Gazing at the mountains of Taos this fall I felt the earth of myself, the rock. Things that cannot and will not be moved. Things that are lasting. Parts of myself that are unwavering and rooted. Pieces that have seen eternity’s past and hold wisdom I’m not sure is mine.
I felt the river of myself that carves pathways into rock and leaves gorges and canyons in its wake. I sensed the truth of myself that is soothing in its fluidity and gentle in its confidence. It is always moving; it is persistent, strong enough to chisel pathways through stone.
In the desert I felt the sky of myself, vast and expensive. The piece that stretches deep into the horizon and holds answers—are they questions?—to life’s mysteries. These are better felt than spoken.
Out West I felt the wind of myself, the part that moves effortlessly through change and rushes in with a storm. It floods my ears with whispers and offers the occasional warning.
When I watched the Sangre de Cristo Mountains offer a bed each night to the sun I felt the colors of myself. Shimmery, vibrant shades that present differently depending on the season. They fill a giant sky, they dance in sunlight and shimmer in lavender threads beneath the moon.
In Taos I felt the fragments of myself that are woven together like mica meets clay, like algae meets rock, like the Rio Grande meets the Rio Pueblo beneath the Rift Valley Trail. I sensed the parts of myself that will, because of this intermingling, because one part of me is interlaced with the next, become rich and clear, carrying me closer to my reason for being here on earth.
By getting quiet, by paying attention, I sensed the elements of myself as interwoven and necessary parts of a whole, linking me to whatever benevolent creative intelligence runs through the universe. I saw myself mirrored in nature in Taos. That changes a person, or at least wakes them up.
Between you and me—
Last fall, when pandemic malaise seemed to be going around and highly contagious, I mentioned a question I’d been exploring at home: What pleased you this week?
A year later, I am thinking about it again, especially since I’ve found that focusing intently on what brings me pleasure and joy, in my work, relationships, and daily patterns, to be transformative in its ability to direct my life towards meaning and fulfillment.
So here’s what pleased me this week: Sending strangers mail; Planning a virtual baby shower; Starting a fun gig that is not writing-related, which allows me to focus writing energy where it most needs to be; Developing an essay that’s important to me; Singing The Gilmore Girls theme song, “Where You Lead” by Carole King, which somehow never gets old; Styling a tablescape for a magazine; Large, sculptural, richly colored magnolia branches arranged around my home; The clay mug covered in half-moons I use every morning; When my husband laughs aloud, so loudly it reverberates round and round the bare walls and floor of the hall that separates us while we work; Preparing for an upcoming concert; Herbie’s aversion to doing literally anything without me; and Sally Rooney—this will not surprise anyone who knows me—on friendship.
What pleased you this week? I am off to soak in the colors of fall. Take care out there.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you read and enjoy this newsletter and have the means, please consider sponsoring this work. Every sponsor is like a beloved saint-angel-fairy-godmother-early-investor for my writing, and I am not exaggerating when I say I will be eternally grateful. You can also click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!