Me after ten minutes of morning meditation:
I’m still meditating and writing morning pages early every day, and it’s grown roots now that bloom in all sorts of unexpected places.
Last year sometime I wrote to myself in a throwaway notebook the words I AM A GENIUS??? after having a conversation with a male friend who had used the words “I am a genius at ______” and meant it, and might have been right. Can you imagine?
I followed those words with scribbles about what invokes that feeling; singing songs I love, out loud, at home, with abandon was one. It’s an obvious theme, no artifice: making my own voice clear to myself, using it whenever I want without shame just because it feels good to sing, hitting weird notes and adjusting because who cares, I’m in the kitchen!
It’s a theme. Nourishing the part of me that now writes emotional notes in these huge letters on a pink legal pad and leaves them scattered on my desk or tapes them on the wall ten at a time where I used to tuck everything away neatly, line up the edges before walking away to the rest of my life. Notes that say things like THE DISORIENTATION OF DEATH and CREATIVITY IS VULNERABILITY and MEDITATION STRENGTHENS YOUR INTUITION. That turn the screw to skew the angle of my Glossier-pink home office into a den of remembering and making and possibility and whatever the opposite of shame is.
Our playlist for November
Here it is, a group of songs that started so sleepy, fallen leaves under early ice, that all Spotify’s recommended tracks for a week or so were Christmas songs.
(Reminder to follow if you want because I add as the month goes on and so do we.)
Martha Wainwright for all time:
And here was October in one-seconds
I always love these on the month a play opens. Sketches to scenery, a real sliding door.
I’ve gotta get dressed now.
I love you,
Lindsey