Hi there,
The slow-down of deep winter is a desperate sigh of relief for me this year. In addition to the familiar comfort of turning inward, I’m finding the quiet pace and excuse for reclusiveness more urgent than ever. Summer’s rush is so last season.
This year has been Big for all of us. We are collectively processing much—changing paradigms, global violence, witnessing pain in an interconnected world that feels impossible daily. And the minutia consumes whatever remains.
I’ve been gratefully absorbed by my employment finding its settled rhythm, my continuing graduate education, extracurricular gardening classes, books, a (cat) baby, a boyfriend (<3), and a few original thoughts here and there. You can see why I’ve not written much—it’s not been a priority and not something I want to force.
And so the welcome slow-down of true winter, post-holidays.
Reflecting has its celebrations. On this leg of the spiral, I’m proud of my growth and the person I am becoming. There are also a few things I’d like to shift. I’m calling these contemplations my new year revolutions. In no particular order, here are three:
Respecting My Cat
It is endlessly beguiling why a creature so soft, fluffy, and cute, would not want my constant kisses, cuddles, and pets. Still here we are. I voluntarily adopted an animal needing a home, provided him with all the necessary creature comforts and more, and am discovering that I am not entitled to complete dominion over him. This may seem absurd, yet it’s a hard pill to swallow—not so much the boundaries my cat wishes to set, but the indignation and frustration I feel when forced to respect them.
My relationship with my cat is informing my attitude toward the world. A dynamic that holds space for the totality of each person feels much more satisfying than a relationship involving coercion, disrespect, or entitlement. A cat’s cuddles mean the world because they are a gift consciously given without duress. Where else is my entitlement preventing true intimacy?
Sure, this is stupid, but beneath the silly humor is a stone worth polishing.
Consumption and Compost
Hello my little consumers! is my favorite recurring motif in comedian Julio Torres’s use of Instagram. My media consumption has run free this year and I regret nothing. Strictly speaking numbers, it’s been 120 books, four Star Trek series, six Real Housewives franchises, 57,000 bananas scrolled on Reddit, and hundreds of hours of podcasts. There’s no denying I’m the child of the information era and that’s not going to change—it’s why I love being a librarian!
The influx of unnecessary information is a balm to my astrologically airy soul, and oils certain gears that otherwise break down without something fresh to churn. My habits are not completely without merit, but my consumption is ripe for change—and what’s more revolutionary than compost?
The best compost is made of one part nitrogen-rich materials and two parts carbon, mixed well, kept moist, aerated, and left to alchemize without too much overworking. Disrupt this dance and you’re left with stinking sludge toxic to the most resilient garden bed. Extending this metaphor to my mind, I’m seeking a balance of frivolous information (carbon) combined with the meaningful (nitrogen), tempered by an active body (mixed) that’s hydrated (moist), fed (aerated), and allowed to have screen-free moments of rest and boredom (when the real alchemy occurs). Throw in some (brain)worms and now you’re cooking! (I’ll stop the parentheticals here.)
Staying Soft in a Busy World
Humor aside, the callus of continued existence feels unavoidable as I age. It suits survival and is useful—but it’s also something I do not want to let happen unexamined.
I see my own numbing in my taking-for-granted of a wonderful relationship with a kind lover, in my tendency to be aloof with my colleagues when we all need care, and my failure to listen to those around me. I feel the growing ease of turning off and turning away, and note the increasing effort required to remain intentional.
I do not know of any solution to the creeping formation of our heart-walls save the intervention of three ghosts, and even that has dubious efficacy. But the interest in a stopgap perhaps misses the point here—an overnight solution can’t undo a year’s worth of endurance.
Short of a cure, I’m committing to remember the wisdom of a child’s curiosity and freedom and to cultivate that openness within myself. I may not remember this each day, but I hope the trajectory of my life reflects that softness is the ultimate strength. Perhaps there’s nothing revolutionary about that.
If you’re receiving this letter, I likely care what you think. I share this to express what’s on my heart, to show a bit of what’s churning through my mind, and to perhaps invoke a response. But there’s no rush.
Sincerely,
Mason
Letters to Friends 