Good things and fragmented things

Things that can stay the same, and things that need work (and love)

I’ve read various thoughts in the last few days about new year resolutions, or lack of resolutions, or things in place of resolutions like words, mantras, plans, change. But as the almost-full moon shines down through my window (named the ‘Wolf Moon’, and the first full moon of 2023) I’ve been thinking about the things I don’t want to change. In no particular order, here are a few of them:

1. The moon as it waxes and wanes, and especially that moment when you notice it bright or red, just risen on the horizon, and it takes your breath away.

2. The feeling of choosing a new book to read. Whether from your own bookshelves, the library, or a bookshop, the choice to enter a new world for a bit feels full of possibility.

3. The paws and tiny snores of our cat when he’s curled up on the bed.

4. A new notebook and nice pen, poised and ready to deploy.

5. People coming together to push back against bad stuff. Over Christmas, volunteers at my local foodbank delivered food parcels, hampers and slow cookers to the most vulnerable clients. During the pandemic, I witnessed community groups form with the sole aim of making sure no one was lonely or hungry. Further afield, people give their lives to stand up against environmental injustice. Everywhere all the time there are good people repairing broken things with love.

6. Connecting with writers and readers. In the past few years, I’ve been part of some good writing communities and mentored by good people, and it’s these things that keep me stepping forward into the writing life.

7. Cadbury Wispa chocolate bars. The perfect balance of aeration and density.

8. The way my husband gets stuff done, and has good boundaries. It helps me set my own boundaries (a work in progress). Also, the fact he quietly champions me.

9. The wonder I feel at lots of things. I am pregnant and it is a weird wonder. The dull hedgerows outside will be bursting with life in a few months and that blows my mind. I look up at the moon and my jaw drops knowing that ancient people looked at the very same moon. All that wonder without even leaving my chair.

10. Scented candles. I have three scented candles on my desk. This newfound appreciation crept up on me, and feels like a cliché, but honestly, the little flame and subtle scent seem to transform what happens when I sit down to work.

11. Quotes that crystallise floating thoughts. I recently came across one that went something like this: “We become who we are by being in communion with what we’re not”, and it helped a few things to click.

12. The feeling of joy, butterflies and deep “yes” I get when I write stuff that feels like it needs to be written, and when I think about how all the things I’ve seen and learned are funnelling into the book I’m writing. My journey has been a meandering one, and sometimes seemingly pathless, but I see increasingly how it all links, and why it matters (as all our stories do) and something is giving me the courage to do something about it, to write it all down, not to “hoard it” as Annie Dillard warns against.

13. The many tabs open on my laptop. I have tried to overcome this tab-opening tendency, but it gives me a little flutter of joy when I rediscover a tab I’d forgotten I’d opened. Today, that’s included tabs about Carl Jung, Simone Weil, gluten free bread recipes, and friendly-looking antenatal classes.

14. The fact I got elected as a District Councillor. This is a role that has surprised, shocked and exhausted me, but it has also been a privilege to help residents, create new policy, devise and launch our Council’s climate work, and meet people I’d never otherwise have met - most of whom are nothing like me. I have a few more months left of my term, until the elections in May 2023. It has been eye-opening and I have a lot of processing to do (and I’m working out a way to share my learning with others who are thinking of getting involved in local politics).

15. Pickled onions. I am going to eat some once I’ve finished writing this.

Photo by Obed Hernández on Unsplash

I could keep going, but 15 seems like a neat number. Not that the world asks for neatness. In fact, the world seems to prefer messiness - unpredictable possibility, chance encounters, hope and despair and everything all mixed up. I’ve been thinking about this as I’ve been slowly working on a book I’m writing (and - eek! - I’ve almost finished my book proposal to try and find an agent for it).

I looked back at the things I’ve been involved in - international development, the ‘green’ movement, local politics - and tried to join the dots. What led me to these things? I concluded it was something to do with their being tools for fixing things and making things better (a tendency that runs deep in me; a want to bridge gaps, to fix things, starting way back with my parents’ marriage which I obviously couldn’t have fixed, but tried anyway). But my experience points to the fact that these tools are insufficient for the job of fixing and healing what’s broken in us, and in the world. Perhaps they can temporarily patch things up, but not find and fix deep and collective wounds. At worst, some of the things I’ve seen and been involved in seem to have deepened divisions and false battles - realism/idealism, humans/nature, me/us, local/global, spirit/matter, and others.

I’m going to write a series of essays via this newsletter which dig in to some of this - the things I’ve experienced, the false divisions I’ve seen, and how fragmented things might be made whole; as if our place in this world might not be about picking sides, but about stepping beyond boundaries into a growing sense of self, other, and what could be. I don’t have neat answers, but I’ve witnessed things and encountered people and places that offer clues, and I want to share them.

Alongside this essay series, I’ll offer other newsletters too about books and writing and other good things. If you’d like to join me - brilliant, and thank you, and if you’d like to then please share the newsletters with others who might resonate with these themes.

For now, as a new year turns, may you see change where you’d like to see change, and continuity where you’d like continuity - if you like, you can share your thoughts about these things in the comments; what’s stirring in you this new year? And may we all take our place in the world, and work in the way that only we can to repair broken things with love.

Elizabeth

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Kintsugi: the art of repairing broken things with gold. Photo by Riho Kitagawa on Unsplash

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This year, I’ll be focusing on a few things: becoming a mother, writing, and transitioning from charity and local politics to what comes next. I’ll be offering limited online and outdoor coaching sessions for writers, and for aspiring or tired changemakers (e.g. local politicians, charity workers, emerging leaders) - get in touch if you’d like to find out more, or visit my website.

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Books, essays and other things I’ve enjoyed:

Book - Orwell’s Roses, by Rebecca Solnit

A beautifully rambling book, like its subject matter: the rose bushes that George Orwell grew and tended. From this starting point, we tour through politics, industry, nature, war and more, and come to know a new side to Orwell; one that is as passionate about beauty and nature as about anti-facism.

Essay - Omission: Choosing what to leave out, by John McPhee in the New Yorker

A good and eclectic read for aspiring writers and crafters of any kind. Pulitzer Prize-winning Mcphee shares stories of his time in magazines and as an author. His book Draft No.4 is also good for writers of creative non-fiction.

Podcast episode - Bryce Andrews: People, Predators and the American West

In this episode of the Mountain & Prairie podcast, host Ed Roberson speaks with rancher, conservationist and author Bryce Andrews about his work bringing together ranchers and conservationists in Montana. They also discuss writing, and his book Down from the Mountain.