Everything's going to change now, isn't it?
the art (and angst) of navigating these times
Near the end of the fourth Harry Potter film, Goblet of Fire, Hermione is struck with a sudden realization: now that the most powerful dark wizard has been resurrected, and a student has been killed, too much has happened to go back to the way things were. They’ve seen the last of the golden years at Hogwarts.
Hermione already knows the answer when she asks Ron and Harry – solemnly and with resolve – “Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?”
“Everything’s
going to
change now,
isn’t it?”
–Hermione
Granger
I flew home on January 20th after months away. This was nothing short of a time-warping portal. Many of us relate to this feeling right now as we undergo rapid, undeniable shocks and shifts in our communities and countries, and our physical, cultural, and digital landscapes.
I have no clue how to reenter the internet after several months in the cave. Or now that Donald Trump is again President of the United States (or is it Elon Musk?) Or now that this Department of Government Efficiency Efficient Takeover is swiping, deleting, and leaking sensitive data, working swiftly to enrich billionaires, and dismantling agencies like USAID, a channel through whom several of my creative services clients operated their life-saving programming. Or that traumatizing ICE raids are happening blocks from my house, at the homes of my actual neighbors who are welcome refugees. Or now that a “ceasefire” in Gaza means genocide and Palestinian erasure carries on in the West Bank. Though I am relieved some Palestinians are now able to return to their homes, many of those homes were flattened in the past year and a half, making way for Trump to suggest he “clean out” Gaza as if the land were up for auction.
For December and January, I chose to disconnect and retreat alone so I might harness the powers of wander, solitude, and creativity to make some progress in a few areas of life and recover from a brutal season.
Staying hidden away for a while to just be human, be quiet, be creative, be somewhere else was what my aching body and soul needed, like I knew I’d need to get ready for what came next. Like I knew I’d need an entirely new framework to do the work that’s exactly mine to do. Like I’d need some wandering home. Like everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?
I went first to Palma de Mallorca, Spain, to house and dog sit for my friend Sarah. I’d lived on an island before, so I thought I could recreate that experience and craft something of a writing residency for myself the way I built a life alone on Terceira in the Azores while my husband was deployed. My goal was to dedicate all of my energy to restructuring my book manuscript and making heavy edits to adapt to the new outline and form. I’d hoped to finish the rewrites in those weeks. (Bless my heart.)
Even though I was focused on writing, and some days obsessive, it turned out to be an unrealistic goal since I had overlooked my need to speak the local languages, cook, eat, sleep, go to the market, take the dog for walks, and go fetch a heating pad because I strained my back carrying my luggage.
I’d overpacked. I’d forgotten the unraveling happens before you get to find your footing somewhere new. I’d failed to account for being human.
A true mirror to life lately, I’d been having a hard time letting go of some baggage where I’d been disappointed or dismissed and wanted justice. I had been denying change and unwilling to face my own complicity to the consequences. I wanted to anticipate everything and so I'd packed everything I would need to be ultra independent, because then I could not fail or be embarrassed or exiled or need anything or anyone. I'd been too injured. Though on one hand my intentions were about making space to create, my bags told another story of scarcity, fear, and self-sabotage. When I’d overpacked, I’d doubled down on avoiding discomfort, only to transfer this pain onto my back.
By the time I left Mallorca, my back was mostly healed and my memoir was still deeply in-progress. But something else was shifting. I’d gone into the cave to do the work, and even though the work is not yet finished, I’d made progress on listening deeply to what the book wanted to say. I’d also grown better at keeping my nervous system regulated. I walked miles across the city every day, and my feet stayed happy. I didn’t drink alcohol for nearly a month. I contemplated a crossroads in my career, grieved the losses of this past season, and reconciled some distance in relationships that were strained in the time I was just getting by in the past year or so.
I realized all of this was the work I’d gone to Spain to do. To lighten the load.
I ended the year alone, eating 12 grapes to partake in the local new year tradition to encourage prosperity and health. I went up to the terrace on the roof of my friend’s Palma apartment to marvel at the fireworks lighting up the sky 360 degrees around me. Though I’m not much of a resolution person, I spent some time journaling and dreaming in my new playbook about my reflections, goals, failures, plans. I could finally hear my own life again and I truly wanted to listen. I wanted to ask how to keep this spaciousness for being even when I returned home.
