I swore I'd never do this.

But never say never, you know?

Hi.

Greetings to you wherever you are – geographically, physically, emotionally.

What a time to be alive.

As a species, we’ve normalized the unimaginable.

As a society, we’ve come up with at least two dozen zeitgeisty names for ennui, despair, and exhaustion.

As a culture, we’ve created — and consumed — more content in the past two years than previous generations would in their entire lifetimes.

And that is… a lot.

I’ve spent the better part of the last eighteen months in a place that can best be described as, if not a dark place, then certainly a shadowy one. I know I am not alone in that, though sometimes it can feel that way.

Like many people, I’ve witnessed and held space for loved ones grappling with grief, hardship, and mental illness. (And shared in some joyful times, too.) Slowly, without my noticing, I’ve grown used to carrying a backpack full of sorrow. I barely register its weight, until those inevitable moments when someone adds just one more thing. And there I am, bowing under the cumulative heft of all I’ve picked up along the way.

(Last week, the catalyst was this short opinion piece, read through tears I didn’t know were waiting in the wings.)

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a tiny bookstore, the shopkeeper’s tortoiseshell cat circling my feet. I was only looking to fill a few minutes before meeting a colleague for lunch. But as I opened a book to a random page, these words stopped me in my tracks:  

The only thing you really transmit to another person is your Being.
The fancy words don’t mean a thing.

They were written by Ram Dass, in 2004. In context, he was referring to religious ceremonies — how the good stuff, the true meaning behind once-sacred practices, can get lost in tradition. How sometimes, we go through the motions without connecting to the spirit of what once inspired them.  

I’m certainly not here to comment on religion. But as I read his words, in 2021, they applied to so many facets of our lives. Like…content. The onslaught of videos from every direction. The targeted ads that reveal more about me than what’s inside my medicine cabinet. And the words! Fancy words. Clever words. Prescriptive platitudes and long-winded captions. “Content” is how I earn a living. Yet I want to run, screaming, from all of it.

I remember a time when people shared with the intent to connect. Now, it seems we share with the intent to exist. As though uploading is what gives value to the doing, breathing, being.

I’m a person who makes sense of the world, and my place in it, through writing. (I like to say my fingers are smarter than my mouth.) But over the last year, I didn’t feel very much like sharing. I didn’t feel capable of stringing words together in a pithy way. I didn’t want to contribute to the noise.

And yet, and yet.

My desk is situated near a window with a view of a towering apartment building. It’s a blocky concrete monolith — a visual gift from the 1970s so solid no bird or aircraft could possibly miss it. Each unit is outfitted with a little balcony, maybe five paces wide. No one ever sets foot on them. Except for one.

Every afternoon, a figure appears on a high floor. He wears navy blue trunks a la Jack LaLanne, nothing else save for the occasional hat. Over the course of the following hour, he makes his way through a series of exercises — walking forwards and backwards, followed by a chaser of arm lifts. He’s out there as I write this, on a sunny autumn day, but I can attest that he keeps to the same routine — and the same outfit — in the dead of winter.

Just like this.

I don’t know much else about Balcony Jack, as I’ve taken to calling him. I doubt I’d even recognize him if I saw him on the street. But he has become a sort of beacon to me, a touchstone of consistency during a most inconsistent year.

Because I can, I’ve built a myth around him the way one does with celebrities they’ve never met in person. I’d like to think Jack doesn’t have a goal in mind beyond showing up. Sure, something beckons him out there — health or flexibility or a year-round suntan. But to my mind, he’s not chasing transformation. He’s not operating under the lore that if he can stick with it until his abs come through, life will be better on the other side. He’s just doing his thing, day after day. Experiencing the virtue to be found in turning up, without being attached to the outcome.

And that’s what brings me here.

When the Great Newsletter Surge of the last few years began, I swore I’d never take part.

In its latest incarnation, a newsletter is just a blog that harasses you. It’s semi-aggressive content, the internet version of a friend that’s so dead set on hanging out that they come to your home and try to lure you outside. And while I still believe this, I’ve come around.

This morning, I met up with a friend for our weekly walk — a pandemic tradition now eighteen months strong. Clutching warm cups of tea, wearing light jackets for the first time this season, we recounted the events of the past week. As she spoke, a tear spilled down her face.

“I’m okay!” she said, wiping it away. “Everything is okay.” She paused. “It’s not until you finally relax that you realize how much you’ve been clenching.”

“Yeah,” I said, stopping to loosen the proverbial backpack. “I know exactly what you mean.”

There are far worse things in this world than a friend who’s willing to meet us wherever we are.

The only thing you really transmit to another person is your Being. The fancy words don’t mean a thing.

So that’s my plan. To keep showing up, one week at a time, and offering up my Being — for me, and for you, and for anyone else out there who may be gazing out the window wondering if someone feels the same way. I hope you will, too.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring the Apparition Tarot Deck by Mary Elizabeth Evans

This week’s card is the Queen of Cups. Throughout this description, I’ll be using she/her pronouns in reference to the queen. But the energy of this card extends beyond any gender binary and is applicable to all people.

The Queen of Cups is emotional intuition personified. She is your wisest friend. The warmest guidance counselor. The aunt who just so happens to be a therapist. The pet who knows when you need comforting. The book that somehow speaks directly to you.

Picture it: She offers you a seat and fixes you a snack, while listening to your deepest thoughts, worries, and troubles. She nods without judgment, then tells you exactly what you need to hear.

When the Queen of Cups looks at you, she really sees you. She sees the essence of you — ­your innate gifts, your best intentions, the parts you sometimes struggle to see for yourself.

This week, the Queen of Cups comes to the table with one piece of wisdom for each of us.

Maybe it’s an affirmation of your worth.

Maybe it’s advice for how to set a boundary.

Maybe it’s the encouragement that you’re doing the best you can.

Maybe it’s simply a reminder to unclench your jaw, relax your shoulders away from your ears, and breathe.

This week, meditate on what you wish such a figure would say to you. What permission do you want to be granted? What praise do you long to hear?

Before you part, the queen instructs you to take a deep breath — in through your nose, out through your mouth — holding each inhale and exhale for a count of four. When you feel a bit better than you did before — slightly more present, slightly more you — she leans in to whisper something: She’s a figment of your imagination. That wise voice whose guidance you’ve been heeding? It’s been yours all along.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this letter and would like to receive future installments in your inbox every Sunday, please consider becoming a subscriber.