Hi Friends-
When I think about what connects all of the work I've done over the past 25+ years, the word that comes to mind is context — a continued effort toward sense-making in a world that is becoming evermore fragmented and chaotic.
So that's what I wrote about this week, the power of context when it feels like things are falling apart. I hope it offers you some solace — or better yet — a few ideas on how to help yourself (and those around you) feel just a little bit steadier.
Plus, links on writing as an act of pathological caring, the fascinating legacy of women who "channeled" their art, and an urgent piece on speech vs action, ICE, and Gaza.
Sending warmth,
Jocelyn
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How do we create context when things are falling apart?
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Wherein I talk about feeling foggy, the trend toward entropy, and how rituals for creating context can help us anchor and steady ourselves…
How do we create context when things are falling apart?
This is the question that is arising for me as I reflect on both my personal situation and our collective predicament.
I was speaking with a dear friend yesterday about the fog I have been living in for the past year or so. For much of the time, I was framing this period of “not knowing” as a spiritual quandary, asking: What is this lack of clarity about my future and my work meant to teach me? Or to help me unlearn? I cast the experience as a great “undoing.”
And I don’t think that was wrong. But as the fog has persisted, and I have continued to experience challenges around regaining my former focus and momentum, it is beginning to feel like an aspect of my personality that was fixed — my easy facility for clear, bright execution — is potentially dissolving or changing in some fundamental way. And/or that what I thought was simply spiritual is actually (also) physical: That is, my brain function is changing due to perimenopause or some other health factor I am as yet unaware of.
Yet, even amidst this shifting awareness, I continue to hold onto the idea that I am on a trajectory where things will “return to normal.” Where my brain will return to its previous glory, and I will be able to (once again!) conjure up a vision and execute it with relative ease. That all of this is just a pause, or an interruption to the usual programming. But is it?
Spiritual wisdom would suggest that it’s best to simply accept things as they are rather than clinging to this fantasy of an HEA (that’s “happily ever after” in romance novel lingo), where me and my brain, circa 2021, lovingly reunite and stroll hand and hand off into the sunset.
And yet: I cling.
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What is happening with my brain is just one very small, personal example of the erosion that is happening all around us. Something that we thought we could rely on is changing or dissolving. And we don’t know what awaits on the other side of that dissolution. We want the trajectory from “here” to “there” to be clear. But it’s not. And that not knowing — that lack of clarity — is deeply uncomfortable.
In an attempt to comfort myself, I sometimes think about my higher self and my regular old earth self and my inner child all on a road trip together, following this imagined trajectory into the future.
Riding shotgun, my higher self is wearing sunglasses, bare feet propped on the dash, hand hanging out the window surfing the waves of the breeze. She is confident, intuitive, rooted. She doesn’t need a map (because it’s all about the journey, duh). She trusts the universe implicitly and has faith that landmarks will appear to guide us as needed.
Meanwhile, my inner child is in the backseat, alternately reading Harriet the Spy books, shoveling salty snacks into her mouth, and yelling, “Are we there yet?” She’s squirming, impatient to leave the discomfort of this liminal, in-between space to explore new territory.
And then there’s little old earth me at the wheel, oscillating between the two ends of this spectrum: Trying to be chill, trusting, and “evolved” while at the same time feeling a deep craving to just be there already, to be released from the not knowing, or to at least know that someone somewhere has a map.
But there is no map. So how do we hold that?
We who crave context.
We who want to understand where we stand.
We who are addicted to the idea of progress.
We who want to feel like we are getting something right when it feels like everything is going wrong.
What comfort can we offer that little child who just wants to know if we are there yet?
How can we create context in a world without maps?
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A few ideas I've been percolating on...
Rhythm is context.
Identify your anchor practices. Lately, I’ve been thinking about my heartbeat, and how anchoring it is to feel into that rhythm — the steady backbeat of life pulsing through me. Rhythm is context. The baseline, the backbeat, is what we dance to. We need steady rhythms to attune to so that we can regulate ourselves in this landscape of unpredictability.
