Friends, here I am again thinking about all the drafts I started and didn’t publish because it felt impossible to say anything other than to express the grief and rage and bafflement about the ruthless war against Palestinians. I am sickened and angry. As someone who lived through war as a child and got refugee status to leave, I also feel guilty. Of course, leaving is no easy question.
I didn’t publish here because I thought about how a lot of the newsletters I admire, such as Lisa Olivera’s Human Stuff, Suleika Jaouad’s Isolation Journals, and Satya Robin’s Going Gently, discuss things like finding ease and peace, and reflecting on how we are with ourselves and how we engage with the world. Friends like
write so beautifully and openly about their lives, their projects, their thoughts, and I feel compelled to do the same. But I find myself hesitating, even though I enjoy it so much. Perhaps it’s because my job involves a lot of writing in a very different voice, and I am not sure how (or if) to reconcile these voices.I can remember having this problem as long ago as high school, when my beloved “History of Western Civilization” teacher (shoutout to Mr. George Wrobel!) assigned us a research paper, along with a paper reflecting on the process of research. The topic (mine was something about Haile Selassie and the Ethiopian Revolution?) wasn’t that important, but what I learned was that I wrote in two different voices with varying degrees of assuredness, and that I was to work on bringing some of each voice to the other.
What I write here is personal, and it’s so different from my work as a researcher and scholar because it’s not about entering a scholarly conversation, it isn’t using evidence to make claims, or even making claims of the sort scholars care about. It’s public and that makes me feel vulnerable. It is writing that is morphed into the form of social media and that feels tricky to navigate. There are no heart buttons or comment sections on peer-reviewed articles or books, and there is solace in that. You write something and you let it go. This is different, but I’ll stick with it because I enjoy it immensely, and that has been one of the lessons of 2023 for me—getting more comfortable claiming things for myself.
Nine nights ago it was Shab-e Yalda, an ancient celebration in Iran (and many other places) of the longest and darkest night of the year, aka the winter solstice. People get together and eat pomegranates, watermelon, nuts, and dried fruit, while telling stories and reading poems. The red of life, of dawn, of fire, reminds us that the long, dark days will soon abate. I couldn’t get it together to make this happen with my little family, and I missed being with my parents and elders. But I keep thinking about the things people do day after day, year after year, to keep themselves and others going. I recently saw a video of an elderly Palestinian woman using a hammer to break up stale bread and soften it with water for birds and other animals. In the midst of it all.
It reminded me of my sweet grandmother, who at 92 (and beyond), every day made an unnecessary and taxing walk out to her yard to leave cooked rice for the birds and take care of her garden.
* * *
This is a meandering post written in parts over many days. My heart hurts trying to hold it all together. I don’t know how we go forward, how we explain the world to ourselves. Will the end of this painful year bring a reckoning? I don’t have an answer for what the result will be. I can’t wrap it up nicely. I can give a personal accounting by the light of early winter, and try to rest in knowing that despair is never without hope.
When I reflect on the end of 2022, I feel like I was a babe in the woods, thinking I was really figuring things out because I listened to some Tara Brach, and was working on sorting my shit out. 2023 had other plans for me and now I feel rather like a baby who is no baby at all because she knows she is a baby learning to do some things for the first time.
This year I wrote a ridiculous amount. Wow, did I write a lot. I finished a draft of my book. I got a publishing contract. I accounted for, compiled, and narrated my work of the last several years into a 2000-page PDF document that nearly killed my eyes and cramped my legs. I gained so much clarity about how much I love writing and how many more books I think I have in me.
I regularly talked about my work in community with two dear friends/colleagues who somehow both ended up in Scotland, where I plan to visit them next year. In Oakland, San Francisco, Port Hope, Hamilton, and Toronto I spent countless hours in what has felt like ever-deepening friendships with women I have known for many years, the real ones who know me and love me. I missed the ones in other places, but the phone is a useful device for connecting by hearing voices, and I’m glad to have remembered that this year. I had so much external and internal work to do this year, I didn’t stray too far from home, visiting only the U.S. and just a few times at that.
Halfway through the year, I found a remarkable community of people who have held me through some very tough things.
I read a lot, cooked a lot, walked endlessly, felt a lot of feelings, went deeper into Non-Violent Communication and Buddhism, prioritized my sleep, I felt assured and I felt lost.
* * *
Because a few friends have asked, I’m going to share my reading log from this year. This doesn’t include kids’ books or anything for work. I’ll be back early next week with new year stuff.
BOOKS READ IN 2023
In the order I read them. The ones I loved are in bold.
And Yet—Kate Baer
My First Popsicle: An Anthology of Food & Feelings—Zosia Mamet, ed.
My Phantoms—Gwendolyn Riley
How to Keep House While Drowning—K.C. Davis
Really Good, Actually — Monica Heisey
What We Say Matters: Practicing Nonviolent Communication—Judith Lasater and Ike Lasater
Already Enough—Lisa Olivera
Big Swiss— Jen Beagin
Wanting: Women Writing about Desire—edited by —
Real Self-Care—Pooja Lakshmin
Looking for Palestine—Najla Said
Lech—Sara Lippmann
Pineapple Street—Jenny Jackson
Hello Beautiful—Ann Napolitano
My Body Created a Human: A Love Story—Emma Ahlqvist
Forbidden Notebook—Alba de cespedes
Oh William! — Elizabeth Strout
We are all completely beside ourselves—Karen Joy Fowler
Anything is Possible - Elizabeth Strout
Fear of Flying — Erica Jong
Lucy by the Sea—Elizabeth Strout
My Name is Lucy Barton - Elizabeth Strout (re-read)
The New Earth—Jess Row
The Nursery—Szilvia Molnar
The Gifts of Imperfection-Brene Brown
Games and Rituals - Katherine Heiny
First Love - Gwendolyn Riley
Hope-Andrew Ridker
Time’s Mouth—Edan Lepucki
The Guest—Emma Cline
You Could Make this Place Beautiful—Maggie Smith
Acts of Desperation by Megan Nolan
Pete and Alice in Maine—Caitlin Shetterly
Mobility—Lydia Kiesling
Foster—Claire Keegan
Abide with Me—Elizabeth Strout
Manhattan When I was Young—Mary Cantrell
The Burgess Boys—Elizabeth Strout
Say What You Mean: A Mindful Approach to Nonviolent Communication—Oren Jay Sofer
Small Things Like These—Claire Keegan
The Unsettled—Ayana Mathis
Let us Descend—Jesmyn Ward
The Light Room—Kate Zambreno
Currently finishing Good Morning, Monster by Catherine Gildiner, which is amazing.
What did you read and love this year? Are you okay? Hold your loved ones close.
xoxo,
Sara
So beautifully said and so relatable. I’m so glad you wrote this. I find solace in your words - they make me feel less alone in our collective grief and rage. ♥️
Thank you for reading my book--and for putting it in bold. Thanks for writing in your voice here. xoxo