Things I Said I'd Do

and prayer

You guys, I’m a writer now. I know I’ve been saying that for a minute. But really though. Like as my vocation, my #1 focus.

Proof: The other morning I had multiple thoughts in the shower about the essay I’m working on and had to scramble out to write them down. I then burst into the kitchen to ask Ken if I was approaching this proposal I’m working on the right way, and our daughter asked about her French toast and Ken turned to me and said, “I can’t right now.”

That used to be me! “I can’t right now” used to be my thing. He was focused on her breakfast and her lunch and getting them both out the door. I wasn’t. I was thinking about my life as a writer. We’ve been talking about a role reversal for a long time and it’s finally really here.

As I stand on the poetic bluffs of this new chapter, a brief retrospective. I just reread all my newsletters, mostly because I know I’ve made a lot of statements over the past year about things I’m newly devoted to, and now I can’t remember any of them. This is an incomplete list of things I said I’d do. I’ve added scores, not to punish myself (though a gentle self-ribbing never hurts), but because it sounded fun and that’s what play is.

0 = nope/not at all, 5 = really did that. I didn’t agonize, like I usually do, over what would equal what score. I challenged myself to do the whole thing without stopping to think.

• bring more play into work (1)

• headphones-as-activity (2)

• write 2-3 Substack newsletters a month (3)

• hang the list of things I know I’ll forget on my wall (0)

• make writing #1 (2)

• read books (2)

• celebrate my friends (5)

• more solitude (5)

• pursue ADHD diagnosis (5)

• regularly ask myself WWPD (What would Pippi do?) (0)

• find a new chapstick to love (1)

• keep a notebook solely for obsessions (1)

• look for the form before beginning new writing (1)

• proselytize for fourth places (3)

• devote myself to play as holy practice (3)

• walk alone (2)

• write letters semi-daily (2)

• be nicer to myself (3)

Turns out, over the last year I wanted to do a lot and remember a lot and I did some and forgot plenty. But when written, I see this: twice last year, I identified tanking mental health and then prioritized the shit out of it. I pursued an ADHD diagnosis, something I’d suspected I had for years, and starting taking meds. I went to a ketamine retreat and started seeing a therapist. I gave myself a new bedroom for daily solitude and left the island regularly to celebrate my friends. Maybe I tended to everything I needed to to make way for being a writer.

Our transition to Ken as #1 domestic person technically started in the late fall. We’ve clearly defined “on” and “off” parenting days since early 2020, when we made a wheel for our daughter so she (and all of us) could know what day it was and the plan. We’ve continued with clear Mom Days and Dad Days for a number of reasons.

1. If the adults focus on each other, the child is annoyed and the adults are regularly interrupted and annoyed.

2. If two adults are present, both feel like they don’t have to actively parent, so they don’t, and everyone gets confused and/or irritable.

3. If the attention is mostly on the child, one parent inevitably feels like they’d rather have some time alone.

4. We are both at our parenting best when one-on-one with our daughter (and each other). Considering more than one human at a time can be complicated and not very playful.

I won’t bore you with our actual schedule. Basically, Ken stepped into a framework I’d been in for years as I stepped out and . . . had no plan. I hadn’t drawn up a work life, didn’t know what to write, didn’t know where or at what time.

Ken was the one to suggest I take at least 3 weeks away after Christmas. He wanted some uninterrupted time with our daughter, the chance to establish what their new routine would be without me around.

You don’t have to ask me twice to go on a roadtrip. The details were fuzzy in my mind, but the goal was clear: a week or so in a friends’ cabin north of Santa Fe. Snowy and sunny. Time to write.

My friend Jake ended up driving up from New Orleans and it became a DIY writing retreat. We each brought projects which had been sitting too long and a shared need for creative solidarity.

On one of our walks in the snow and sun, Jake talked about his experience with AA, especially the “higher power” stuff. It had been a total revelation, he said, to replace every “God” in The Big Book with “Muse.” Of course he’d surrender himself to that, of course that’s bigger than him, of course he can pray to that.

After our conversation, I sat down and wrote pages and pages about the potential impacts of romantic relationships on our “spiritual fitness,” an AA term Jake loves. I hadn’t written in months.

Jake has probably always been a creative and spiritual peer, tracing back to adolescence. Our brains work the same way (and also very different ways), we see the world through the (almost) same lens, possibility everywhere, limitation nauseating. He’s the one who nudged me back to the ADHD hypothesis.

When I harp repeatedly about the ways romantic partnerships tend to limit who it’s ok to love, I’m really highlighting the tragic idea of not getting to spend concentrated time with the people who get us. Who are like us in some essential ways. Most of the time, these characters aren’t meant to be romantic partners. We vastly undermine their importance when we suggest they are.

In the middle of the retreat, I also got to have a playdate with Lisa. Reminder: playdates are for grown ups, too. Our version was astrology and beautiful food and long conversation and pulling some cards. I was flooded with inspiration for how to structure my book, and the day filled us both to the brim. Before I left, she gifted me a tincture with a yellow label. It’s called Devotion.

If Ken's point was to reset on home and parenting, mine was to write again. I did that. I also made a plan for my writing life at home. The key: leave the house before my family. I can’t allow for the possibility of wandering in circles.

My “office” was going to be our inter-island ferry, a literal boat to catch. But I missed it my first morning home and I’m glad I did (I may have had a small tantrum in the car). I’ve rediscovered the cafe at the Orcas Hotel. Little kerosene lanterns on all the tables. A very warm staff, who know me now, only as a writer. In the past, I’d infrequently stop into the cafe on the way to the ferry and see author Jonathan White sitting at a small table working on his book. He died last year, and it feels a little like I’ve been handed a torch.

Also newly critical to my workdays: a ritual before I open the computer. A few drops of devotion. Pull a card from my prism oracle deck (don’t overthink it, anything can be a vessel for play and I love color). And a prayer. Jake reminded me about prayer, about lifting a few things from our own shoulders and handing them to something that’s looking out. At first I thought “magic” was my word—and it still kinda is, but not for prayer. For prayer, Universe works better. Lisa has been praying to the Universe for years (credit: Alejandra), and sometimes I’ve joined in. As a kid I said prayers and it wasn’t that complicated. It wasn’t fraught with “or else.” It was ritual, protection and surrender. Now I’ve made my own. I wrote it down. I say it every day before I begin to work.

Dear Universe,

Thank you for helping me remember when I forget. Thank you for your infinite love and the love of all my humans. Help me put aside doubt and distraction so we can collaborate as we’re meant to. I believe in us. I love you. Amen.

One last thing: my friend Edee interviewed me for her blog, where she’s running a series on relationships and other hard topics. Read it here.

Your Optional Assignment: Pick One (or do all 3)

1. Think of a friend who really fills you. Plan a retreat/trip with them in the next 6 months.

2. Plan a playdate with a friend this week.

3. Write your own prayer. It can be to anyone/anything, it’s yours. Say it aloud.