I’m tired. You’re tired. Hi.

The large wooden studio table with a cup full of pens.

Am I the only one who is amazed at how exhausting daily life is right now?

Even on the good days when the sun is out and there’s nothing newly terrible on the horizon, I often find myself moody, spacey and irritated about the smallest things.

And I’m saying that as a person without dependents, with a business that is basically okay and a living space that’s comfortable to quarantine in. Even with that, the exhaustion is real.

Here’s what I think is going on: We’re all grieving.

We’ve lost things. Some of them are clear — people have died, businesses have boarded up, loving relationships have strained to a snap. Britt was walking past a cemetery a few weeks ago and was curious why there were people standing all along the fence. Then she realized — it was a family watching their loved-one be buried from a safe social distance.

So yes, obvious losses are tragic and tremendous. But I personally think this daily exhaustion goes deeper than that. We’re constantly moving through a blur of collective, invisible losses… We’re grieving the closeness of bodies, the little rituals that reminded us who we were before this, the sense that we had some idea of what was around the corner. We’re grieving the summers we imagined, the freedom we didn’t know to appreciate, the moment on the sidewalk when we dropped some change and someone else leaned in to pick it up for us.

We’re all drifting inside of our own constellation of losses, and surrounded by a sky full of bigger losses, working to keep showing up to what each day needs from us. And it’s exhausting. Every store clerk, every person on Instagram, every bad driver in the road, everyone is in it.

And then of course there’s the other side of grief. I thought it was just me at first, but lately I keep hearing people say that colours look more vivid this year. Maybe this is all in our heads, or because of cleaner air, but my theory is that this is because of grief. We’re more vulnerable, so we’re more open, and beauty pours right in.

And the light, is everyone in love with this light? I’m pausing on street corners to smell blossoming trees, picking little bouquets for my desk, wondering if I’ve ever lived through a springtime so delicate and amazing.

Here’s how I see this playing out in writing workshops…

First of all, it’s harder to get there. There are more headaches and last minute emails saying, “I’m sorry, I just need to ___”. Even me, who loves writing workshops more than anything else on earth, will sometimes stop and think, “God, I could just have a beer and watch a documentary about cults tonight.”

But once we get there, it’s on. The bursting heart of writing and community is just a breath away. The honesty inside of us roars to life at the smallest invitation. I love these workshops, and every person who comes to them.

This is what grief does — it wakes us up to a place where we feel everything, and we need to find a place to put it. It brings us into our stories and the earth’s stories like never before… And, it makes us spaced-out, irritated and resistant. It’s all true at the same time.

Right now as I’m typing, an ambulance wailed down my street, and right on cue, the neighbour’s dog started to howl. I thought — this is what I’m talking about. Inside all of us us that sweet dog, rising into the pain of this collective moment, saying, “Yes, hear me. I feel it too.”

Thank you for reading.

Here we are, coping, tired, thriving, standing at the fences of cemeteries, noticing the yellow light on the lilac trees, stepping into another day, and whatever it will bring us. It’s all so incredibly brave, and hard, and beautiful.

In it with you,

P.S. A special thank you to our friend Marius Masalar for that beautiful photo of the studio at the top of this page! I needed some pictures to remind me of the magic that happens there, and he fully delivered. What a treasure.