
who will learn to stand, walk, and finally run
over the surface of earth;
who will believe, for years,
that everything is possible.

IV.
Born of clay,
how shall a man be holy;
born of water,
how shall a man visit the stars;
born of the seasons,
how shall a man live forever?

V.
Soon
the child of the red-spotted newt, the eft,
will enter his life from the tiny egg.
On his delicate legs
he will run through the valleys of moss
down to the leaf mold by the streams,
where lately white snow lay upon the earth
like a deep and lustrous blanket
of moon-fire,

VI.
and probably
everything
is possible.

—Worm Moon by Mary Oliver

xx,

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Dear Somebody: A simple photograph

March 10, 2023

*On my desk this week: a few in-progress illustrations for my thesis project.*

Hi, friends.

Thanks so much for all of the support towards my accordion book, elegy/a crow/Baand for the warm reception to the Craft series! Most of you enjoyed a look into the process behind my work, so I’ll plan on continuing that series. I’m excited to.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

This simple photograph that T took of me and N a few weeks ago, newly clad in my third-generation hand-me-down from B, and before her, J. Prior to this photograph I was living my slovenly existence in too-big sweats and T’s old tees, since nothing fits and I have no time (or desire) to shop.

Nothing makes me feel quite as cozy or cared for as a hand-me-down. I think of all each garment has seen: the laughter and tears housed inside the body it hugged, the hands that carefully held and washed it, the wear-and-tear that adorns only the most well-loved. Like a heart, a hand-me-down shows the signs and strengths of all it’s been through—and all it’s willing to take on.

There haven’t been many photos taken of me since N was born over 2 years ago. I’m still uncertain of my own appearance, and now with baby #2, I know it’ll still be some time yet before I feel comfortable in my body again. But this photo, taken randomly by afternoon sunlight in my parents’ temporary apartment, captures much of what I’d like to remember: the walls that sheltered the people who cared for me and my family during this pregnancy, the littlest heart who is so excited to become a big sister, and the hands that insisted on capturing this moment—because he believed it was important to.

TUESDAY

“My daughters have pulled back the curtain to see that I am the false wizard, that I can offer no promises to them other than to point out the courage and wisdom and heart they already possess. All parents face this moment at some point, but I would have hoped to wait.

My worries hover in the back of my mind, keeping me awake in the dark hours poetically called madrugada in Spanish — the time before the dawn, when the world is quiet. I try not to share those worries with my daughters. That is not the honesty they need. Instead, they bubble up when I break a glass or burn dinner or stumble in any one of a million ways; then I am the kettle screaming to be removed from the heat.”

—My Child Is in an Impossible Place, and I am There With Her by Sarah Wildman, a beautifully-written and heartbreaking read about life, impossibility, and parenting

WEDNESDAY

“If you take a moment to really look at any of the ‘State of Children’ studies, it can be overwhelming. You could easily be thrown into spirals of hopelessness or “overwhelming I’m just not-enoughness”. Heck, just look at your local school and it’s easy to feel the weight of the work there is to be done right in your own backyard.

There’s so much work to be done. There’s so many kids. There’s just one you. There’s just one me. This is a great place to start.

Our best hope forward is not in using our imaginations to escape reality, but using our imaginations to create a better reality. There’s the world that is and there’s the world that could be. There’s also a you. There’s also a me.”

—State of the Children Address from Brad Montague’s newsletter, The Enthusiast

THURSDAY

“Part of it is observing oneself more impersonally… When you go out into the woods and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.

The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying, “You’re too this, or I’m too this.” That judging mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.”

—How to Be Less Harsh with Yourself (and Others) by Ram Dass, via The Marginalian

FRIDAY
On Earth, just a teaspoon of neutron star
would weigh six billion tons. Six billion tons.
The equivalent weight of how much railway
it would take to get a third of the way to the sun.
It’s the collective weight of every animal
on earth. Times three.

Six billion tons sounds impossible
until I consider how it is to swallow grief—
just a teaspoon and one might as well have consumed
a neutron star. How dense it is,
how it carries inside it the memory of collapse.
How difficult it is to move then.
How impossible to believe that anything
could lift that weight.

There are many reasons to treat each other
with great tenderness. One is
the sheer miracle that we are here together
on a planet surrounded by dying stars.
One is that we cannot see what
anyone else has swallowed.

—Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Isn’t Breaking by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

The National Network of Abortion Funds helps ensure the bodily autonomy and reproductive rights for all people. Please consider donating if you can.

If you'd like to support me, you can pre-order my upcoming book of illustrated essays, How it Feels to Find Yourself, for yourself, a loved one, or both! My art prints, stationery, and books are available through BuyOlympia. Limited edition prints and original paintings are available in my shop.

xx,

To sign up for my weekly newsletter, Dear Somebody, please subscribe here.

Dear Somebody: Behind the craft #1

March 7, 2023

*Painting elegy/a crow/Ba, my first accordion book and illustrated poem*

Hi all,

Welcome to my first craft post, where I’m focusing on the process behind elegy/a crow/Ba, my first accordion book and illustrated poem.

Last semester, I took a sketchbooking class with Kruttika Susarla. I was eager to develop a sketchbook practice that, I hoped, would cultivate a deep love of drawing. It sounds silly to say that I want to love drawing more, especially because I am an artist by nature and trade, but while my affection for words feels innate, drawing has always felt more like a stranger: someone I am intrigued by, but also afraid of. And like most relationships, it’s harder to love something that challenges you or is difficult to understand.

When I write and illustrate stories, the words come first. This is because I have more of a writer-brain than a drawing-brain; I think and process in and through words. This class encouraged me to push against my natural inclinations—to prioritize illustration as the seed from which a story can grow.

I knew I wanted to illustrate a poem that I’d written, but without having a poem written to direct me, I felt a bit lost. I chose to do something I never do, which is trust the process. I’m a Type A personality, which is conducive for running a business, but not so helpful when getting lost in creative work. I focused on drawing whatever came to me, believing that the words—that is, the entire poem and story—would somehow come to me later.

