Life’s many pause buttons.
A chunky white candle sits beside the book “Keep Going” by Austin Kleon. There is a warm-hued table runner and a blurry winter scene out the window in the background. This was taken at our last Winterfire retreat.
Last week, I woke up with a small tug, clear as a sunbeam. It was the urge to write.
It had been a while since I’d felt it. This winter has been a mess of stresses, and I’ve been racing around with my little bucket, trying to put out fires and convince myself that I can make things okay.
But then one afternoon everything stopped short. It started when my partner Ian put his back out. I found him on the floor, and we hung out there for a long time, trying experiments to get him upright. When we finally succeeded, I tore off in the car to get painkillers and drove right into a snowy ditch.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, snow all around me, I marveled at how quickly life can hit the pause button.
Of course, these are small things, minor tripwires in a messy world. But I was surprised how real that full stop felt in my bones. I sat there for a while, letting it in.
Years ago, an old friend reached out to tell she was in a psychiatric care unit downtown. I got on a streetcar and spent an afternoon with her, walking around the hospital and talking.
She kept asking me the same question — what is depression for? She was fascinated that I had been depressed and got out, and she wanted to trace my path. I had no idea how to answer, so I told her stories, and I asked her questions, and we hung out together in that big unknown.
Then on our way back to her room, the elevator stopped between floors. We sighed and sat down, our backs against the cool elevator walls, too worn out to be scared. She said:
“Maybe this is my answer. Maybe sometimes you just need to stop moving.”
A breakdown, a diagnosis, a sudden loss… Life stops us all at some point. I don’t know why, but I do know that after that snowy ditch (and come to think of it, after the elevator too), my voice was back, clear and ready to be heard. So I got up before the sun, broke off a square of chocolate, and started finding words again.
Caitlin Metz says, “Let the weight of being alive in this world rest on the page.” That’s my wish for you this March. As winter starts to pull back, let’s remember to let our inner selves catch our breath. To feel, not fix. To reach for who we were before our little buckets. To make things out of all this noise.
This is always easier with company, and you’re always invited to our table.
The spring is a beautiful time to dip your feet into creative community.
I believe in this so hard — making things together, listening and being heard, finding places we can belong to. Holding that stillness for each other to walk into, to find ourselves in, like a snowbank, or a blank page.
We would love to meet you there.
In the end, none of the pausing lasted.
My old friend got out of the hospital, and she’s doing well now. Ian’s back is much better. And it turned out, after a lot of consternation, that all I needed to do was put the car in reverse and slowly back out of the snowbank.
It’s March now. Let’s climb out of this winter, as whole as we can. Let’s let our voices speak with courage and tenderness. And whenever we can, let’s do it together.
In it with you,
