paying attention in flux season
(and beyond)
The leaves outside are changing but this weekend boasts temperatures in the high 70’s. I would be lying to you if I told you I wasn’t just a little bit disappointed. I like things to be what they are supposed to be. I want my autumn to be crispy, cool, nostalgic, wonderfully colorful and most importantly, prompt. But it rarely is.
Both spring and autumn are what I call “flux seasons”. They often feel like the long arm of one season is grasping at threads while another season tries to roll into town and take over. They’re rarely as predictable as I’d like them to be (i.e. flip flop weather in October and snow boots in May) and they’re anything but prompt, but they’re still my favorite. These unpredictable seasons make me lean in, wait, and watch for something new. They make me pay attention.
Personally, I have always learned a lot during flux seasons. They’re unpredictable, messy, but seemingly always welcome, and not just from me. While chatting with a neighbor yesterday, she said this was her favorite time of year–you wake up in layers, peel them off throughout the day, only to stack them back on when the sun went down. There’s a level of graciousness you have to have in order to love a season that causes you to be in a constant song and dance routine with your hoodie. And if we’re so in love with something as unpredictable as, well, the weather and seasonal shifts, you’d think we could be more gracious with ourselves. That we’d pay closer attention to how life was shifting and how those changes could be welcome instead of pushed up against.
But perhaps I’m just talking to myself.
[I know I’m not]
I’ve had my fair share of personal shifts. I’ve done what feels like more than my fair share of hard things. It’s only been recently that I’ve realized that learning to pay attention can lead to growing in graciousness towards others and to myself. Somehow I’m just now learning how to give myself a seat at my own table.
And to be frank, I pay better attention and learn more when I’m taking notes.
So, here I am. Taking notes. That’s what this Substack is. After more than 20 years of wanting to write but not knowing where to start, I finally have something I would like to document. I want to learn (or re-learn, rather) how to pay attention to how God is using all the little things around me to reveal Himself. And I want to share it on this platform.
What to expect? Well, first and foremost, consistency. This letter ought to show up in your inbox once a week. I’ll be discussing how God is moving in and around me in the little, seemingly mundane parts of life. Often I process big things by writing tiny things, so there’ll be a decent amount of poetry here. I have also found that God shows me how He loves me through food, wine, and good company, so anything I’ve been blessed by in those areas, I’ll also be sharing. It may sound disconnected, but I plan to string all these things together via the church’s liturgical calendar which (here’s the full circle moment) lines up nicely with the seasons. Almost like one was meant for the other.
Finally, I named this newsletter “always, emily” because I want it to be as intimate and authentic as writing a letter to a friend. Emily Dickinson is my namesake and years ago I read that when she wrote letters, she often signed them “Always, Emily”. This simple sign off resonated with me in its thoughtfulness and honesty, and if you’ve ever received a letter from me, you know I often sign off the same way. I want to be honest and I want to be myself. Sometimes that’ll mean I’ll write a poem. Sometimes it’ll look like me raving about a recipe. Sometimes I’ll lament. There might be a handful of typos, but I’ll always be authentic to who and where I am. Who God is making me to be.
Recently, while I was in a contemplative yoga class, the teacher quoted a few lines from a Mary Oliver poem that I have yet to forget:
“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.”
I can’t tell you exactly what a prayer is either. I have an idea, but I’m hoping if I keep paying attention, I’ll figure out how to live like one.
Maybe we can do that together.
Always,
Emily
real life moment: this was written while two small dogs hogged the couch and I sat typing with an electric fly swatter across my lap. Memento mori, fly.