I began with some thumbnail sketches:

*The beginning of my process: thumbnail sketches about a nebulous story.*

As you can see here, I used a 6-page template to storyboard my illustration. Together, with a front and back cover, this created an 8-page book. I knew I wanted the end product to be an accordion book, so I settled on a number of pages that felt manageable with my time constraints.

I didn’t have a story in mind, but I did have a subject: my relationship with my paternal grandmother, who lived with us and cared for me throughout most of my childhood before moving back to India when I was in high school.

Without a text guiding me, I wasn’t sure where to begin. Instead, as I do with most of my work, I tried to pinpoint the feeling I wanted to convey: nostalgia, mostly, and the pinprick of heartache that memory evokes.

Here are a few different stories taking shape through tiny thumbnail illustrations:

*I created several more sets of thumbnails before a direction became clear.*

By the fifth iteration, I felt like I was getting somewhere. The concept of a panoramic illustration, drawn from a bird’s-eye viewpoint, captured the combination of awe and loneliness that I was after. Vast scenery surrounded two tiny characters, creating mystery, which is essential to every engaging story. This sketch did what I wanted it to—it asked a question: What’s the story here?

Whenever I read interviews with authors and illustrators, they talk about how, eventually, after hours of writing about them, the characters began speaking on their own. They talk about how the idea for their story came from nowhere, a shiny moon that suddenly appeared in orbit. They note how inspiration is not something that strikes like a lightning bolt, but something that visits occasionally, after you’ve been sitting at your desk discouragingly, doing the damn work.

It’s easy to roll your eyes when you read this, especially if you’re someone like me, who wants a formula for success that they can follow. It’s discouraging when any creative you admire tells you that they don’t know how the astonishing work they made came to fruition. It just kinda happened, they say. All they know is that they showed up. They put their hands on the keyboard or their fingers around the paintbrush. They wrote words that amounted to nothing. They drew embarrassing sketches that led nowhere. And once in awhile, usually when they least expected it, something beautiful arose.

The truth is, that is the formula that I’ve been looking for—I just hoped there was something else I was missing. But there isn’t. The formula is simple: Show up, do the work, see what happens.

I did a tiny color sketch next. Here, you’ll see that I combined elements from my fourth concept with my fifth, incorporating the bird as a third character. It wasn’t until I drew this that the bird became a crow, and it wasn’t until the bird became a crow that my story, all of a sudden, came together. This was a poem about our culture, our heritage, our relationship, and my memories. This was the poem about my grandmother that I’d been wanting to write.

It was the first time that this strange phenomena happened to me, and it was such an important, special lesson for me to experience. Drawing is uncomfortable for me, but it’s a skill that requires mastery if I want to successfully share the stories inside me with the world of children’s literature. This unexpected breakthrough gave me the motivation to keep going.

*A final, digital sketch, and more experiments in color—which I generally use to create mood, atmosphere, and emotion.*

I did a tighter sketch on Procreate, and tried a quick sepia-toned colorway. I liked it, but the blue version felt just right—cold, wintry, lost; like a story that happened many lifetimes ago. So I collected my materials and began the final drawing on 2 strips of Arches cold-pressed paper that I taped together—real fancy!

*The final painting on my desk…need a bigger desk!*

The completed painting is 8”x48” and was created with a combination of Holbein gouache (my underpainting and large swaths of color), Faber Castell polychromos colored pencils (detail work and texture), and Caran D’Ache neopastel oil pastels (blending, atmosphere, and texture).

After the illustration was completed, the words slowly came. I wrote and rewrote the poem that accompanies the final page of this book several times, and then spent many weeks between October and December of 2022 revising it.

I then added the front and back covers in Photoshop and spent approximately a week or two of my life trying to format it properly so that when printed across 4 panels and assembled, the accordion book would fold and unfold exactly the way I wanted it to.

Here’s a photo of my shoddy version:

When I couldn’t quite figure it out, my friends at Done Depot here in St. Louis graciously took this task off my hands and printed the final panels for me. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been assembling the accordion books here and there, whenever I have small patches of time, and I’m so excited to now offer them for sale.

elegy/a crow/Ba is an 8-page accordion book based on an illustrated poem I wrote about the memories, passing, and recollection of my grandmother. This poem was inspired by the Hindu tradition of Shradhha, in which we feed crows, the symbols of our ancestors and the carriers of our lineage.

A limited edition of the book, assembled, signed, and numbered by hand, is now available in my shop.

xx,

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Dear Somebody: Life is infinitely inventive

March 3, 2023

One of the panels from elegy/a crow/Ba, my 8-page illustrated poem, now available as a hand-assembled accordion book

Hi, friends.

Once a month or so, I’ll be sending out a newsletter focusing on craft. These posts will highlight the inner workings of specific projects I’ve made or am working on. It’ll be an opportunity for you to ask questions about my process and for me to share the thoughts and inspirations behind certain decisions.

A process post detailing the behind-the-scenes making of elegy/a crow/Ba, my accordion book (highlighted below, in Monday’s section of today’s post) will go out to all subscribers on Monday, March 6.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

A limited edition of the book, assembled, signed, and numbered by hand, is now available in my shop.

TUESDAY

I grew up listening to Simon & Garfunkel’s version of Blues Run the Game, but when Laura Marling’s version came on the radio today, T reminded me that this beautiful song was originally written and recorded by Jackson C. Frank.

Of course, that sent me reading, and I was excited to learn that Paul Simon produced Frank’s first (and only) album, and that Frank used to live with both Simon & Garfunkel in England for some time. Can you imagine having these people as your roommates?I’ve got a lovely husband and toddler as my own, personally speaking, but geez louise the envy has taken hold.

I’ve been listening to Frank’s eponymous album on repeat all day, and of course, the original Blues Run the Game has already played more than a dozen times.

