being left out, an offer for you, and pears

Like so many, I am aching and furious for those who are suffering in Gaza and Israel. This level of loss and pain feels unimaginable. And, for millions, the current crisis is deeply connected to generations of injustice and loss. Civilians, by function of where and to whom they were born, are targeted by a war they did not choose. 

All of that to say, I know that many of the people reading this are in pain right now, and I am so sorry for your suffering. May we all find a way to seek justice, upend oppressive governments, and cling to our humanity (our own and collective) with all of our might. 

It can feel daunting to talk about minor personal pain when global agony is so high. But even so, I’d like to try. I think that talking honestly about the specifics of our worries (even the smaller ones) can be healing for those doing the talking and for those doing the listening. 

A few times this autumn, I have experienced the pain of exclusion and of being left out. The rejections have come in different forms. In a few cases, I was simply not invited to something. In others, I was unable to attend something because the space where it was held was inaccessible to me. In one, I witnessed someone I love very much being excluded. 

I noticed, in every case, how tricky rejection is. For one, it’s embarrassing to admit when you’ve been rejected. Here’s how it goes for me: First, I get my feelings hurt, and second, I try to ignore that it happened because maybe if I give it attention, I’ll find out I deserved it. 

Actually, it’s more like this. What if I tell someone that I was left out, and then the person I share with considers _why_ I might have been left out and starts to notice things about me that are unloveable, and then I get left out even more? What if I say that it hurt when that thing wasn’t accessible, and someone I love tells me that I am demanding too much? 

A particularly fragile, childlike, and scared version of myself emerges around rejection. 

As I’ve been smarting from my own hurt feelings, I remembered a conversation my grandmother (Mama) had with me when I was in elementary school. We were sitting at her heavy round kitchen table, both drinking coffee (mine was mostly milk) in her thick brown mugs, and she told me that no matter what happened as I got older, I was never to exclude or belittle someone. That, if people around me were unkind, I was to resist the urge to join in. I can still hear her heavy drawl on that word, never (ne-vah). 

Remembering that conversation made me think about the worlds that I occupy now. Who am I excluding? What slammed doors can I prop open?

I’ve only been writing professionally for four years, but I have walked through a few of the doors that many knock at for decades. I am immensely grateful for that. And I’d like to offer whatever advice and experience I have. 

I am available for three phone calls/text exchanges (whatever you find accessible) to talk about publishing books and essays. I will share anything I can. Of course, I am not a wizened expert, but I do have something to offer. Three isn’t a ton, I know — my energy is limited. I will also continue to offer these calls in the future as my time and capacity allow.

If you want to discuss publishing and get my advice, reply to this newsletter or contact me here. I will draw three names on Thursday, November 9th, and will reach out directly.   

I hope that, wherever you are, and whatever major or minor injury you are nursing, you have someone who you can share the details with. 

As I tend to do, I’ll leave you with a poem. This one is by Meister Eckhart. Let us bring pears and look into each other’s eyes. 

LOVE DOES THAT

All day long a little burro labors, sometimes

with heavy loads on her back and sometimes just with worries

about things that bother only

burros.

And worries, as we know, can be more exhausting

than physical labor.

Once in a while a kind monk comes

to her stable and brings

a pear, but more

than that,

he looks into the burro’s eyes and touches her ears

and for a few seconds the burro is free

and even seems to laugh,

because love does

that.

Love frees.