If you are a writer, you are probably familiar with Anne Lamott, as she is a hero among writers.

If you are not familiar with Anne Lamott, let me introduce her to you. She has a gift for homing in on the nuances of spirituality, anxiety, love, and other topics of great pertinence to our interior selves.

Among writers, she is renowned for authoring a beautiful nonfictional book called Bird by Bird. I read Bird by Bird years and years ago, and it helped me greatly as a young writer. In large part, the book is about seeing more clearly the inaccurate things we writers tell ourselves when we are feeling frustrated and vulnerable. It’s about the writing process, and how to think and go about the writing process in such a way that one does not destroy oneself or abandon the attempt. It’s about how to be gentle with oneself when one is trying to do something very, very hard.

But Lamott doesn’t just write about writing; if you’re not a writer, she has books to offer you, as well. She is a good author to read during hard times. She lifts the reader up; she understands what you’re going through. She doesn’t say too much. She seems to listen. She says just enough. She gives you space to think.

I know two wonderful mothers of very young children. Babies are great . . . but mothering babies is exhausting work. This past December, having noticed a new Lamott book on the bookstore shelf, I knew this was the right gift for each of them.

And then, having given away those two copies, and crossed over from December into January, I realized that it was the right gift for me, too. To me, from me. I checked it out from the library and devoured it: cozy beside her imaginary fire.

This recently published gem is called Almost Everything: Notes on Hope. In the following passage, Lamott references the title, illuminating its significance:

“Some days there seems to be little reason for hope, in our families, cities, and world. Well, except for almost everything. The seasons change, a bone mends, Santa Rosa rebuilds after the fire.”

Hope is the thing we need upon reading the headlines.

Hope is the thing we need in January.

Where do you seek and find hope?

If, on the other hand, you felt more inclined to travel by motorcycle four days ago—this post is for you.

Bruce Springsteen’s song “Born to Run” definitely isn’t about strapping on your running shoes—the thought makes me bust out laughing!

No—it’s about “suicide machines,” and the narrator is “a scared and lonely rider,” who’s thinking, “we gotta get out while we’re young,” and who’s telling his crush Wendy, “we can live with the sadness / I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul.”

Like his narrator, Springsteen is an avid biker. And he also suffers from a certain madness of the soul, as all true artists do.

In his autobiography Born to Run, Springsteen writes eloquently about, well, everything he mentions in the 500-page masterpiece—including his lifelong need for escape.

He became world famous doing what he loved; but fame and money do not cure madness-of-the-soul-type issues. And so he remarks that, after he married Patti Scialfa, one of her virtues was that “she gave me my motorcycle-canyon-running Sundays when I needed them.”

Earlier in the book, he writes fabulously—the man is a writer! and his prose is as good as his lyrics!—about madness of the soul and the things we do in our attempts to feel better:

“We all need a little of our madness. Man cannot live by sobriety alone. We all need help somewhere along the way to relieve us of our daily burdens. It’s why intoxicants have been pursued since the beginning of time. Today I’d simply advise you to choose your methods and materials carefully or not at all, depending upon one’s tolerance, and watch the body parts!”

What great advice. Choose your poison, and “watch the body parts.” I love that. Ministering to the soul’s needs can be physically dangerous, so “watch the body parts.”

And speaking of watching the body parts: when you’re on the road, folks, please watch for motorcyclists when you’re not a bike! And practice motorcycle safety when you are!

Earlier in the chapter I quoted in my previous blog post, the protagonist says something that I found fascinating, sad, and immediately recognizable:

“I don’t let my thoughts touch the sides as I take the crowbar out of the toolbox . . .”

“I don’t let my thoughts touch the sides”: I get that; I have felt that way before.

Do you; have you?

Later in the novel All the Birds, Singing, the author, Evie Wyld, has the protagonist say something similar, expanding upon the idea:

“I walk down the corridor of my brain and don’t even look at the doors either side.”

Wow, what powerful imagery: a picture of numbness. Why doesn’t the protagonist want to make contact with the sides, look at the doors, or—God forbid—walk through those doors? Why does she endeavor to go straight down the middle, focusing only on stepping cautiously forward?

Wyld expands on this idea even further, later in the novel, but the idea is understandable even after reading just these two short passages. When something bad has happened in your past—an event, or many events, so horrifying or shameful or depressing or otherwise traumatic that you can’t bear to think of them—the memories continue to reside in your brain, whether you want them there or not. Sometimes it is more comfortable and less anxiety provoking to avoid thinking or feeling at all, so as not to risk touching upon one of the danger areas.

If you have never felt this way—felt so paralyzingly numb that you could not bear to let your thoughts touch the sides—count yourself lucky, young, otherwise blessed, or more than one of the above. If, like me, you have? Well, we’re only human.