WEDNESDAY

“I grew up mostly happy, in relative poverty, using colorful paper food stamps to buy salty potato chips and sugary twenty- five- cent juice from the corner store and then trekking up to our second- floor apartment, belly satiated and heart full. And. As an adult, I’ve flown business class across the world (many times) and enjoyed meals that cost more than a month’s rent at that childhood apartment. This and that. Both true. As a kid, I spent rainy summer days climbing inside of plastic milk crates so that my brothers could push me alongside the curb on our city street, my tiny vessel floating along the current of backed- up rainwater that would quickly take me down the hill on Smith Street. It was glorious and exhilarating. And. As an adult, I’ve spent lush sunny days on a steep hillside in Italy, enjoying a private pool overlooking a vast vineyard, wine in one hand and a laptop in the other. This and that. Both true.

With full clarity, I understand the uniqueness of my position, which exists because of, rather than in spite of, how I grew up. Living both sides of the same coin has gifted me the insight to never take my experiences for granted. And to be certain, all of these experiences are etched into the happiest places deep inside of my soul. I can still instinctively feel the delight of simpler times floating down rainwater on a city street, just as much as I can feel the deep exhale and warmth of an afternoon in the Tuscan sun.

Though some may perceive poverty as bad and prosperity as good, I know that neither is absolutely true. That clarity has taught me to accept life as it is and still find joy wherever I am.”

—For Richer or Poorer, excerpted from Cyndie Spiegel’s MICROJOYS: Finding Hope (Especially) When Life is Not Okay

THURSDAY

“Sitting in a windowless room in Times Square, scrolling from library to library, state to state, we were unexpectedly moved by the color, light and joy at our fingertips. These glimpses into lives of strangers were a reminder that copies of the books piled on our desks at the Book Review will soon land on shelves in libraries across the country and, eventually, in the hands of readers. You’ll pass them to other people, and on and on.

We all know that books connect us, that language has quiet power. To see the concentration, curiosity and peace on faces lit by words is to know — beyond a shadow of a doubt, in a time rife with shadows — that libraries are the beating hearts of our communities. What we borrow from them pales in comparison to what we keep. How often we pause to appreciate their bounty is up to us.”

—A Love Letter to Libraries, Long Overdue by Elisabeth Egan and Erica Ackerberg

FRIDAY
More amazed than anything
I took the perfectly black
stillborn kitten
with the one large eye
in the center of its small forehead
from the house cat's bed
and buried it in a field
behind the house.

I suppose I could have given it
to a museum,
I could have called the local
newspaper.

But instead I took it out into the field
and opened the earth
and put it back
saying, it was real,
saying, life is infinitely inventive,
saying, what other amazements
lie in the dark seed of the earth, yes,

I think I did right to go out alone
and give it back peacefully, and cover the place
with the reckless blossoms of weeds.

—The Kitten by Mary Oliver

xx,

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Dear Somebody: How it Feels to Find Yourself

February 24, 2023

The cover of my upcoming book of essays, *How it Feels to Find Yourself*!

Hi, friends.

Today’s newsletter is a departure from our usual while I reveal the cover for my upcoming book, HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF: Navigating Life’s Changes with Purpose, Clarity, and Heart, which will be published on May 23, 2023 by TarcherPerigee (Penguin Random House).

If you enjoy reading this newsletter, this book is for you.

Pre-order HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF

A spread from *How it Feels to Find Yourself*

Book promotion is not exciting for me. If I’m being honest, it fills me with a sense of existential dread. I don’t like asking people to buy things from me, and I don’t like to be pushy. Like most creatives, my heart and purpose lies in creating the work, not talking about it. The reality is that I support myself and my family with my work.

Pre-orders are vital to the success of any book. All publishers rely on pre-orders (and sales, in general) to see whether the books we write resonate with people and whether they should continue supporting us in creating them. Strong pre-orders for this book indicate strong interest. Strong interest encourages my publisher to buy my next book.

More than that, pre-orders signal to my publisher—and the larger world of book publishing—that the work I’m making is important. That talking about emotions, vulnerability, and the complexity of the human condition is important. That raising our children with greater introspection and awareness is important. That creating books of value, with the intent of widening a reader’s mind and heart, is more important than a book designed to simply look good on Instagram.

Pre-order HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF

So, how can you support me and this work?

Pre-order a copy (or like, five) of How it Feels to Find Yourself
Forward this newsletter to someone who will appreciate this book!
Ask your local library to carry the book if you can’t afford to purchase it—knowing that your entire neighborhood will now have access to it!
Ask your local bookstore to carry the book. I love local bookstores and want to support them as much as possible throughout this launch.
If you want to review or write about How it Feels to Find Yourself (or know someone who might), feature it in your publication/podcast/etc., or interview me — just reply to this email to reach me. Every little bit helps.

Pre-order HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF

THANK YOU for reading and for all of your support and encouragement. It means the world to me.

See you next week with a new edition of Dear Somebody!

xx,

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Dear Somebody: Our mothers and fathers.

February 17, 2023

*Maja*, gouache and colored pencil on 16”x20” Arches paper. Currently on view at the Washington University Graduate Center

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

Most days after lunch, I go for a walk with my dad. I put on my shoes and coat and wait for him by the door. I’m impatient, feeling like a little kid waiting to be driven to school. Sometimes my dad does drive me to school, just like he did when I was growing up, the only differences being that it’s now 25 years later, I’m in graduate school and married with a kid, and he’s retired.

I’m in my mid-thirties and he’s nearing 70, so it feels a little silly that my dad still takes care of me. It makes me feel even more childlike than I normally do. I get frustrated when he won’t let me carry a heavy bag home or cautions me against walking too fast. He frequently reminds me of things that are impossible to forget, namely that there’s a baby in my belly and I need to take care of myself. Before dinner he slices guava into pieces, sprinkling each with salt, pepper, cumin, and red chili. We eat them in silence, crunching the seeds.

