Senses of Silence
I won't ever "shhhh" you but I will talk about Dracula, great expectations, and letter-writing.
It’s loud out there is something I’ve found myself thinking notably often the past few months. It’s plenty loud in here, too, of course. In which “in here” typically means my own head, but can also mean my inbox(es), the Substack app, or any number of otherwise lovely and inspiring places wherein I regularly spend time online.
That’s to say nothing of the physical spaces I inhabit regularly, though I’ve noticed a longstanding pattern that when I’m spending time outside, be it locally or regionally, I’m often seeking places where I might not hear another human voice—unless it’s maybe me talking quietly to the lake, or to my beloved osprey friends.
Same goes for being out in the world. I prefer early morning breakfast dates, quiet coffee shops, places I can hear someone talk to me without too much strain or distraction. If there are crowds or a lot of noise, odds are good I’m not terribly interested in being there.
Busy places never used to bother me; now I find myself retreating from them whenever possible. I need quiet to think. To process. I want to hear fish jump as I’m swimming. My osprey will cry a very particular hello when I’m nearby, and keep talking to me until I crane my head in their direction and say hello back. I never want to miss their enthusiastic greeting. I want to hear birdsong and frogsong and chipmunks and corvids chirping tall tales underneath trees gently groaning in the wind.
I want to share those sounds and serene moments with my favorite people. Otherwise, I’m mighty content to be alone or with (my partner) Matt and (our wily, cuddly pup) Toya. I like being alone. I like being quiet, especially as the world gets noisier around me. That’s been true for as long as I’ve known myself. [I come from a large and outspoken family. We also like to talk with our hands.]
I’m sure many of you have heard/seen news of the immense devastation Hurricane Helene wrought [and the havoc she’s still wreaking] out East. After our own bout with Disaster Water earlier this year (an experience which pales in comparison to the vast amounts of water and displacement folks are dealing with in North Carolina, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, and beyond), it’s sobering to think of how much so many people lost—essentially overnight.
That “Mutual Aid for Disaster Relief” button above is a link shared by a trusted fellow artist and someone who lives outside (the very flooded) Marshall, NC.
Great Expectations vs. Seasonal Stillness
What I know so many of us have noticed: There really is seemingly no end to the manner of ways our attention can be fully capivated or altogether segmented.
It’s an inescapable reality of our modern world that we’re more connected than ever, that we have access to (so much) more information now than our ancestors did. Most of the time I tend to believe it to be an immense(ly powerful) gift. One I don’t take lightly and won’t ever shun, even on the days I want to permanently lose my phone.
There are so many things to learn (something which typically brings me immense joy and satisfaction), so many things to know (sometimes overwhelming, for sure, even as knowledge is power), so many ways to connect and share and grow (But why do we have to sleep? is something I also hear myself thinking on a regular basis).
So many ways still we can use our voices, our expertise, our empathy.
So many different questions we can ask (of ourselves and our close-knit and broader networks) on any given day.
It’s a lot, truly.
Which is sometimes why I feel myself go variations of still as summer transitions to autumn. It almost feels akin to a plant or piece of land going dormant for a season. In preceding years I used to battle a bit of panic when I felt the stillness arriving.
But it’s fall and soon it will be holiday shopping season. Only so many long swims left this year. I need to create. I need to swim as much as I can every day. I need to update my online storefront(s). Did I print enough holiday cards? Do I want to make calendars? I should make calendars. What if I don’t? What else am I forgetting I want to do?
These days I tend to go easier on myself (though not without intention and effort and near daily reminders to breathe). What gets done will get done. I’m not competing with anyone. On my best days, I’m not even competing with my own expectations. (A novel concept for me, to be certain.)
Right now (and hopefully forevermore) sharing my art is something I get to do, not something I have to do. Likewise, open-water wimming is a gift, something I truly adore. There needn’t be any haste or competition in it.
It’s one of my favorite reminders: Even the most productive huckleberry bushes don’t fruit every year. Some seasons they’re quiet. Sometimes they don’t feel like participating in the boisterous berry blast that is fall picking season. They’re no less a beautiful and essential part of an expansive ecosystem on the years they don’t produce berries.
It feels silly (though amusing) to imagine a plant of any kind experiencing FOMO during the seasons it doesn’t particularly feel like fruiting for whatever reason. I take a fair amount of solace realizing I might forever be learning to be as humble and content as a huckleberry bush.
