Grateful for the heartbreak

You know what I mean.

❤️‍🩹Next Sober From Bullshit Recovery Club: Storytelling Edition is TOMORROW, Wednesday, March 2. Register here.

✍🏽March Writing Workshop is live! Grab your spot here (Sunday, March 27, 10am - 12pm PST). Our February cohort had less people than usual and it was so cozy and special that I’ve reduced the overall capacity so please be sure to sign up in advance.

Questions? Ask. I’m here and I’d love to hear from you.

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Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

“I feel pretty heartbroken these days, about the drama that is happening amongst us…and, I’m actually grateful for the heartbreak because it’s helping me connect more with love. One of the things I most hope people will do is have the courage to face the cost of the drama that we are creating: in our workplaces, that has people so overwhelmed at work; the cost politically; environmentally; and that they’re willing to face it, and let their hearts break wide open, and then from that place, get curious and excited about what else could we create together? What else is possible?”

On Saturday I took a break from "The Art of Subtext,” a nerdy book on craft I was reading in preparation for Sunday’s writing group, to take Tater on an early evening cruise. I decided to take him through our old neighborhood because there are all these dirt-paved alleyways where not only I can let him off-leash, but also, because this is the time of year where all the flowers start popping off, and I can usually steal some sprigs of bright smelling jasmine, which is my favorite way to bring spring inside, tucking the baby blooms into corners all over my apartment, delighting in the olfactory overload.

I crossed Brazil Avenue and started walking down London Street and as I passed a house about a third of the way down the block an SUV was blocking almost the entire sidewalk. As I got closer to the car, and was about to skirt my way around its hulk, I paused, hearing the distinct voices of two adult women at the threshold of the house bidding their mother goodbye. They must have said “I love you, mom,” about seven times each and I stopped in my tracks, giving space to this most sweetest, most intimate moment, blessed in my overhearing. The women closed the door behind them and then the one in front caught my eye and immediately looked at her feet, bashful. “Oh I’m so sorry!” she said, and suddenly it was raining on my face as I assured her, no, please, no need to apologize, this was the loveliest thing I’ve heard this year.

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I’ve realized over the course of this newsletter project that I am much more of a feeler than a thinker. I mention this now because as I mulled over what I wanted to say this week I bumped up against some anxiety. You see, I want to write something smart. I want you to see me as informed, erudite, a person with trustworthy opinions, who can expound on current events in way that proves how planted I am in reality, never one to bypass around it. I want my words to be arrows that strike meaning between the global and the quotidian in a way that hits you in the guts, bullseye.

However, damnit—and my sincerest apologies in advance, but: all I want to write about is love.

(Thank god there are a bazillion other places you can get your academic hot takes on the perpetual Everything Happening All At Once All The Damn Time and please know that if you want to bow out now before I dig in deeper, there will be no hard feelings).

I transcribed today’s opening quote from a podcast interview Faith recommended to me last week that I listened to yesterday. I feel I have to caveat these types of quotes, because I want to be clear that I’m not actually grateful for what’s happening. I’m not grateful for the pandemic. I’m not grateful for how pitted people are against each other. I’m not grateful for the ways our most marginalized continue to be assaulted by people in power. I’m not grateful for war. I’m certainly not grateful for global warming (evidently, this is the driest January-February in San Francisco since 1852). And, I’ve found that all these terrible, unconscionable messes have expanded my capacity for love and care and compassion, all those humble life rafts that keep me afloat, that allow me to pause and catch my breath, if only for the most fleeing moment.

For me, love is a practice of being relentlessly available to the present moment (I fail at this constantly—I am human—but I am relentless in the returning). I know I am in the presence of love when I am present in my life, available to the wonders that exist everywhere all around me. Like two daughters incanting love for their mom, on their way to whatever is next. Like the breath-caught-in-your-throat beauty of the magnolias in bloom literally all over town, their big-as-my-head blossoms, the way the petals make a glorious mess of everything below (these are my favorites). Like the sweetest and most idiotic conversations I have with other dog owners about our ridiculous little dogs. Like a twilight walk under Sutro Tower who two dearly beloveds on a Friday night. Like spending two hours on a Sunday talking about art and beauty and words and sentences and why it all matters. Like sweating my way through a workout with my favorite people, cheering each other on, bearing witness to the freak-outs and the surprises, the way my body reminds me of my capacity to make what was once impossible, possible. Like the way my Tater stands quietly behind me after his last walk of the day, waiting for the ritual of taking off his collar and giving him scritchy-scratches on his neck and behind his perfect little ears. Like my neighbor running across the street to warn me not to park my car even an inch into another neighbor’s red curb, lest he call “la grua.” Like running into an old friend on Cortland, squeezing the shit out of each other. Like someone showing up to a call, or a session, and trusting me with their stories, their pain, their frustrations and celebrations, ugh, this is my greatest gift. Like a deepening relationship to my sister. Like demanding that everyone who got a PR on our front squat 1 rep max test day hit the celebratory gong. Like sitting here and writing this to all of you.

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I’m not sure if I know what’s possible, what we might create together moving forward. At least not yet. Just like all of you, I am learning to live, and adapt, inside of uncertainty. I’m doing my best to relinquish control, to take my foot off the gas, to come back right here again, and again, and again.

Not one of those moments on my list could have been possible without people. Even that last one; though writing is of course a solitary act, knowing that your eyes will soon read these thoughts are another of those aforementioned life rafts. And it is in people I trust, and who I return to, and who remind me, every single day, if I let it in, of the goodness and beauty, of all those things that make life something that has me thrilled to get out of bed every morning. Despite the terror and chaos. Alongside the pain and worry.

So, I let my heart keep breaking. I let the love in, relentlessly.

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Speaking of trustworthy, smarty-pants academics, I wanted to share this post from Timothy Snyder’s substack about suggestions on how to help our friends in Ukraine.

“All day long people have been asking me what to do. You can show solidarity. You can give an organization a little bit of your money. It will not stop a war. But it will help Ukrainians to help themselves. And it could save lives.”

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From the archives ~ this time last year:

⭐️"I’m only just starting to talk sense to the bullshit I’ve been feeding myself my entire life." Guest post from one of my favorite humans on the whole planet!

⭐️The Anniversary Nobody Wants

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SELF MADE is a newsletter for fellow 🌺late bloomers🌺 with a focus on recovery, creativity and community. It's written by me, Dani, a writer, coach, and recovery advocate in San Francisco, CA. 

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