Most evenings after dinner, I power walk around my parents’ apartment in an effort to lower my blood sugar. I start by the living room window and walk straight into the kitchen, around the tiny dining table replete with folding chairs, past the cabinet filled with dozens of glass jars holding seeds, nuts, and flours, past the couch where T and my mother sit talking or reading the news, and straight back towards the window again. If N has already taken her bath, she joins me. “We’re doing exercise!” she shouts with glee, running faster with each lap, cajoling me to keep up with her. She holds my hand with one hand and her belly with the other, mimicking the way I support the baby swimming inside me while waddling around the cozy apartment.

These walks are the markers of my days: the one I take alone after breakfast, the one with my dad after lunch, the one with my daughter after dinner. They will come to an end quickly, I know. In a few months, the baby will come, and after that, graduation. My parents will move back home and there will be no more walks with dad—after lunch or at any other point during my days.

I consider this small sorrow daily, usually while putting on my shoes. And then I wait for my dad by the door.

TUESDAY

“Care is like ephemeral art—an Andy Goldsworthy sculpture of mac and cheese and baby wipes and no tears shampoo and socks that never match and chore charts that never work and all that just gets blown away with the winds of time. And like art that isn’t static, isn’t permanent, can’t be put up on a wall and admired in a museum—care is devalued. We stumble on it sometimes in the wild and it takes our breath away, a momentary glimpse of the tenderness with which we hold and protect and nourish and delight in our loved ones; just like one of Goldsworthy’s mandala’s, there’s a divine structure to it, a feeling of inevitability. It’s as ordinary as dirt and as sacred as the kind found at Chimayo. It’s here, there, and everywhere, so kind of nowhere.

Caring for someone you love is, of course, a reward on to itself, the deepest of them, but it need not be labor that happens in such embattled circumstances. It could be absorbed and still revered, invisible and still funded, ephemeral and still prized. It could be held as the center of our existence, rather than the thing we rush through to get to our “real work.” We could see and honor the seasons—caring for children, caring for elders—and the variable capacities—the neurodivergent and disabled and chronically and temporarily ill.”

—The art of care mostly disappears from Courtney Martin’s The Examined Family

WEDNESDAY

The perfect way to begin this morning is by listening to the Our House demo with Graham Nash and Joni Mitchell while making N’s lunch and rubbing the sleep from our eyes.

THURSDAY

We’ve heard a lot about quiet quitting lately, but this post by my friend and artist Lisa Congdon, about loud quitting, really stayed with me. In it, she writes:

So far in the past 9 months, I’ve quit alcohol, food restrictions, teaching college, my podcast (more on that to come), two boards of directors, working on Fridays, working on umpteen client projects at once, coffee dates with people I don’t know, most public speaking, writing any more books, several friendships, and most weekday evening plans. I have not felt as happy, “balanced” (if such a thing exists) and such a sense of spaciousness in nearly 20 years.

I’ve begun to think of this as “loud quitting” — intentional, communicated, assertive (as opposed to passive), and unapologetic. So, to be clear, this not necessarily the opposite of “quiet quitting,” which is about not going above and beyond in the workplace (which I also support) — just simply my way of overtly claiming and taking control over my time in a way I haven’t in my entire life — because, for most of my 55 years, I thought it was literally my duty to please/serve others.

I contributed a comment about my own long string of things I’ve quit this year, and it’s obvious that neither Lisa nor I are the only ones. The past few years have all added up to this one, where we’re rediscovering what our values and boundaries are—and that’s always something worth celebrating.

FRIDAY
whose influences, we said,
made us passive and over-polite
whose relationships with our fathers
we derided at consciousness-raising groups
whose embroidered pillowcases still accuse us
on the shelves of our modern lives

they have become interesting old women
they are too busy to write often
they wish we wouldn't worry about them
they are firm about babysitting
they are turning out okay

—Our Mothers by Leona Gom

If you'd like to support me, you can pre-order my upcoming book of illustrated essays, How it Feels to Find Yourself, for yourself, a loved one, or both! My art prints, stationery, and books are available through BuyOlympia. You can also pledge your support for this newsletter by becoming a future paid subscriber.

xx,

To sign up for my weekly newsletter, Dear Somebody, please subscribe here.

Dear Somebody: Time is strange

February 10, 2023

*A glimpse of* Maja, the painting I’ve spent my mornings working on.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

Time is strange. It is both urgent and painstakingly slow.

Today, it strikes me that I have less than 3 months to finish my thesis picture book, my dissertation, and my final exhibition. Less than 3 months to prepare a nursery. Less than 3 months until my next book is released. At the same time, I have almost 3 more months of medication, of uncomfortable sleep, of monitoring my blood sugar, of remembering to take half a dozen pills. 3 more months of sharing my body with another person.

Time is strange. It is what I govern my days by, despite knowing that it is entirely made up. It is both urgent and painstakingly slow.

I read Otis Kidwell Burger’s diary entry and something about her experience, so familiar and unlike mine at the same time, eases the restless in me:

But surely everyone, at one time or another, has awakened thinking himself in some other place or in some earlier time. The conception of time depends, then, I suppose, upon the perception of continuity, and for this reason a woman's sense of time must be quite different from a man's. Her sense of continuity is internal and natural, not the external and easily interrupted continuity of clocks and calendars. She connects directly to the source of time, and the moon that pulls the tides around the world also pulls the hormone tide within her; her months are marked off without need of calendar. She carries her months, her years, her spring and winter within herself.

TUESDAY

I’m very excited by Violeta Lopez’s work, and I’ve been eagerly awaiting her latest picture book, At the Drop of a Cat (Enchanted Lion Books) ever since I first caught glimpses of it last year. I’m someone who becomes easily trapped in thinking rather than doing: I mull over my process. I think through ideas and experiments without actually just…trying them. This is rooted in fear of failure—I’m aware of that, yes, but having the awareness hasn’t made it any easier to change.

Watching Violeta’s process of creating this book is eye-opening. Instantly, it becomes clear that there are particular perspectives that are attainable only through our hands, that can only be conjured by the grit of paper and pencil on our fingers, inaccessible entirely to our minds.

