Dear Friend
Everyone is so Wonderfully Unalike
Dear friend,
I’m missing the day-to-day element of turning up in your inbox. Randy in the US said it was like nodding to a neighbour on your way to and from home. You know they’ve got stories to share, but life’s rushing past too fast to join their jet stream without feeling you’re getting left behind in your own.
Maybe we’re all rushing on our way to the next moment, and the next. For now, I’ll content myself with weekly letters.
I’m thinking of so many people, and everyone is so wonderfully unalike, going through so many different life stages, it sometimes feels too general the way I write here. Ideas visit all the time. Each one seems bright as it lands, but the passing of even a day or two dulls most of their sheen. Not all of them tarnish though. One of the most obvious—the one we need to hear over and over—is how powerful it is for us to show up exactly as ourselves.
After all these years of trying to be someone or something other than kind, and baffled by the mysteries. Who are we, deep down? Where do we belong, and where are we going?
Last night we cooked leek and cabbage pasta, which tastes amazing with anchovies and sheep’s cheese. Sitting at the kitchen table with Chiara, an idea came back to me from earlier, walking on the marshes with Sonni.
“I think the problem is,” I heard myself say, “we learned to play roles that were acceptable to our families. We didn’t get to be ourselves. We had to be something different from what we are.”
To my surprise, Chiara just nodded, as if it made sense. If she’d pulled at it or poked around, that wouldn’t have surprised me either—and it would have been welcome too.
One or two people have said kind things to me about my writing, which is something I’m learning to take on board. To feel at least a little pleased with being me.
As Tom Blue Wolf said, we’re hurtling through the Milky Way on a living rock at 68,000 miles per hour, and not one of us knows where we’re going.
It’s a true statement, whichever angle you look at it.
That’s what I’m after—stuff you feel in your bones to be true, even if you know you can’t hold on to it. Not even your bones—forever.
In a universe of never-ending change, forever kindling the flames of curiosity and kindness, adventure and exploration. I spoke with John in Ireland this morning, a new friend I met through Louise. He said that kindness is a state of being.
That feels true in my experience. True kindness protects us from the worst excesses of our ego. The unfolding of our real lives takes place right here and now. Thoughts, words, and acts of kindness bring you into presence, connection, and peace.
Being you now. Being simple and kind and present—that’s what’s needed more than ever. It is strange how we struggle. But we do, and we don’t struggle alone. A friend, Marc, has a question that runs around in my mind, cackling with glee, rubbing its hands in mischief and delight:
“What if it were easy?”
What if it were easy to be you?
Marc can be annoying like that. Planting thoughts of freedom.
The crows were at war with the magpies at dusk. Two fell, crying, almost to the ground before the crow let go of the smaller magpie. In the chaos, crow fought crow also, and the grappling pair continued their chase across the bare canopy of the giant trees in the park.
I’m loving making the radio show for Do Radio. The more I listen to the conversations, the more it feels like a download. When you go to interview someone, you don’t know how the conversation will unfold. I don’t have specific questions, usually. It feels as if the threads form themselves—my work is to trust, stay open, and be me.
A strange thing happened today in the spring sunshine on the marshes, walking with Sonni. The hawthorns and wild cherries are in blossom. We were near the river, coming off the riverside path onto the main footpath. A man with a walking stick was singing softly to himself as he laboured with what looked like a hip problem. His voice was sweet and resonant.
We trailed behind him for a while to enjoy his song. When I spoke with him, I said how much I loved his singing. He was pleased and a little taken aback, clearly slightly embarrassed by the praise.
“I’m singing, the sun’s shining, and I’m out in nature—what more could I want?” he said by way of explanation. But there was no need for him to explain. It’s enough to sing because we want to. Or because it feels good.
As Sonni and I walked past the outdoor seating by the canal-side café, I scanned for French bulldogs and there were none. People were sitting at the tables, engrossed in conversations or watching the comings and goings on the towpath.
“I love myself,” I heard my voice, low and steady, like the gentleman singing.
“I love myself.” I said it again.
You’re sometimes given it as an exercise—look at yourself in the mirror and say it out loud—but I could never do that, not without feeling off, or wrong.
But this time it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
Which it is.
You won’t find a baby who’s being cared for that isn’t in love with themselves, at least for some of the day.
There’s been other wild things this week, but this is getting long and my eyelids are becoming heavy. So I’ll sign off and send love.
I can’t make sense of the suffering in our world, but I can make sense of kindness.
Till next week
Love
Mikey