After publishing last week’s post, I went through a severe case of “vulnerability hangover”, expecting most everyone to unsubscribe and everyone on the street - people who don’t know me or my Substack- to look at me in strange ways. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, depending on your perspective, neither happened.
After working through some self doubt, I reminded myself that I love reading about other people’s stories. I love reading honest, raw, and vulnerable reflections on life. I guess it makes sense, then, that I would enjoy writing this way myself. I want to tell (parts of) my story. I have wanted to do it for a long time, and that is partly why I started my Substack. And it’s also the reason I follow other writers on here.
After eventually getting through the other side of the hangover, which even involved the brief thought and plan to delete this publication altogether, I came to the conclusion that I feel good about what I wrote and would keep everything as is.
Sharing your work online, whether in words or images, is always a vulnerable step. Art is personal, whether you talk about your own story and life or not. Something that always helps me is the reminder that you don’t create art for everyone to like it; you create it because that is who you are, and you create for those who will connect with it. You create for those few who will feel seen and understood or moved in some way. I had to remind myself repeatedly that that is enough. It is.
And so I keep going.
As you are reading this post, my family and I have been enjoying some much needed days away from home in a warm and sunny place. My boys are on Spring break this week, and I am so thankful for a change of pace and change of scenery.
It’s been a much anticipated break. The stretch of time from Christmas to Spring Break has been long and busy this year, full of ordinary days packed with work, school, obligations, and chores. I often thrive on daily routines, until routines seem to be a bit crushing, which to me is a clear sign that it is time for a break.
We were all tired the week before we left, which became increasingly noticeable in the frequent cranky responses and eye-rolls I would receive from my two teenagers after asking a seemingly harmless question or reminding them of their chores. I could sense (and hear) their annoyance, and they could sense (and admittedly also hear) mine in response. A change of scenery is always the best solution for breaking out of this vicious cycle.
I have been reminded this week of how beautiful this world is, how vast and untouched some places still are, and how small we are in comparison to the world and universe around us. Small; not insignificant.
Standing in silence surrounded by majestic beauty, I could sense some of life’s worries fade, at least for a while. It’s as if the natural wonders themselves invited me to become still, to remain in awe and to let go of everything I normally fill my days with.
Admiring this world and its beauty helps me to remember that we are all part of something much bigger. I find comfort in that. I find comfort in knowing that my story is only a tiny part of so many other stories. I find comfort in remembering that being alive in this world at this time is a gift not to be taken for granted.
Invitation - a poem by Mary Oliver
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude -
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
Thank you for reading!
Manuela
The beginning of this made me go back to the previous one you mentioned. The one that gave you the hangover. I had missed reading it then, so. I was wondering how you had written my biography. Never suffering severe hardship or privation, yet still feeling ... distant. This, even this late in life, is worsened by a feeling that since life was not really THAT bad, I do not have the right to feel this way. I mean my early life didn't warrant a lifetime of felling alone, when not, unworthy, unwanted, and blah, blah, blah. Yet, here I am. Glad you are finding your way out.
Yes, we have to keep making art and continue to share them— it takes so much courage to do this and that’s why I admire about you, Manuela. Keep going and those who are meant to connect with you will find you.