Dear Somebody: I wouldn’t have without you.

T and Jack, May 2024.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY 

I turn the kitchen light on around 5:45 am. Most days, Jack stirs and watches me while I brush my teeth in the half-bath, careful not to wake our sleeping family. Then he waits by the door and we go out. The past few weeks, he doesn’t move—his sleeping body just rises and falls while I brush my teeth, while I count out vitamins, while I go downstairs for a Peloton ride. I return 30 minutes later, sweaty. His eyes slowly open but he doesn’t move. Let’s go outside, Jackie, I say, and he steps away from me. He retreats, watching me quietly. I feel like a stranger, almost an intruder. Somebody he used to know. 

After some time, I coax him outside. The sky is far more than what I can ordinarily imagine. Over our wooden fence and the neighbors trees and beyond the curves of our busy street, the sun rises eagerly, the fruit of it red and new. Dang, it’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it, Jack-o?, I ask, but when I look for him, he’s already at the door wanting to go back in.

The girls and I go to the library, but when we come home through the back door, T is waiting for us. He sits on the floor with Jack sweetly, the way close friends do—casually, with little inclination towards boundaries or good posture. What he tells me I don’t want to hear, so instead my mind wanders to friendship and how golden it is. Through good friendship, you can transcend your own reality—you have the chance to grow into a person you can one day even admire. I’ve known T for 7 years and his friendship with Jack for just as long. All the cliches about man’s best friend are true: they’re better friends than most, and they try harder, too.

We sit on the porch Saturday morning, me, T, and Jack. It’s a gorgeous Spring day, the morning not warm yet, the trees billowing with post-rain breeze. It’s early enough for quiet. We listen to the robins and grackles, I hear the occasional woodpecker. It’s supposed to be peak cicada season, but I’ve yet to hear or see one. Jack stand with us uncertainly. I think of him snapping at bees, romping around the yard and playing chase. He’s an old man but he still acts like a puppy, we always joked, but now I can’t remember the last time we did. 

I take a photo of Jack and T, his sleek wolf’s shape finally slackened against T’s body, his head in T’s lap. They are handsome together, a softness in each of them that only appears when the other is around. There’s an ease in the way they lean on each other—the way good friends always do.

T holds Jack’s head and I hold his hand. I don’t see either T or Jack, not quite—I only see them, unable to see one without the other. When it happens, it happens quick—but softly, too, like when the sun sinks down at the end of the day. The sky is a blur of rainbow while it goes, and then it’s gone. The sky is a blur, still, and then it is only still, and then there is only you and the sky and no sun.

T looks at Jack and Jack looks at him and I am only a witness to their friendship. How did we get here?, their eyes seem to ask, and in my heart, I know one will always say the same as the other: I wouldn’t have without you.

TUESDAY

How it Feels to Find Yourself was featured in theSkimm’s Best Products to Support Your Mental Health; I am pleased and proud. 

WEDNESDAY

“Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!” 

—from Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet

THURSDAY

I just finished listening to Lara Love Hardin’s The Many Lives of Mama Love and so greatly admired the way Hardin confronted her own demons. 

I started listening to Ann Patchett’s Tom Lake; I’m reading Under the Tamarind Tree by Nigar Alam; I’m asking myself what kind of artist I want to be.

FRIDAY

Woke up early this morning and from my bed
looked far across the Strait to see
a small boat moving through the choppy water,
a single running light on. Remembered
my friend who used to shout
his dead wife’s name from the hilltops
around Perugia. Who set a plate
for her at his simple table long after
she was gone. And opened the windows
so she could have fresh air. Such display 
I found embarrassing. So did his other
friends. I couldn’t see it. 
Not until this morning. 

—Grief by Raymond Carver

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: A poem a day.

Poem-writing at my messy, neglected desk: a longed-for part of each day.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY 

After F goes down for her first nap, I sit at my desk to write. Since November 7th, I’ve been in the business of writing poetry, a fact that continues to startle and amaze me. This practice happened into my life because of Margaux Kent, an old friend who has been writing and sharing poetry with two friends since April of this past year. The practice is simple. Each day, I write a poem, put it inside an envelope, and post it to Margaux. Each day she does the same, which means the amount of actual mail (ie: not a bill) that I receive has gone up exponentially. The amount of poetry I read has increased. My joy? It’s skyrocketed. 

I love poetry. I’ve always wanted to write poems. When I was younger and more daring, I actually did. As the years rolled on, the desire of being good—of being a “real” poet— became more important than the practice of writing poetry itself. This desire, which was actually a fear of failure, kept me from poetry. It placed a dividing line between me and the craft. It said: you are a reader, not a writer. In this way, this fear also kept me from myself. 

