All but two geese have flown from the field, and the two remaining stand there, unmoving. I wait, perched on the edge of my chair, eager to see what unfolds: will they follow the rest of the flock? Is one injured? Sick? Disabled in some way? Or is this a completely normal occurrence that I have failed to notice these past few months? Their honking a constant companion to our foggy winter mornings.

Aside from the happenings of the geese, nothing is as it was, and I, once again, have made writing out to be a monstrously big obstacle that cannot be safely approached until all is well. But as it turns out, all is rarely well, and it's during these extra turbulent times that writing has the potential to help the most.

Not for processing or for trying to make sense of things that will never make sense, but for the steadiness of normalcy, be it real or imagined: a (metaphorical) piece of solid ground that I can find my way back to, again and again.

I'm beginning here, with the fire in the stove still crackling and the wispy fog pressing up against the window and the tiny resilient mushrooms poking up through the dirt and between the small blades of grass — now a vibrant green from the recent shift from blue skies to torrential rain.

I'm beginning here, with my notebook open to a spell I wrote when the full moon was hidden behind clouds and there was a wind so rampant it took down trees which took down power lines, soon blanketing our home in darkness and the quiet absence of electricity, while I crouched on the bench beside the window, striking a match to light a candle, and watching as the soft glow of the flame imprinted itself on the then blank page of my notebook.

I'm beginning here, with an ear to the inner workings of my body, ever-listening for what else it might need as it tells me it is tired, so tired — tired of waiting and holding onto the hollowed promise of an outcome that might not ever be filled.

I'm beginning here, with an attempt to reflect on the writing experiment I held for myself through the month of October, where I wrote a few sentences of prose every day for 31 days — a part of me probably already aware that I wouldn’t want to reflect, that I wouldn’t want to tell the story I told myself I would 31 days ago.

I'm beginning here, with a forgotten agreement: that sometimes my biggest emotions are much easier to digest once distilled down into a smaller container — one or two sentences that can fit nicely in my metaphorical back pocked as I go about my day.

I'm beginning here, with a soft thought that presses up against a sharp thought and the understanding that yes, I'm not sure that one could exist without the other. That yes, the management-of these thoughts often takes up more space than I feel comfortable with — but maybe it's in the daily practice of tending-to them, that I learn to let go of what I once considered to be good and bad, dark and light, soft and sharp.

I'm beginning here, with my attention pulled between the window that looks out onto a field of geese and deer and fallen leaves, and the concept of building a business, and why, after all these years, I still long for something that is my own, something that I can shape and reshape, something that sustains and supports and inspires and even as I say this, I know that it cannot be everything, that I cannot give it everything, and that it would probably be in my best interest to give some of that attention back to the view out of my window, to the projects and experiments that were never mean't to reach completion.

I'm beginning here, with a quiet promise to myself that I will keep writing. That the hardest part is in the starting again, and that the more I start again, the more I allow for more spaciousness between what I tell myself I should write vs. what shape my writing wants to take today.

I'm beginning here, with myself as I am right now, in my pajamas and sitting by the window with Ochi our cat curled up beside me, the day’s expectations pulling at the sleeve of my attention because nothing is ever as it seems and there is always something, be it a task or idea or worry or promise, hovering just below the surface.

I'm beginning here.

Until next time,
Chloe

Hello -

Upon stretching and reaching for my slippers, I was greeted by the gentle pat pat pat of rain against our freshly re-done roof.

When I was young, I would write stories, and while I don’t remember writing these stories, I still like to hear about little me, mashing together letters and words, blissfully unaware of grammar or perfection or comparison or anything else that would stop her from feeling like she couldn’t or shouldn’t write. Couldn’t or shouldn’t share what she had just created.