In my own thesis project, I’ve finally finished re-writing the manuscript to my picture book. It took me over a dozen rewrites, 3 entirely different storylines, and many months to finally hear my own voice throughout the book. As I begin to paginate and create thumbnail artwork for the book, I find myself leaning forward, excited and nervously, by Violeta’s method for putting together a story. Rather than our own thoughts or ideas or even the stirring of our own hearts, it is the doing that continues to surprise us the most.

WEDNESDAY

“I also have a full life outside. I work from home, but I travel a lot. Those two things mean I have to be very routine based, which sometimes means knowing when to stop writing. Every day, if I’m not done working by like five or six, I give myself a hard stop and I step away from my computer and usually don’t return to it. I call it quits for the day and any emails can wait until the next day. For me, knowing when to stop writing was a problem a couple years ago. I would work late into the night. I was telling myself I did my best writing at half ‘til midnight and then work deep until like 2am, and that wasn’t really serving anything. I’m much more excited about the idea of waking up and getting to writing now. The fact that I can wake up and know that I can put words on a blank page is more exciting to me than feeling like I have to put words on a blank page in order to earn the right to sleep.”

—Hanif Abdurraqib on avoiding burnout in creative work

THURSDAY

“…While we wait we must remain prepared and alert, and one way to do so is to write things down, in order to advance the idea, as this indicates a readiness to receive. Beware, however, of the idea that comes too easily, as this is often a residual idea and only compelling because it reminds us of something we have already done. We don’t want an idea that is like something we have done before. We don’t want a second-hand idea. We want the new idea. We want the beautiful idea.

One day, you will write a line that feels wrong, but at the same time provides you with a jolt of dissonance, a quickening of the nervous system. You will shake your head and write on, only to find that you come back to it, shake your head again, and carry on writing — yet back you come, again and again. This is the idea to pay attention to, the difficult idea, the disturbing idea, shimmering softly among all the deficient, dead ideas, gently but persistently tugging at your sleeve.”

—Nick Cave on how to recognize when something you’ve written is worthwhile

FRIDAY

I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors
but you aren't about to paint it that way
I didn't know I loved the sea
except the Sea of Azov
or how much

I didn't know I loved clouds
whether I'm under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois
strikes me
I like it

I didn't know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my
   heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop
   and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved
   rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting
   by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette
one alone could kill me
is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn't know I loved sparks
I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty
to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

—from Things I Didn’t Know I Loved by Nâzim Hikmet

(This poem was sent to me by Stephanie, a subscriber. My favorite gift to receive is a poem. If you’d like to share your favorites, please do so in the comments below for us all to enjoy.)

xx,

To sign up for my weekly newsletter, Dear Somebody, please subscribe here.

Dear Somebody: It might have been otherwise.

January 27, 2023

A paint palette from my forthcoming book, *How it Feels to Find Yourself*

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

For the past week and half, N has been fighting bath time. She kicks and screams, wriggling on the floor. We present her with choices, we discuss the joys and benefits of regular bathing, and lastly, we plead for her to just get in. When none of the above works, we put her in ourselves, soaping and rinsing her body against the wail of her. Tears run down her cheeks and onto her neck, tiny rivers helping us rinse the day away from her. We brush her teeth solemnly, tired from all the hours that came before and exasperated by day 6 of bath strike. Why can’t it be otherwise?

N sits in her rocker with T, wrapped up in her new blue shark towel. Her biggest source of comfort is him, which I am grateful for—and, having worked hard at overcoming it over the past two years, only slightly envious of. In another life, I would be my child’s chosen source of comfort. It could’ve been otherwise.

I sit on the floor at their feet and work her pajamas over her body—first, beginning at the feet and pulling them over her legs, her belly, her arms. Already she is slimming, moving further away from rounded baby into toddler. Who knows what comes next? Whatever it is, I know I’m not ready.

N moves onto the floor in front of me and we read a book together while T combs her hair. “Dada, I’m going to give you a kiss on your cheek!” she says triumphantly, looking at him. Her eyes are stars, bright and sharp. T gives her his face, obliging willingly, and she kisses him once on each side. My face splits into a grin. Who am I to begrudge such an act of love? It shouldn’t be otherwise.

Afterwards, she turns to me. “Mama, I give you a kiss on your cheeks!” she says, watching my eyes turn wide. I lean towards her in shock while she presses her face against mine first on the left side, then the right. We’re not in France, but I’m certainly living outside of my own life.

It’s the first time she’s ever kissed me. I know I must write it down. It could’ve been otherwise.

TUESDAY

“I’ve realized how much pressure I’ve put on myself to be, and stay, well — as if being well is inherently better on the hierarchy of humanity. The pressure came even bigger when I became a therapist, and then when I became someone with a public presence — the pressure to be an image of healing and growth, a walking testament to what’s possible when we choose to show up for ourselves, a reminder for others that healing works — and that it working means we get “better” for the rest of time.

The problem with this isn’t the possibility of wellness, or the fact that we all deserve to be deeply well, or the truth that we can grow and become more whole. The problem isn’t the desire to be well or the reality that life tends to feel a lot better in seasons where we are well. The problem, for me, is how this striving often sets us up to hide when we’re not in a season of feeling our best, and to feel bad about ourselves anytime life feels hard. Which then creates a deep urgency to get better, quickly. And life is going to continue feeling hard — more so in some seasons than others — forever.”

—The pressure to be well from Lisa Olivera’s Human Stuff

WEDNESDAY

I have a few new cards out with Biely & Shoaf, and I’m especially proud of this one, which welcomes new faces into the world with my favorite little elephant.

My entire line of cards and boxed notecards are available on the Biely & Shoaf website.

THURSDAY

“Secrets are everywhere. Some humans are crammed full of them. How do they not explode? It seems to be a hallmark of the human species: abysmal communication skills. Not that any other species are much better, mind you, but even a herring can tell which way the school it belongs to is turning and follow accordingly. Why can humans not use their millions of words to simply tell one another what they desire?”

—From Shelby Van Pelt’s Remarkably Bright Creatures, which I’m currently halfway through, and is about humans, octopuses, and the unspoken nature of both.