Creative life can be lonely; young-child life can be, too. I spend 90% of my time with my 7-month old, inside our home. It’s rare that I venture outside of our neighborhood. I haven’t been to a happy hour in years, and since F was born, I’ve taken a step back from my work and creative practice as well. My children are small and they require so much of me. I know the cliches are true: these years will evaporate much more quickly than each day feels. Also true: In this period of my life, there is less of me for myself. 

In November, I read about Margaux’s poetry project in her newsletter. Her dedication to this practice inspired me. To me, this practice isn’t a commitment to writing good poetry or becoming a good poet, but is, instead, a commitment to the oneself. It’s a commitment to internal listening, to writing for the sake of writing, to being in community with others. 

With hesitation, I comment on the post asking to join. A few minutes later, Margaux replies yes. With excitement. With open arms. Since early November, I’ve been writing a poem most every day. I write each by hand and place it inside a painted envelope. I walk to the blue post office box a couple of blocks away, usually with F in tow, and drop each one in. 

It’s December now. I’ve been writing daily poems for over a month. Here I am: a person who writes poetry. Like me, my poems are not good or bad; they just are. I am. A person. A poet. 

It’s difficult for me to put into words just how precious this practice is because it fulfills so many present needs: the need to write; the need for creative discipline; the need to capture small moments that otherwise go unnoticed or misremembered, swept into the wayside of magnificent-yet-ordinary detritus, like an orange peel or the sunlight’s hourly change. 

It fulfills a commitment to friendship; a need for knowing another more deeply; a need for vulnerability through craft. Each day, when I sit down to write, I think about how this creative practice gives me more than I thought it would: a change of intellectual scenery, a deeper affection for syllable-parsing and line breaks, the opportunity to rekindle a fractured creativity. Respite from a lonely few years. A coming up for air. Revival.

I write today’s poem and then place it in an envelope. I write Margaux’s name on the front and my own on the back. I don’t tell her this but I think about it now: that the beautiful part of this story isn’t in the poetry or the letters or the creative practice at all. It’s much more simple. It’s that when I saw a door and knocked, someone let me in. 

TUESDAY

“I can’t think of an act more generous than an atheist at prayer, who temporarily puts aside their disbelief in a god in order to bring comfort to a friend. Loosening your position for a moment, and doing something difficult because it has been asked of you by someone you care for, demonstrates a confidence in your beliefs, and shows that they are not so prideful or absolutist that they manifest into a smallness of being. 

Of course, to some this act will seem intellectually dishonest, a sham and a lie, but to others it will appear as the purest kindness, where heart eclipses mind, a true and complex gesture of what it means to love somebody. We show that in times of need we can do whatever is required of us, with a magnanimous heart, bending to the will of those we love. Understandably, it will be difficult for you to pray, but that is the very reason to do it. What is true friendship if we are not tested at times, if we are not prepared to soften our cherished ideals as an act of fidelity and commitment to those we love. In the end, this act of friendship may be the most eloquent prayer of all.”

—Nick Cave on praying as an atheist, which I interpreted as practical advice on being a human, a civilian, a friend. 

WEDNESDAY

John Hendrix, the chair of my MFA program in Illustration & Visual Culture, writes to ask if I’d consider sharing what I loved about our program. I’m nearly 8 months postpartum, which means it’s also been 8 months since I graduated from Washington University here in St. Louis. I live a stone’s throw from campus, so I think about school quite often. I miss being a student terribly; I knew that I would. 

Attending this program unlocked a lot for me, the most important being that it forced me to get out of my own way. I’ve always believed that if I could pick a vocation—either writing or drawing—I’d excel at one instead of chugging away, moderately, at both. This program gave me permission to not choose sides. It showed me the unique potential of being an artist who can share multiple perspectives of a story, through written and visual language. It gave me the strength—and the time—to begin working towards a new chapter of my career in children’s literature. 

I learned a lot about storytelling, developing a reliable creative practice, and creative discipline, but mostly, I learned more about myself: Who I am, what my values are, and the philosophy that will guide my work. I discovered what I want to make, why it matters, and who it is for. 

What you’ll get out of a graduate program is likely dependent on what you’re willing to put in. This program didn’t tell me what to think or believe or do—it didn’t give me a road map to follow, though I often wanted one. Instead, I was taught how to think: about storytelling, myself, and the impact this combination can have on the world. 