And maybe, one day, letting your thoughts touch the sides will feel not so bad, and walking through the doors will feel not so awful, after all.

Know what I mean?

Hi, all! Today I’d like to provide a few updates, some pertaining to this website and others pertaining to topics of previous blog posts.

Security

This website runs over https. The “s” means that communications to and from the website are secure and encrypted. The site gets an A+ rating by the SSL Server Test (woo-hoo!). The security of this blog is very important to me. People who leave a comment, sign up for the newsletter, or contact me through the website provide their name and email (and, in the last case, a subject and message), and these must be kept private and safe from the hands of unscrupulous marketers, spammers, and other bad agents.

Privacy

This brings me to the subject of privacy. You may have noticed that this website asks visitors to indicate whether or not to accept cookies; every 365 days, the site will ask visitors to confirm their choice again.

If you are interested in reading my data collection policies—or simply enjoy perusing long-winded legal and technical documents—I invite you to view my Privacy Policy, Cookie Policy, and Disclaimer. And, of course, if you have questions about the security or privacy of this site (or anything else, really), you are welcome to send me a private message.

GDPR Compliance

Earlier this year, the European Union’s GDPR law went into effect; I have taken steps to comply. GDPR—which stands for General Data Protection Regulation—requires, among other things, that websites with users in the EU give them the chance to opt in (a.k.a. consent) to services that affect the privacy of their personal data. Spamming people in the EU is not allowed! (Sheesh, spamming people anywhere is not cool in my book.) This law is having a large effect on the way tech operaters conduct business, not just in the EU but everywhere. The Guardian article What is GDPR and how will it affect you? contains further information.

Meditation

I have been thinking about your comments on my post Who Cares About Meditation? and testing your suggestions. Your ideas helped me—thank you so much. I have been working on improving my ability to relax and “just be,” and I find myself “succeeding” to a greater extent than before. I still find meditation difficult, but I have finally established a routine. I feel that my new daily practice is helping me stay calm and avoid anxiety.

Also helpful to me have been reading the books 10% Happier, by Dan Harris, and Meditation for Fidgety Skeptics, by Dan Harris and Jeff Warren with Carlye Adler, as well as downloading and using the 10% Happier app. The app offers an unguided meditation timer, as well as guided meditations by different meditation teachers. I especially appreciate that the app has a setting to automatically silence my phone while I’m meditating, which helps immensely in avoiding interruption.

Superstition

My news on the superstition front isn’t quite so rosy. I have been thinking about this topic since writing the post Superstitious and reading your comments. For a while, I was actively trying to avoid being superstitious. And I was excited to stumble across ace pilot Mark Stucky’s view of the matter, in the New Yorker article Virgin Galactic’s Rocket Man:

“As adventurous as Stucky was, he didn’t believe in lucky stars, or lucky breakfasts. ‘The only superstition I have is not to be superstitious,’ he said. The same empiricism led him to keep urging Virgin Galactic engineers not to be spooked by the past.”

Recently, however, the stars have conspired to lead me back into my old superstitious ways. . . .

And Back to You

That’s alls I’s gots for now. Any of yous gots any updates you wish to share?

If you’re a nature lover like me, you’ve probably encountered the following paradox.

When the rush of modern life gets overwhelming, when the crush of people, busy and striving, feels oppressive, it’s wonderful to seek out the hush of nature. Traipsing through the woods is cathartic. One feels peaceful and at one with the universe . . . until a minor tragedy plays out.

A sick or injured bird might be lying on a ledge, unable to fly. A young mammal might be fending for itself alone, without a mother. Carrion-eating birds and bugs might be preying on a dead animal. A snake or bear or mountain lion might be lunging for . . . you.

In his book The Weather Detective, Peter Wohlleben notes that “on average, 80 percent of wild animals lose their lives in the first year.”

It’s beautiful out there, but harsh.

Wohlleben offers advice for those seeking to help small animals that look like they’re in trouble. His advice is detailed and specific, but here are some of his basic tips: If it’s a baby bird that hasn’t yet grown feathers, and you see its nest nearby, put it back in the nest. If it’s a baby mammal without a mother, do nothing; the mother is likely nearby or returning soon. Finally, he offers this recommendation:

“If you want to help baby animals, the best way of doing so is to have a natural garden with ecological niches; that is, pockets of wilderness. By avoiding the use of chemicals and leaving some areas uncut or untended, you will give many young animals the best chance of surviving their first year.”

Oh, so I can stop feeling guilty about the big, brambly, weedy chaos of overgrowth at the back of my yard? Three cheers for nature!