Would that I remembered how to write.
And thoughts on turning 53.
Hi Friends,
Let me start this newsletter by acknowledging that there is a very real part of me convinced I no longer know how to write. I’m not talking about writer’s block; I’m talking about not remembering how to string sentences together in a way that feels eloquent or creative or with any sense of purpose. I’ve written almost nothing, or possibly completely nothing, in months. It’s become something I don’t do anymore, but unlike riding a bicycle, something that doesn’t feel like it will just come back to me.
Now I don’t fully believe it’s true that I’ve suddenly forgotten how to write, but that part of me that does believe it sure makes a lot of noise about my inability to weave words. As I write this, I am actively chanting blah blah blah in my head to drown out my mind’s insistence that this missive is going to be insipid and worthless. I encourage you to try the blah blah blah technique when your mind is being especially annoying, or cruel, or insane.
But here I am writing, ready to prove or disprove my mind’s certainty of my writing’s demise.
Yesterday was my 53rd birthday. (See, any decent writer would have provided a much better transition.) These days I feel so detached from the concept of age (more from ambivalence than enlightenment) that being 53 doesn’t really register as anything to me. I want to say I feel so much younger than 53, but what does that even mean? 53 doesn’t, on its own, feel like anything. What I know is that when I go out dancing in Detroit, I am always, as far as I can tell, the oldest or one of the oldest people on the dance floor. I do my best to take this in stride, as my mind goes back and forth between thinking I’m cool or creepy for being the dancing old man.
My body has been kicking my ass a bit lately, but I don’t blame 53 (or 52) for that. I’m a bit out of synch with my body, with myself really. In some ways I’m taking great care of myself, and in others I’m eating my body weight in sugar on the daily.
Oh Sugar, would that you made me feel good for more than ten minutes at a time! (If you’re wondering about the very old Englishy would that, I just watched the new season of Bridgerton, so I’ve got would that on my mind (along with Penelope and Colin, of course.)
If you were to see me sob to Bridgerton, or Sex and the City, or take your pic of high school romantic comedies, I’m not sure you would look to me for any sort of perspective or wisdom. It’s not just that tears stream down my face when the destined lovers finally kiss, it’s that I typically bellow as I cry. Like an emotional hound dog. I am quite aware of the manipulation in the writing and the music that is designed to make me long for fairy-tale love, and I am also entirely susceptible to it. How about you?
During the day yesterday, as I could have been reflecting on 52 and setting intentions for the year ahead, I instead found myself in the basement, digging through a box of old journals and letters. I read through several gorgeous letters from friends who are no longer in my life anymore. Former best friends, some of whom I had fallings out with, and others with whom I just drifted apart. I watched myself resist feeling the fullness of love in the letters from those who are no longer friends, because to do so would have necessitated feeling the fullness of heartbreak over our lost friendship.
Then I let myself open to all of it. And it was beautiful, the heartbreak and the love. The knowing that all relationships evolve and that sometimes that evolution sends you in different directions, even from those whom you were convinced would always be in your life. I felt a deep longing as I read those letters, but not for the former friends as much as the depth of connection that we shared during the writing of them. The love was real. The love still is real, albeit different. More a gratitude for what was.
Yes, that’s what came through more than any sadness: gratitude. Like wow, I have had some extraordinary friendships in my life, even with people with whom I have no desire to be friends now. Why live in the reasons why I don’t want them in my life today, when I can gift myself with the beauty of why I once did?
I’ve made a habit of hiding out on my birthday. I don’t feel comfortable being the center of attention (in my work yes, in my personal life no) and also can’t help but feel like a burden when people want to celebrate my birthday. I’ve spent much of many birthdays alone and have almost always regretted doing so. Last night I spent it with some dear family and a couple dear friends, sitting around my friend’s dining room table eating pizza and salad and cake. It was a chill, lovely evening, and there was nowhere else on the planet I would have preferred to be.
As I drove home from my friend’s place, I thought about the stories I’ve allowed to have a hold on me, specifically the story of being a burden to others. I can track that story very easily to my childhood, but it’s more important for me to rewrite it than track it. Yesterday I was intentional about not hiding out on my birthday, about letting my dearest friend throw me a little party, and take care of all the details, and pay for it all. I let my family and friends show up because they love me, and I let myself receive the love without feeling like a burden for it. I let myself be loved.
We are not bound to our stories; it is within us to rewrite the ones that no longer serve us, and the ones that never did serve us to begin with.
I’d love to be able to write that I can feel 53 is gonna be a great year, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I have no idea what the year ahead holds for me, but I’m committed to holding myself through it, with compassion and love, whatever unfolds. I’m finding that this attitude, this commitment, is not only beneficial but a life-saver. Knowing I’ve got my back allows me to show up to my life differently, more fully, more courageously. Allows me to let others have my back as well, even when the vulnerability of that can feel incredibly uncomfortable.
If I have any wise 53-year old words for you, it’s some version of what I’ve been saying for years: commit to loving yourself with everything you’ve got, and just watch how that commitment transforms so much about your life for the better.
One beautiful consistent in my life, for many many years now, has been understanding love as our greatest healer, and aligning myself with its pure positive energy as often as I can.
Sending you all deep gratitude and big love, and a prayer that we may all grow in more profound love for ourselves and one another.
YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL, JUST AS YOU ARE.
xoxo
Scott
A Request:
I suspect most of you know I released a new book in October of last year, called Enough as You Are. If you have yet to get yourself (or a dear friend) a copy, I’d like to encourage you to do so. Though I’m not sure about my writing lately, I’m confident that the writing in Enough as You Are has a good chance of opening your heart to your beauty and worthiness, and to the beauty and worthiness in others.
If you have read Enough as You Are, and loved it, would that you will leave a review for it on Amazon. And if you’re feeling really inspired, on Goodreads too. Please please please please and thank you thank you thank you. Your support in this way matters so much.
Beautiful rich honesty. Thank you Scott.
The less you worry about your 'words' the more we can see you.
Big love always, Lisa xo
AND loving myself is the hardest thing I have ever had to do