*If you have questions about this program or my experience at WashU, feel free to comment or email me.

THURSDAY

We watched Minari, finally, after the kids were asleep and the house was quiet and it was every bit as beautiful as we’d heard it was. An immigrant story can never not be beautiful, I think, because it always contains the full breadth of human experience: perspiration and heartbreak, incalculable risk; a heart now split in two, half of which can never be recovered from the country it was left in.

I watched most of Minari with my hands covering my eyes, which is how I watch any film worth watching these days. When it was over, I felt emptied, disappointed that life is so arduous for so many. T was mystified by my reaction. He beamed as the credits rolled, exhilarated by watching a family nearly broken by life’s difficult choices sew themselves back together. 

Willingly, I changed my perspective. 

FRIDAY

Suppose I say summer,
write the word “hummingbird,”
put it in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much, I love you.

—Hummingbird by Raymond Carver

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: How to keep going

The final essay from my upcoming book, How it Feels to Find Yourself

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

For a limited time, my friends at BuyOlympia are giving away a free, 5”x7” limited edition print of my How To Keep Going paint palette with every pre-ordered copy of How it Feels to Find Yourself. 

This palette, in particular, is special to me. It accompanies the final essay in the book and is a daily reminder and source of encouragement to find the inner strength and commitment to keep going. 

This illustration outlines the steps that I’ve always relied on in moments of hopelessness and discouragement: accepting life’s duality, finding meaning in the difficult and joyful, keeping what’s useful (while discarding the rest), letting go of “should”, making peace with change, and beginning again. 

Pre-order your copy and complimentary art print here.

TUESDAY

“What do you think an artist is?…he is a political being, constantly aware of the heart breaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. Painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war.” 

—Pablo Picasso

WEDNESDAY

“There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent of the other or more important than the other. Without art science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous.”

—from The Notebooks of Raymond Carver by Raymond Carver

THURSDAY

“Don’t wait for someone to tell you that your project is worthwhile. If you’re moved to write, draw, create, produce something, that’s all the permission you need to devote some time and energy to it. Make a commitment to yourself. Some of my most rewarding collaborations over the many decades have been totally homegrown, grassroots situations (like the Secret Society for Creative Philanthropy) that ended up reaching really wide audiences because—in part—they were unfettered by “too many cooks in the kitchen” bullshit or the bad advice of supposed experts.”

—10 Thoughts on Building a Life You Love by Courtney Martin in The Examined Family

FRIDAY

I.
In March the earth remembers its own name.
Everywhere the plates of snow are cracking.
The rivers begin to sing. In the sky
the winter stars are sliding away; new stars
appear as, later, small blades of grain
will shine in the dark fields.

And the name of every place
is joyful.

II.
The season of curiosity is everlasting
and the hour for adventure never ends,
but tonight
even the men who walked upon the moon
are lying content
by open windows
where the winds are sweeping over the fields,
over water,
over the naked earth,
into villages, and lonely country houses, and the vast cities

III.
because it is spring;
because once more the moon and the earth are eloping -
a love match that will bring forth fantastic children
who will learn to stand, walk, and finally run
    over the surface of earth;
who will believe, for years,
that everything is possible.

IV.
Born of clay,
how shall a man be holy;
born of water,
how shall a man visit the stars;
born of the seasons,
how shall a man live forever?

V.
Soon
the child of the red-spotted newt, the eft,
will enter his life from the tiny egg.
On his delicate legs
he will run through the valleys of moss
down to the leaf mold by the streams,
where lately white snow lay upon the earth
like a deep and lustrous blanket
of moon-fire,

VI.
and probably
everything
is possible.

—Worm Moon by Mary Oliver

xx,

M

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Dear Somebody: The gaps of life.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

My collaboration with Mead Cambridge was released a few weeks ago, and I wanted to share it here. Over the last year, I worked on dozens of iterations before these three designs were greenlit for production, and although we are well into January, I hope these will be of use to those of you who, like me, enjoy mapping out their days.

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

A handful of planners are available in my shop as well as on Amazon. You can also enter the giveaway I’m hosting on Instagram (virtually no one has seen this post, so there is a very large chance you will win!). 

TUESDAY

When I confided to a friend recently that paring down my interests felt like I was making my work, business, and impact smaller, she invited me to realign my perspective, sending me the following passage:

“If you take objects out of a room, one by one, two things will happen. The first is obvious. You will miss some of the things you have taken away. The second is that you will notice the things that remain more than ever. Your attention will focus. You will become more likely to read the books that are left on the shelves. You will appreciate the remaining chairs more. And if there is a chess board, you are more likely to play chess. When things are taken from us, the stuff that remains has more value. It rises not only in visibility but also intensity. What we lose in breadth we gain in depth.”