^{The earth was spongy beneath my feet and when I looked up I couldn't see the sky, only layers and layers of tree branches descending down to the ground with the moss and the slugs and the roots jutting up from the trail.}

^{I'm listening to Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil, a dark and wonderful fantasy by V.E Schwab that follows three women across many lifetimes, and a welcomed companion to my afternoon walk; while sometimes I crave the quiet, the sound of rain hitting the canopy of trees and the thud of my heart in my chest as I make my way up before I go down, with thoughts that are never too sticky or attached or nagging or loud, just steadily there, like my own personal thought-podcast.}

^{Today is not one of those days, today I reach for distraction in its simplest form: a vampire fantasy.}

When I don’t reach for the stack of poetry books that I’ve thoughtfully placed on the dining room table with the hope that I’ll feel inspired to write again, I dampen the disappointment with the picking of dahlias or zinnias or bachelor buttons or sweet peas or nasturtiums or whatever else happens to be blooming in the garden on that particular day.

With the absence of one thing comes another and now I’m crouched by a flower bed, deadheading and listening to an audiobook while the fuzzy little bees buzz around me, drunk with pollen under the mid-summer sun.

And now we’re cooking dinner at the round table in the middle of the garden and the sky is a faded light blue and the sunflowers tower over our empty plates while we lick our fingers and reach for the blueberry bush just behind our heads.

I wrote this a few weeks ago and while I considered scrapping it and starting over because I feel differently now to how I did then and I think it could use more editing (always more editing) and the word count is a little less than what I normally do but because those are all just rules-of-my-own-making, I’ve decided to try sharing it instead of deleting everything just because I’ve told myself I should only share something if it’s guaranteed to be nothing short of excellent.

So here I go, breaking all of my own writerly rules with the hope of finding more joy in my writing endeavors.

It’s wonderful to have you here.

Hello —

I’m so happy to be here writing this to you, and to be writing more in general. For now, my goal is to write one essay or piece of short fiction monthly. For me, the trick is in the not being too precious with everything that I write. To write and edit and send and make mistakes and take what I’ve learned and do it all over again.

And for those of you that are paid subscribers to this newsletter, I included a little FAQ at the end of this email on how to access your account, and where to go if you have more questions.

Hello—

For the most part, fall of 2024 was all about making pottery for a studio tour I did in collaboration with my mom. Aside from that, I went for walks with wads of toilet paper in my pocket because I never have enough tissues for my ever-running nose, ate pies and soups and breads and sweets with loved ones, stressed about many things outside of my control, and read whatever book became available at the library that week.

We also adopted a little black cat and named her Ochi (pronounced ‘Ohh-Chee’). She likes to watch birds and attack our feet and sleep on our laps and look at us like it would be easy for her to crawl inside our bodies and burrow into our souls.

It was July of this year, and as they often are, the idea was small to start, and I was cautious around it, not wanting to rush into it like I had rushed into so many ideas before. And so I waited and waited until I told myself I couldn’t wait anymore and went ahead with this new and exciting idea, dutifully applying myself to the shaping and building of when August hit, and with it a force that shattered my desire to do anything other than scream and cry and hold on and hold on and hold on.

Usually when something hard happens, or a series of obstacles present themselves in quick succession, I panic and drop everything. That thing? Nope, I definitely don’t care about it. In fact, I’m not even sure what you’re talking about—sure, I create stuff sometimes, but it’s not like I have a desire to actually keep doing it.

Hi sweet boy,

A month ago today I don’t remember what the weather was doing but I do remember that I was writing about you, the tone of my words heavy with a grief that has continued to burrow itself into my chest ever since we were reminded that your time here was limited.

A month ago today I don’t remember what I was wearing but I do remember you being brave for us and us being brave for you as we held you and can you believe I didn’t cry when you looked back at me one last time? And you know me, I am a crying machine, I just know that sometimes it’s hard for you to understand what’s happening when my emotions bubble over onto everything so instead I told them to hold off long enough for us to steady our breaths and calm our nerves. Long enough for us to remind you that we were here and that you didn’t have to try so hard anymore.

He sleeps, eyes fluttering and legs kicking. I pet his soft fur, creating little piles as I scratch into his undercoat. Eventually he wakes and being the solitary dog that he is, scoots further away from me. I don’t take it personally, not anymore. Honestly, I’m still reveling in the fact that he let me pet him for as long as he did before kindly asking me to bugger off.

