These days, one of my favorite places to write is within the pages of my newly renamed monthly-ish subscriber letter—The Notebook: Pages of Mine.
A sweet spot of sorts for me, The Notebook provides a different feel and format. A place where as a writer I am finding my rhythm and stride as I weave a bit of narrative, a bit of storytelling, a bit of prose. I have grown to like the way the words link arms a little differently over there.
I hear nuanced differences in the voice of my art in the letter. It is a privilege and an honor to invite you to the pages of The Notebook. I hope you’ll join me and like what you hear and read.
Join me on this journey to take note of small ordinary wonder. Peel back the obvious to notice more of the hidden. Let’s take note and become notetakers.
There is joy in writing here, always for now, at my writing home. This is home for me. But I want to invite you there too.
I have just mailed my October letter to subscribers… Here is an excerpt from my October page, taken from my notebook.
If you tell me to put down my phone —if you tell me to unplug from technology, I may or may not listen to your wise advice. If you suggest that my brain, my heart and my soul, my creativity will all benefit significantly from blank spaces and pauses in screen time I may not act in the way I know “on paper” that I should. (Stubborn threads run rampant through me.)
But then again I may. It’s a little hard to say. (Because I am now on the other side of a new knowing.)
You could point me to research and to the science behind your wise admonition, building your case and supporting it with facts and truth. You can show me the neuroscience.
You can hand me your stockpile of evidence that points to the neurological benefits, mention the commonsense reasons, and remind me of the simple joy of looking a friend square in the eyes —without distractions.
Often the very best way to learn is experientially. And sometimes we have to get there on our own. There being this place that is better, smarter, healthier and wiser—a place of stepping off the trail. Off the beaten path. A place of going against the grain….
I look forward to seeing you there.
Maybe the light is always just right.
Maybe we are standing a quarter inch off of where we need to be to see.
Maybe the slant is always pouring in with just the perfect amount of glint and shadow
To show us where to cast our eyes.
Perhaps we moved at the speed of un-noticing all those years ago. And left the beauty in
Perhaps the Light is always just right.
And sacred ordinary was always waiting to have its time of quiet hallelujah, with you
And you alone.
Maybe the Light is always just right.
Join me on Instagram?