P. S. I recently finished John Boyne’s The Heart’s Invisible Furies, gifted to me by a friend, and it’s one I looked forward to reading each night and am still thinking about weeks later.

FRIDAY
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

—Otherwise by Jane Kenyon

xx,

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Dear Somebody: The gaps of life.

January 20, 2023

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

My collaboration with Mead Cambridge was released a few weeks ago, and I wanted to share it here. Over the last year, I worked on dozens of iterations before these three designs were greenlit for production, and although we are well into January, I hope these will be of use to those of you who, like me, enjoy mapping out their days.

A handful of planners are available in my shop as well as on Amazon. You can also enter the giveaway I’m hosting on Instagram (virtually no one has seen this post, so there is a very large chance you will win!).

TUESDAY

When I confided to a friend recently that paring down my interests felt like I was making my work, business, and impact smaller, she invited me to realign my perspective, sending me the following passage:

“If you take objects out of a room, one by one, two things will happen. The first is obvious. You will miss some of the things you have taken away. The second is that you will notice the things that remain more than ever. Your attention will focus. You will become more likely to read the books that are left on the shelves. You will appreciate the remaining chairs more. And if there is a chess board, you are more likely to play chess. When things are taken from us, the stuff that remains has more value. It rises not only in visibility but also intensity. What we lose in breadth we gain in depth.”

—The gaps of life from Matt Haig’s The Comfort Book

WEDNESDAY

Today I read Still This Love Goes On, a beautiful picture book by Buffy Sainte-Marieand Julie Flett that celebrates seasons, Indigenous traditions, and community. When I finish, I turn to the back of the book to read the note that Buffy and Julie have written to readers.

In hers, Julie writes: The lyrics represent a Cree worldview, one in which we don’t really have a word for goodbye, but say kithwam ka-wapamitonaw, which means “we’ll see each other again.”

I think about how much is lost in translation—between separate languages, of course, but also in the simplest of glances, or when transforming sheet music into sound, or when inviting the sentences from a book into our brains. I think about how often words fail us, even the ones we believe to most precisely describe how we feel. Mostly, I think about how beautiful it is that in Cree philosophy there is little reason for the word goodbye to exist.

THURSDAY

It’s a cold January day but we go for our usual morning walk anyway. For the first time, N wears her dinosaur hat, a hand-me-down from her 3 cousins.

“Are you a dinosaur?” I ask her, smiling.

“No, mama,” N tells me solemnly. “Daddy is a dinosaur. I just have a dinosaur hat.”

I trail behind her and her dinosaur dad sheepishly, wondering how I could’ve let myself ask such a daft question. As she bounces along, I think about how many heads the dinosaur hat has called home: first A, who is now 9; then S, who is 7; and Z, who, at 2, is only a month older than N.

I love that N wears so much of her cousins’ clothing. As I watch her collect sticks and pinecones, memories float along the river of my mind and down to my heart, where A carved out his own little nook nine years ago. I was still a lost kid in my mid-twenties when A came into the world prematurely, a tiny riot of iron will and too-fast-everything.

Almost a decade before I had my own child, it was A who first introduced me to parenting—and that learning to parent is a long road towards becoming the person you always wanted to be, but never actually practiced being. With A, I learned what patience truly is. I didn’t know how to hold a baby, but I practiced with his little limbs. I felt my heart irrationally flare with anger when another toddler stole his pail at the playground; I practiced calming myself. I learned what it meant to be protective of another’s mind and heart through my conversations with him. I learned how to love my sibling more closely by observing how he loves his. Even today, I feel my heart well each time I experience the sensitivity and empathy he carries with him daily. It is far too big for his frame. As a person, I have always been slightly closed. It was A who taught me how to open my heart—who taught me how to love unconditionally.

I think about A all day. Later, my sister tells me that the dinosaur hat never belonged to A—she bought it for S when he was little. Not only is my memory flawed, but the immediate flood of recollection I experienced was summoned by a truth that never even existed. At first, I feel cheated, as if the love in my heart is a lie. But then A’s face fills my mind and my eyes are quick to fill with tears. I feel overwhelmed by my love for him. Nothing about this love is a lie.

FRIDAY
You simply go out and shut the door
without thinking. And when you look back
at what you’ve done
it’s too late. If this sounds
like the story of life, okay.

It was raining. The neighbors who had
a key were away. I tried and tried
the lower windows. Stared
inside at the sofa, plants, the table
and chairs, the stereo set-up.
My coffee cup and ashtray waited for me
on the glass-topped table, and my heart
went out to them. I said, Hello, friends,
or something like that. After all,
this wasn’t so bad.

Worst things had happened. This
was even a little funny. I found the ladder.
Took that and leaned it against the house.
Then climbed in the rain to the deck,
swung myself over the railing
and tried the door. Which was locked,
of course. But I looked in just the same
at my desk, some papers, and my chair.
This was the window on the other side
of the desk where I’d raise my eyes
and stare out when I sat at that desk.
This is not like downstairs, I thought.
This is something else.

And it was something to look in like that, unseen,
from the deck. To be there, inside, and not be there.
I don’t even think I can talk about it.
I brought my face close to the glass
and imagined myself inside,
sitting at the desk. Looking up
from my work now and again.
Thinking about some other place
and some other time.
The people I had loved then.

I stood there for a minute in the rain.
Considering myself to be the luckiest of men.
Even though a wave of grief passed through me.
Even though I felt violently ashamed
of the injury I’d done back then.
I bashed that beautiful window.
And stepped back in.

—Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In by Raymond Carver

xx,

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Dear Somebody: We must supply our own light.

January 13, 2023

*A recent screenprint with gold leaf applied by hand, 18”x24” on Arches paper*

Dear Somebody,

Welcome to the first edition of this newsletter hosted on Substack! Thanks for bearing with me while I migrated. While this weekly letter will always be free, I’m considering adding a paid tier to this newsletter, likely this upcoming May.

If you’re interested in seeing more from me, please let me know what excites you most. Thank you to those who have already written to me.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

After a year of working on it, between projects and books and school work, I finally completed this large screen print as a belated gift for T. After years of promising to do so, it was important for me to make something for him using my hands—something that had the full imprint of me embedded within it. The print is hand-pulled using black Speedball ink on Arches paper, and then gilded with gold leaf. My gold leaf application is imperfect but deliberate, and the child in the drawing is modeled after N. Both of these elements contribute meaning to this piece of work.

The print is inspired by one of T’s favorite quotes by filmmaker Stanley Kubrick, originally said in his 1968 interview with Playboy Magazine:

Playboy: If life is so purposeless, do you feel that it’s worth living?

Kubrick: Yes, for those of us who manage somehow to cope with our mortality. The very meaninglessness of life forces man to create his own meaning. Children, of course, begin life with an untarnished sense of wonder, a capacity to experience total joy at something as simple as the greenness of a leaf; but as they grow older, the awareness of death and decay begins to impinge on their consciousness and subtly erode their joie de vivre, their idealism—and their assumption of immortality. As a child matures, he sees death and pain everywhere about him, and begins to lose faith in faith and in the ultimate goodness of man. But if he’s reasonably strong—and lucky—he can emerge from this twilight of the soul into a rebirth of life’s élan. Both because of and in spite of his awareness of the meaninglessness of life, he can forge a fresh sense of purpose and affirmation. He may not recapture the same pure sense of wonder he was born with, but he can shape something far more enduring and sustaining. The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death—however mutable man may be able to make them—our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.

TUESDAY

I’ve found the following encouraging as I work on rewriting my picture book manuscript:

Picture books, drawing, and storytelling: Emma Carlisle on The Good Ship Illustration podcast
Watercress by Andrea Wang and Jason Chin, one of the most perfect picture books I’ve read. Poignantly written and beautifully illustrated, and never saying too much.
Three pages a day by Oliver Burkeman (originally inspired by Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages)

WEDNESDAY

“I seem to live on moods, ups and downs. And I seem to be repeating the same mistakes over and over again. Some mistakes are beautiful. There is a beauty in mistakes that you can’t find anywhere else, maybe that’s why. And I keep avoiding any definite ties with anything and anybody. There are places and moments during which I feel that I would like to always remain there. But no: next moment I am gone. I seem to enjoy only brief glimpses of intimacy, happiness. Short concentrated glimpses. I do not believe that they could be extended, prolonged. So I keep moving ahead, looking ahead for other moments. Is it in my nature or did the war do that to me? The question is: was I born a Displaced Person, or did the war make me into one? Displacement, as a way of living and thinking and feeling. Never home. Always on the move.”

—The diary entry of Jonas Mekas, a Lithuanian refugee who escaped his Nazi-occupied country for New York City in 1949

THURSDAY

When I wake up this morning, everything is wet. The roof, the windows, the earth. I look outside at my favorite sky, which is white and streaked with nothing. I look outside at my favorite sky, which is cold and the color of nothing. I smile. I slept all right. I feel strangely alive.

N puts her rain boots on and we go puddle jumping for a few minutes. We look closely at the water covering our feet, at the gasoline that pools on the surface, the leaves and debris swirling underneath. Want me to put on the rain song? I ask her as we get into the car. Yeah, she says, and waits as Nina Simone’s version of I Think It’s Going to Rain Today climbs out of the speakers. Is this the rain song? N asks before requesting the ABC song instead. I pretend not to hear her and play Claudine Longet’s version next and by now, no one is listening to the music except for me.

There is rain on the windshield, rain drizzling through the speakers, rain running through the streets. In my heart, human kindness is overflowing.

FRIDAY

Ocean, don’t be afraid.
The end of the road is so far ahead
it is already behind us.
Don’t worry. Your father is only your father
until one of you forgets. Like how the spine
won’t remember its wings
no matter how many times our knees
kiss the pavement. Ocean,
are you listening? The most beautiful part
of your body is wherever
your mother's shadow falls.
Here's the house with childhood
whittled down to a single red trip wire.
Don't worry. Just call it horizon
& you'll never reach it.
Here's today. Jump. I promise it's not
a lifeboat. Here's the man
whose arms are wide enough to gather
your leaving. & here the moment,
just after the lights go out, when you can still see
the faint torch between his legs.
How you use it again & again
to find your own hands.
You asked for a second chance
& are given a mouth to empty out of.
Don't be afraid, the gunfire
is only the sound of people
trying to live a little longer
& failing. Ocean. Ocean —
get up. The most beautiful part of your body
is where it's headed. & remember,
loneliness is still time spent
with the world. Here's
the room with everyone in it.
Your dead friends passing
through you like wind
through a wind chime. Here's a desk
with the gimp leg & a brick
to make it last. Yes, here's a room
so warm & blood-close,
I swear, you will wake —
& mistake these walls
for skin.
—Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong by Ocean Vuong

xx,

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Dear Somebody: Listening to yourself.

January 6, 2023

*from* Listening to Yourself *for Issue 56 of* UPPERCASE Magazine

A small note: next week, this letter will come from Substack instead of Flodesk. Please set your inboxes to accept email from meeraleepatel@substack.com to prevent your spam filter from intercepting them.

This weekly letter will continue to be free, but moving to Substack will allow me to foster community: you'll be able to comment on letters and engage in conversation if you wish. As I prepare to graduate from school this semester, I'm re-evaluating what I want my business and career to look like. Being able to offer a paid tier for my work (some possibilities I'm considering are process tutorials, personal comics, illustrated poetry, or guided journaling workshops) will allow me to sustain my business while stepping back from work that I've outgrown.

I've spent the past two years deep in transition and 2023 will include even more change, both personally and professionally. I'm strictly prioritizing writing and illustrating books, including a new beginning in picture books––and caring for my young family. I want to be more present; I want to continue growing; I want to uncover the work inside my heart. I imagine many of you share these same goals.