When Re-Reading Dracula Becomes an Ode to Letter-Writing
Earlier this year I dove fangs first into the daunting and amusing project that is Dracula Daily; a group of enthusiastic (if not perhaps also a little reluctant) friends and I have been reading the book’s missives in the order in which they appear in the book, via notes at first sporadically and now more regularly delivered to our inboxes.
Some days I laugh at the absurdity of this text, and how altogether (hyperbolic understatment alert!) long-winded it is. Some days I think the amount of absurdity is just right, and that epistolary novels like Dracula [and Frankenstein, originally published January 1, 1818, 79 years before Dracula; Mary Shelley was an actual genius, FYI] are such a wonderful reminder of the power of old-fashioned letters.
“Again I felt that horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of place; and I realised distinctly the perils of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so useless.” — Some lines from Dr. Seward’s Sept. 27th diary entry, Dracula
A bit too relatable, no?
Letters in any form are stories, just like diary entries can be stories, just like articles in newspapers and magazines are stories, just like good books and good poems are (good) stories. And letter-writing is a medium that’s forever available to us.
I love letter-writing (and letter-receiving) for so many reasons, but notably for the fact that it forces me to slow down to talk to the person on the other end of the proverbial line.
I will forever love voice memos (sincerely, keep sending me your short notes and mini-podcast episodes, friends; I delight in listening to all them). But there’s something so tangible and special about a hand-written letter. Especially when you’re trying to tell people you’ve befriended(?) a centuries-old vampire scuttling about his drafty castle in Transylvania creating chaos.
Coming Soon to an Autumn Near You: DIVE [A few spots left in this year’s final writing group of 2024!]
After a summer break of sorts, DIVE—the beloved quarterly writing group I lead over at Creative Fuel Collective / Creative Fuel with Anna Brones—returns Monday, October 28 for the last session of 2024. It’s a warm and inclusive space filled with curated and organic inspiration alongside dedicated writing time for writers in all stages of their creative process. It’s fully virtual, collaborative, and intentionally intimate [see also: don’t wait too long to sign up; essentially every cohort has sold out]. More than anything, it’s a fantastic way to bolster your writing practice, no matter what you’re writing (or want to write). We meet once a month to dive for our stories together for two hours [4-6 PM Pacific] and I check in with writing promps every week in between sessions. It really is something special; come see for yourself!
RECOMMENDED READING FOR THE MONTH AHEAD
“Apologies to All the People in Lebanon” // This is a great poem for so many reasons, but especially for shattering the illusion that anything Israel is doing in Beirut and Gaza is anything new (or in any way justifiable). I highly recommend anything June Jordan ever wrote.
“[From Mars cruel god of war]” by Franco Buffoni
These lovely lines by Mikko Harvey
Planting Our Poetry Garden [via the Poetry Foundation; I love this idea]
WRITING PROMPTS TO EXPLORE SILENCE
Write about the last time you sat silently for any length of time. Be as sensate as possible as you remember.
If you can't remember: Create the space on the page. Write a scene where someone sits quietly. Where are they? What are they thinking about? What do they see / smell / hear / feel?
Write a letter the old-fashioned way. Share an update, tell someone a story, or send them a list of questions. Drop it in the mail or hand-deliver it.
Bonus prompt: Write a letter to Dracula, or some other imaginary “monster.”
Write about something you need to say. Maybe it’s something you eventually need to say aloud to someone (or yourself). Maybe it’s something only for you. Either way, start the conversation on the page and see what shows up to meet you.
Write about a time you felt heard. Try to be as specific as possible.
Write about what good and helpful listening looks (and feels) like to you.
Bonus prompt: Write a scene where someone is listening to someone else talk. What sort of stories are being shared? What message, if any, is the speaker trying to convey?
As always, I recommend sitting with each of these prompts for at least ten minutes at a time. Set a timer and try to keep writing without stopping or self-editing or even trying to steer yourself a certain direction. I’m a firm and longtime believer that when it comes to prompts like these, wherever you end up on the page is precisely where you’re meant to be.
Do you know someone who would benefit from receiving regular writing prompts to their inbox, who might delight in reading some intentional rambles about words and water and the power in finding our respective and collective (voices +) senses of place?
I’d love it if you’d share this post and Kerrtopia with them.
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