To celebrate my birthday (on 24th I turn 28!) I’m including the link to a 3 month trial of my paid writing here on substack. It will ask you for your payment details but it WONT charge you until the 90 days are up — don’t worry you’ll get an email reminding you its coming up.
So, until then, slip into the underground speakeasy of the Arcane where we ask better questions and flirt with the mystery, drinks are on me for the next three months (AKA you get ALL my articles for free, including this one).
Picture this: The sun comes through to kiss your skin, moving through a combination of stained and clear glass. Its warm here, not just because its a sun room but because the walls are lined with memories and stories. We sit across from each other, warm drinks in tea cups, our legs tucked up and comfy. Where you are sitting feels like the fabric came to life and its sole purpose was to hold you.
This time of year makes people go crazy. Ironic, isn’t it? That we put so much pressure on ourselves to end on the highest note.
For a moment, there is only this one. Just us, here. Enjoying the art of life. The art in the moment. You put your cup down so you can pick up the book on the coffee table.
“A flower doesn’t bloom by being hit by a sledgehammer” it reads.
Your chest reacts — how many times have you tried to crack yourself open by force this week? How many times have you worried you’d need to force your life open?
You open it. Three poems live inside.
I WORRIED — Mary Oliver
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
Lets ponder together: