Dear Molly

I am writing to you live from Friday night.

I am writing to you live from Friday night. Don’t worry: I’m not penning a letter to you from the corner of the club — though I do like and identify with that image. It’s the funnier, more useless version of the, “Mom, will you pick me up?” text. By the time you read this, there’s no rescuing to be done.

Good thing, then, I’m alone in my living room having just finished a workshop while eating a large bowl of steamed edamame. Did I just pop a little edible? Will I soon embark on a journey called the newly dropped episode of Severance? You’ve known me for 20 years so I’ll assume that those questions do not need answers.

The answer, however, to the topic of the workshop: Defining your niche for Substack. Oh my god I am so sorry: what a cruelly uninspiring subject that inherently sucks the joy out of what it means to write something. Listen: I am trying to keep on my creativity hat 80% of the time, but here and there the hat of capitalism looms large overhead. Don’t panic: I took it off already. Hence the edible.

I’m telling you this because it was actually (begrudgingly) helpful. It helped me pinpoint what I’m trying to do, which is write across mediums about the things I am giving my attention to. This is what we always are “paying” — our most valuable resource. And it’s actually one of the only things we have control over. To what — and to whom — do we pay our attention? It’s good to take stock of because it’s expensive: it costs us the shape of our lives. So, that’s my intention as a relatively large-and-still-vague container for all these written do-dads to live in. And it made me realize that I could just write you a little letter about what I’m paying attention to right now.

The crown prince demanding much background attention, of course: my ever-running toilet. No, of course my landlord has not come to fix it. It almost sounds like I’m living next to some strange river. A nice enough reframe, if I can pull it off with some mental gymnastics. Unfortunately, weed always heightens sound for me, so I’d say the toilet is taking up about 50% of my attention capacity. Fine! That’s fine! Totally and absolutely no worries.

My attention can address the next elephant in the room, too: Yes, this is a page ripped out of an agenda. In my defense: there was actually no lined paper to be found in my entire apartment and I was so distraught for the entire month of November that I didn’t write down a single to-do. The dates can cordon off my attentions: Monday — toilet. Tuesday — apologies and excuses. Sounds about right.

Next up: honestly, my elbow is ithcing and my hair, on the left side, is falling out of its claw clip. It always does that, no matter how long it gets. My eyes are burning in a way that I’m concerned I might need glasses. Wait, I have glasses! Molly, I am so serious, I just put on my glasses for the first time in years and I am seeing more clearly. Look how you help me. A true friend.

Real talk: my attention has been enormously on patience. On not getting upset or anxious when things go wrong. Holy shit this is hard for me. If the train isn’t coming for 12 minutes, my normal mode of operation: swear, sweat, refresh the map, pace, calculate my lateness, over-communicate, apologize, refresh again and again. I’m trying in these mundane moment of deep internal turmoil to reframe. Does it really matter if I’m late? Can I let myself shrug my shoulders, lend myself some grace? I am realizing that in order to be less exasperated by other people, I have to first turn that practice to myself. So this week, I’ve been standing on subway platforms admiring tiles. Eavesdropping. I’m trying to reroute anxiety toward curiosity. This feels like a worthwhile attention.

And look at that! It’s already the weekend. I feel these days like time is moving so quickly and also so, so slow. What is it they say about having children? The days are long but the years are short? That, but without the children. I guess, though, that we’re mothering our inner children — that’s a big part of curiosity work. I’m so glad our inner children are friends — and that they’ve been so since before they were inner. Love you endlessly.

xoxo,

Zoe