—The gaps of life from Matt Haig’s The Comfort Book

WEDNESDAY

Today I read Still This Love Goes On, a beautiful picture book by Buffy Sainte-Marieand Julie Flett that celebrates seasons, Indigenous traditions, and community. When I finish, I turn to the back of the book to read the note that Buffy and Julie have written to readers. 

In hers, Julie writes: The lyrics represent a Cree worldview, one in which we don’t really have a word for goodbye, but say kithwam ka-wapamitonaw, which means “we’ll see each other again.”

I think about how much is lost in translation—between separate languages, of course, but also in the simplest of glances, or when transforming sheet music into sound, or when inviting the sentences from a book into our brains. I think about how often words fail us, even the ones we believe to most precisely describe how we feel. Mostly, I think about how beautiful it is that in Cree philosophy there is little reason for the word goodbye to exist. 

THURSDAY

It’s a cold January day but we go for our usual morning walk anyway. For the first time, N wears her dinosaur hat, a hand-me-down from her 3 cousins.

“Are you a dinosaur?” I ask her, smiling.

“No, mama,” N tells me solemnly. “Daddy is a dinosaur. I just have a dinosaur hat.”

I trail behind her and her dinosaur dad sheepishly, wondering how I could’ve let myself ask such a daft question. As she bounces along, I think about how many heads the dinosaur hat has called home: first A, who is now 9; then S, who is 7; and Z, who, at 2, is only a month older than N. 

I love that N wears so much of her cousins’ clothing. As I watch her collect sticks and pinecones, memories float along the river of my mind and down to my heart, where A carved out his own little nook nine years ago. I was still a lost kid in my mid-twenties when A came into the world prematurely, a tiny riot of iron will and too-fast-everything. 

Almost a decade before I had my own child, it was A who first introduced me to parenting—and that learning to parent is a long road towards becoming the person you always wanted to be, but never actually practiced being. With A, I learned what patience truly is. I didn’t know how to hold a baby, but I practiced with his little limbs. I felt my heart irrationally flare with anger when another toddler stole his pail at the playground; I practiced calming myself. I learned what it meant to be protective of another’s mind and heart through my conversations with him. I learned how to love my sibling more closely by observing how he loves his. Even today, I feel my heart well each time I experience the sensitivity and empathy he carries with him daily. It is far too big for his frame. As a person, I have always been slightly closed. It was A who taught me how to open my heart—who taught me how to love unconditionally. 

I think about A all day. Later, my sister tells me that the dinosaur hat never belonged to A—she bought it for S when he was little. Not only is my memory flawed, but the immediate flood of recollection I experienced was summoned by a truth that never even existed. At first, I feel cheated, as if the love in my heart is a lie. But then A’s face fills my mind and my eyes are quick to fill with tears. I feel overwhelmed by my love for him. Nothing about this love is a lie. 

FRIDAY

You simply go out and shut the door
without thinking. And when you look back
at what you’ve done
it’s too late. If this sounds
like the story of life, okay.

It was raining. The neighbors who had
a key were away. I tried and tried
the lower windows. Stared
inside at the sofa, plants, the table
and chairs, the stereo set-up.
My coffee cup and ashtray waited for me
on the glass-topped table, and my heart
went out to them. I said, Hello, friends,
or something like that. After all,
this wasn’t so bad.

Worst things had happened. This
was even a little funny. I found the ladder.
Took that and leaned it against the house.
Then climbed in the rain to the deck,
swung myself over the railing
and tried the door. Which was locked,
of course. But I looked in just the same
at my desk, some papers, and my chair.
This was the window on the other side
of the desk where I’d raise my eyes
and stare out when I sat at that desk.
This is not like downstairs, I thought.
This is something else.

And it was something to look in like that, unseen,
from the deck. To be there, inside, and not be there.
I don’t even think I can talk about it.
I brought my face close to the glass
and imagined myself inside,
sitting at the desk. Looking up
from my work now and again.
Thinking about some other place
and some other time.
The people I had loved then.

I stood there for a minute in the rain.
Considering myself to be the luckiest of men.
Even though a wave of grief passed through me.
Even though I felt violently ashamed
of the injury I’d done back then.
I bashed that beautiful window.
And stepped back in.

—Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In by Raymond Carver

xx,

M

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