What are those anchor practices for you? It could be meditation, exercise, breathwork, yoga, martial arts, walking in nature, singing, dancing, praying, writing, making art, gardening, cooking. What activities make you feel steady? Anchor those into your weekly schedule so that they can anchor you.
Community is context.
Identify your allies. At a recent gathering for my creative incubator KILN, we were talking about the power of reflection. To share what you are going through with others, and to see those same themes echoed and reflected back to you is powerful medicine. To know that you are not going through this alone, whatever “this” is, can be a great comfort. Maybe you don’t have the map, but it’s kind of nice to know that no one else does either.
Who are the allies that you can share deeply with, who can provide you with context when you are at sea? (And, for whom, you can do the same?) There are many types of allies. You might have work or creative allies. You might have spiritual allies or mentors. You might find allies at a support group around a specific topic (e.g. grief, Al-Anon, etc). How can you be in regular relationship with the people and the communities that make you feel supported and heard?
The cosmos is context.
Identify how you connect to something greater. We are so “zoomed in” in our culture — literally wandering around with our gazes constantly focused on these small glowing rectangles. (Small glowing rectangles that, I might add, feed us a lot of fear and anxiety and disregulation if we’re not highly vigilant about what we’re engaging with.) So it’s important to make time to consciously zoom out lest you get too, as one of my teachers would say, wrapped around your own axle.
How do you zoom out to get a higher perspective? For me, the planets (astrology), the muse (writing), and the mineral world (stones) are my guides to getting out of my own head. And the practice of being in relationship to each of these three things helps me grapple with what is moving through me and begin to make sense of it. Other practices for connecting into wiser and/or more “neutral” perspectives might be connecting with tarot or other oracle decks, venturing out into the natural world to experience awe, tuning into your religious practice, or connecting with the writings of a poet, a mystic, or other spiritual leader.
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Last week I was listening to an interview with the astrologist Diana Rose, where she said, “Healing is increasing your ability to be in relationship,” which encompasses all types of relationships: with yourself, with your friends, with significant others, with your creativity, with the land, with the news, with everything that is.
When I am struggling to stay in relationship with [insert anything here], I find context to be a powerful tool. To always ask: How can I zoom out and get more perspective on this?
This past week, writing saved me.
This past week, a long conversation with a friend saved me.
This past week, sitting by a river and listening to the water for hours saved me.
What are your rituals for saving and soothing? How are you creating context?
LINK ABOUT IT
Sarah Thankam Mathews on moral injury, speech vs action, writing, ICE, and Gaza. She also includes a simple list of actions you can take to help people in Gaza.
“We live in a time of a superabundance of expression… As true political democracy weakened and eroded, a vast technology-enabled democratization of speech and expression has flourished. The problem is less that a mass of people aren’t speaking. It’s that easeful and abundant speech has been offered to us, in part, to distract us from consequential action.”
(I also loved her novel, All This Could Be Different.)
Adam Mastroianni’s 28 slightly rude notes on writing is illuminating and funny:
“There’s something special about every word written by a human because they chose to do this thing instead of anything else. Something moved them, irked them, inspired them, possessed them, and then electricity shot everywhere in their brain and then—crucially—they laid fingers on keys and put that electricity inside the computer. Writing is a costly signal of caring about something. Good writing, in fact, might be a sign of pathological caring.”
On listening and giving voice to those who go unseen and unheard. I enjoyed this thoughtful piece from Parker J. Palmer:
“The world is full of people who get little attention, who become more invisible as they age in a culture that ‘disappears’ its elderly. Those of us who get all the attention we need, and more, would do well to listen to them.”
Channeled art and the complicated legacy of women who credited their genius to ghosts.
Elvis, floods, and a fascinating use of AI to animate the Nick Cave song, “Tupelo.”
Literature map, a cool way to discover new authors.
My favorite Andrea Gibson poem: “Tincture.”
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Shout-Outs:
The artwork is: Juan Er, who is based in Nanjing, China.
Link ideas from: Recomendo, Remind Me to Love, and Thot Pudding.
Website: jkg.co
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