If there is an offering you'd like to see from me in the future, please let me know! Just hit reply to write to me. Thank you, always, for supporting me and my work.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

When K, C, and their daughter M arrive to spend New Year's Eve with us, I am both excited and nervous. It's one thing to have a good friend visit, but another to mesh your families together for the first time. As an adult, long-term friendship requires more than the friendship of youth: more emotional investment, more depth and deliberation, more evaluation. I take friendship seriously; I cull my garden regularly; I become more protective of my heart and my time.

The days pass easily. Time slips by like water. We start each morning with a long, meandering walk through St. Louis, stopping only to grab coffee or watch our girls hold hands. The conversation dips between music, culture, and parenting before sloping into relationships, families, finances. Nothing feels too intimate to share. I watch our families lean into each other and feel my friendship with K widen.

The four of us sit on the couch long after December disappears into January, our laughter occasionally, slowly, shaping into yawns. The future is open; I watch the possibilities multiply; my heart swings against itself. I take note of how lucky I am.

TUESDAY

On listening to yourself:

"Over the last few weeks, I’ve prioritized myself again. I’ve begun meditating, spending time with a notebook and pencil, and consciously separating my own thoughts from the ones externally projected onto me. I’ve protected my vulnerability by only sharing myself with those I trust to understand and support me. I’ve begun writing, though it is difficult, and though the words come much more slowly than they used to. I paint for how it makes me feel, not for what the final image looks like.

I do all this with the understanding that learning to hear myself again is a continuous practice, and one that I won’t always be able to sustain with regularity. Life will happen, again—as it always does, and as it should. I will stumble again, possibly succumbing to self-doubt, much to my own disappointment. If I can continue to create, however—if I can reach down and discover what else there is inside me, to listen to myself more closely than I have before, and to write and draw what I believe to be in my heart, then there is a chance that someone out in the world will see it—and that it, too, will be what they need most in that moment."

––An excerpt from my latest column, Being, for Issue #56 of Uppercase Magazine

WEDNESDAY

A holiday gift to myself: surrounding myself with strong, unapologetic women––including this new studio inspiration from Her Name is Mud to guide me through this upcoming year of creating, transition, and challenge:

“I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do.” ––Georgia O'Keeffe

THURSDAY

“If we are sincere in wanting to learn the truth, and if we know how to use gentle speech and deep listening, we are much more likely to be able to hear others’ honest perceptions and feelings. In that process, we may discover that they too have wrong perceptions. After listening to them fully, we have an opportunity to help them correct their wrong perceptions. If we approach our hurts that way, we have the chance to turn our fear and anger into opportunities for deeper, more honest relationships. The intention of deep listening and loving speech is to restore communication, because once communication is restored, everything is possible, including peace and reconciliation.”

––Thich Nhat Hahn, from Fear: Essential Wisdom for Getting Through the Storm

FRIDAY

you owe it to yourself to quit being the apology. to

hold your hand and sing your favorite song. to

love another and see how far that will go. to love

yourself and forget where you were headed in the

first place. love is a funny story. it wakes up and

builds a plot. it wakes up and shapes you into the

kind of woman your mother studies. i am not per-

fect in it. i am not even remotely articulate. but it

is big, this love. it is airborne and triumphant. i am

no easy show. i hurt like the climb of my lineage. i

hurt on purpose. i hurt to not be hurt. no, none of

this is an excuse. just a blueprint. a map. come

find me when the day is bronze and the sorrow is

full. i am building my poem in this here heart. all

of it is a working title.

––Until the Stars Collapse by Tonya Ingram

xo,

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Dear Somebody: Running into a new year.

December 30, 2022

*A glimpse of the art from* “Elegy/A Crow/Ba”, an illustrated poem (forthcoming)

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

While you are sleeping, I consider your breath, wait for it beside my own, measure each one by the slow climb of your stomach against blue linen sheet.

You are round; the moon. You love me, for now. I try my hardest to keep you curious, believing there is more—ocean floor under sea under twilight under sky under cloud under bird under song, I try my hardest not to undo you.

Your eyes, closed. The moon, alone. No one sees it come and go, its great back against the persistent sky, its face turned this way or that, with no mother to watch or wait for it.

TUESDAY

N and I watch a handful of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood episodes on repeat, especially Episode 47 from 1985 which features Yo-Yo Ma, so I was especially interested in learning more about Ma's latest collaboration which unites music, culture, connection––and America's national parks.

“Culture is able to look at the macro universe and the micro universe and bring it back to a size that we can see, feel, touch and analyze. What if there’s a way that we can end up thinking and feeling and knowing that we are coming from nature, that we’re a part of nature, instead of just thinking: What can we use it for?"

––Yo-Yo Ma is Finding His Way Back to Nature Through Music by Joshua Barone

WEDNESDAY

Holding this sentiment close as I move into the final semester of my MFA program, work on my thesis project + defense, and remind myself why I do the work I do:

“The books I’m writing are houses that I build for myself." ––Etel Adnan via Shira Erlichman

THURSDAY

The reflections I'm considering as we move into 2023:

What do I want to prioritize in the next 12 months? Are these pursuits rooted in an internally or externally-motivated sense of self-worth? And: If no one sees what I'm making, do I still want to make it?
The relationships I'd like to prioritize, cherish, and foster: the people that make me feel like enough, who celebrate my successes, and who aren't afraid of life's messiness. Making an effort to create community in my new city, continuing to be honest about life's joys and disappointments, and understanding that not everyone is for me.
What are the feelings, fears, and habits I'd like to leave behind? Especially: What cycles of thought and convictions am I better off without?
Recalling the impermanence in all things.

FRIDAY

i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twenty-six and thirty-six
even thirty-six but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me

––i am running into a new year by Lucille Clifton

xo,

To sign up for my weekly newsletter, Dear Somebody, please subscribe here.

Meera Lee Patel is an artist, writer, and book maker. Her books have sold over one million copies, and been translated into over a dozen languages worldwide.

Her newsletter, Dear Somebody, is a short weekly note chronicling five things worth remembering, including a look into her process, reflections on motherhood, and creative inspiration.

Join thousands of other readers by subscribing.

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