I made a few commitments and I got on the plane. I kept moving.
I went to Germany to see my friend Hannah and her family, then met up with my sister and her family, and our Mom, in France. I am cliche but there’s nothing like schnitzel with Franziskaner in the hills of Rheinland. There’s nothing quite like a café crème at a too-small table in Paris. There’s truly nothing like going the distance to see your people.
I’m still carrying a lot, like everyone else I know. I’ve been beginning to feel Time in ways I never have before. Especially since we lost our dear Prudence, and I went to the Middle East to work alongside Palestinian refugees right before the Gaza war, and I wrote a book about my beautiful and precarious decade in church, and I experienced intense relational losses, and so much unrelenting growth and evolution.
I’m still in the weird middle part where I’m checking many doors for openings–some of them ways in, some ways out. Lots of wondering which decisions to make, or not make, which change is inevitable and which can be avoided. Lots of locked doors, except the Room of Requirement, which always comes through when one is in need. Which is, in part, why I haven’t written you in a long time. Though it’s the literal work I do, I haven’t known how to articulate the nebulous or the warp speed culmination of events leading to this moment.
I can’t stay tucked away on an island alone forever, and I don’t want to. I am home now and trying to find the rhythms to re-engage my writing, my work, my relationships, and my community. I am no longer numb to sensing that life is again going to change dramatically because it already has.
Like so many others, part of my work is sussing out the ordained from the extraordinary chaos. In the midst of mayhem, I will keep holding space for creating and healing. I want to practice wrestling the abstract into something we can name, so I made a list of extremely ordinary ways I’m staying human in these wild times:
taking a copperplate printmaking art workshop
figuring out how to finish editing my book at home
sleeping
volunteering expertise and time to organizers, storytellers, and healers
joining resistance networks for info and action in my local community
remembering what in America is worth fighting for
buying theater and opera tickets to see friends perform
dreaming of leading pilgrimages and retreats for makers and wanderers
planning ways to care for artists and storytellers for our collective futures because we are going nowhere good or beautiful without them (us)
having weekly dinners or coffee with friends
attending a drawing club just for fun
asking where home should/could be
exploring new shapes of career
becoming a paid subscriber to tiny Substacks I enjoy instead of giant ones
not crossing the picket line as King Sooper’s (Kroger) workers strike in protest of unfair labor practices
eating vegetables and drinking water
talking to my neighbors, checking on my neighbors, relying on my neighbors
calling my long distance people
watching Jon Batiste perform the National Anthem at the Super Bowl (and to see the piano his wife, , painted!)
slow mornings with coffee and reading mornings (currently Look About You by
| Forest of Noise by | Shaking Off the Ashes featuring my friend | Turning Over Tables by )using the library and talking to the staff
buying ebooks on Bookshop.org instead of Amazon
angry yoga and dancing to loud music to get the rage out
walking places instead of driving
unsubscribing from what is not helping me stay human
deleting social media apps off my phone
practice streaks on Duolingo instead of doom scrolling
documenting trips and life with my new camera
sharing what I have, borrowing what I don’t (cars, hot water, help, hope — what you need?)
waking up early to see every second of Winter’s daylight
writing letters and actually sending them
- ‘s searing, beautiful storytelling
snuggling with our Rover dogs
playing around on my guitar
craniosacral therapy and counseling
new waterproof mascara
prioritizing connection, creativity, and curiosity
allowing for the full spectrum of dreaming and despairing
From most angles, this appears to be fallout. Let's keep the practices and rhythms that fortify us in the land of the living. This has never been more crucial, more urgent. This is how we can make this place true, good, and beautiful.
Solemnly and
with resolve,
stay human.
This is the art
of wandering home.
With you,
P.S. I’m publishing a separate essay today on Buy Me a Coffee for my paid supporters. That’s the private community where I share more personal stories, in-progress art, and photos that I don’t share publicly or as widely here on Substack. Today’s essay is called “Why I threw my book away” and is about fighting for more honest versions of my story. Consider becoming a paid supporter to get those extra stories and fund my writing work.
Ahhhhh…..I love this so much♥️I have missed you♥️Your writing speaks to my heart…..amazing!!