Work has been slow for us this year, nudging us ever-closer to home and our dog and our daily routines (not that we mind). There was this one especially hot and sweaty afternoon where I found myself flat on the living room floor, reflecting on the years prior—years where I was scarcely home a week before making plans to leave again.

We have two different kinds of lavender, one slightly more robust than the other, and when you walk through our front door and onto the porch, sitting in either of the two chairs that face the giant evergreen, there will be five potted plants to your left, and three to your right. Together they make our potted garden. 

Yesterday, I trimmed four of our five English roses, one of which bloomed so early and so exuberantly that the red pedals turned brown before the end of June. The other four roses are still blooming, seemingly much happier than they were in years prior. 

TW: If you are currently experiencing symptoms of depression, mood change, anxiety, or otherwise, and are without outside support, the following content could be triggering or difficult to read <3

I’m never sure when exactly it will happen, but it always happens.

Only this time, I wasn’t anticipating it.

The trees are blooming and I don’t think I’ve noticed them until now. Until I began walking under them almost every day, marveling at how quickly they change. At how fleeting this moment is. At how the wind carries the pink pedals up and away.

And maybe I want to be angry at the part of me that didn’t notice yesterday.

Or maybe I want to dare her to go ahead and notice today.

I’m looking at the almost-full moon against the baby blue sky and listening to a song that makes me feel like I’m swimming in the clouds that surround it. 

It’s late-afternoon and I’m just making my way back from the loop that I take between and behind the houses where the cats are round and friendly and bikes are strewn across the front lawn, likely abandoned at the promise of afterschool snacks. I turn away from the moon and put my right hand over my eyes, the sun harsh against my face; it’s the last block before I’m home and I’m walking slowly, taking in the swaying of my arms and stirring of my chest and the way my feet feel when they hit the ground.

These digests (shared quarterly), are a collection of unresolved thoughts, broken-off ideas, gentle moments or reminders, lessons I’m continuing to learn, and anything else that might be worth noting between now and then.

Nothing fully formed. No tidy bows or complete endings. Just a place to begin.

The owl that sits above me in a tree, stark white with blue highlights in their feathers, is about the same size as a small human. 

The white and blue owl that sits in the palm of my hand, has been made out of clay. Clay that was then fired, glazed, and fired again. I rotate it a few times with my fingers, wondering where else it fits into the story.

BIG SISTER

I awoke with a jolt, not realizing I had fallen asleep. Quietly, I re-situate, taking a moment to wipe the dried drool from my chin before pressing my cheek against the car window. Snippets of conversations drift from the front seat, while I sit in the back, tucked up against the door, suitcases and bags piled high beside me. I must have been asleep for a while because the sun is no longer in my eyes and the landscape is different, harsher. With my arms folded against my stomach, I fix my sight on the sliver of the silver moon, the only constant in this baby blue sky.

Bluets, by Maggie Nelson, sits beneath a steaming mug of ginger tea, the contents of which are still too hot to drink, but not too hot to hold. And yesterday, just after my therapist asked me how I was doing, I noticed her attempt to cover up a yawn with the back of her hand, while I carried on responding, wishing I could grab hold of something other than the messiness of talking about nothing in particular.

After our session was over, I closed my computer and made more tea and moved on with my day, while the all-too familiar feeling of not wanting to talk or answer questions, had me revisiting the past few hours: I thought yes, this must have everything to do with me, and couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her as a person living a life I know very little about.

These digests are, and will continue to be, a collection of unresolved thoughts, broken-off ideas, gentle moments or reminders, lessons I’m continuing to learn, and anything else that might be worth noting between now and then. Nothing fully formed. No tidy bows or complete endings. Just a place to begin.

I’ll put emphasis on the unresolved, since doing anything in the short-form, has always been somewhat of a challenge, but also something I’m intrigued by and would like to feel more comfortable operating within. Ultimately, I see it as a way to process and reflect without holding on too tightly (which seems to be a theme as of late).