Welcome to The Unfurling 🌿
Earlier this month I flew to Colorado. I got on two packed airplanes as Covid cases were spiking all over the south and west United States, feeling a little naughty, a little nervous, a little lightning in my veins. (Everyone wore masks. It was mostly fine. I seem to be fine. Knock on all the things.)
I was meeting with a client for a book writing project in Frisco, about 90 minutes west of Denver. The morning before our first meeting, I went for a five mile hike in the mountains.
Early on the trail, there was one of those big signs that gives you a little tidbit about the ecology of the area. It said the mountain was covered in Lodgepole Pine, a species of tree that grows in areas prone to wildfires. Their cones are sealed by a layer of resiny pitch, locking their seeds tightly inside. Only extremely high temperatures can unseal the cones, releasing the seeds inside to germinate. The cones can spend years on the forest floor waiting for a disturbance significant enough to unlock them and provide the conditions for them to grow.
Once they do start growing, the baby trees need sunlight to flourish. Fire provides the double service of opening the cones and clearing away more mature trees, opening the forest floor to the sun and sky.
A baby Lodgepole Pine growing from beneath a fallen tree in the mountains of Frisco, CO.
There's no question we're experiencing a disturbance. A massive event that's clearing away stands of established beliefs, systems, structures, ways of being, ways of seeing, futures we thought we were moving toward. We’re losing elders in great numbers. We’re losing aspects of our own lives and mindsets — things we took for granted, for better or for worse. The heat is almost unbearable.
But amid all the destruction, new possibilities are also being unlocked. Resinous cones are being unsealed, long-dormant seeds are being sown. All this destruction is leaving a layer of carbon inches thick on the ground, waiting to be upcycled into new life.
Look up at that sky, all the sunlight streaming down.
Already, here are a few things unfurling for me:
With the indefinite pause on all kinds of live performance, the energy I’ve always felt pulling me in two different directions — between my writing and my acting work — has a chance for the first time in my life to be channeled into one. I'm eager to see what lies down this path now that I’ve committed to it in a fuller way. I dream of theater almost every night, and I'm worried about my colleagues in the industry. But I'm also enjoying this chance to reclaim the often unrequited energy I've given in that direction, and channel it elsewhere.
My timidity in the face of gatekeepers is waning. I am so sick of gatekeepers. People saying No, not now, you’re not quite what we had in mind, this isn’t a fit for what we’re looking for, we receive many submissions from so many talented writers/actors/freelancers, we hope you understand. Rather than slink quietly back to the rear of the line, I’m gathering the courage and creativity to bypass the gates entirely, and connect my work directly with an audience, permission be damned. Like with this newsletter.
On the cultural level there’s so much more starting to emerge: whole new questions about the role and funding of police; representation and equity in the arts; what work should look and feel like, and what it should be expected to provide in return. How we care for our elders; how we care for our communities; what it means to have enough (in the words of Adrienne Maree Brown, to be "satisfiable").
For years now, I’ve thought about doing this — forming a direct line of communication between myself and you, the folks reading this. As a writer, this is how I connect, explore, feel alive and vital, experience myself as a vector of transmission in an unfathomable web of exchange, nurturing, and growth.
What held me back? Fear, of course. Fear of putting myself out there. Being seen as self-promoting. Taking up too much space, saying something wrong or offensive, having people judge or make fun of me behind my back.
That's one thing gatekeepers are good for: They're an elegant way to outsource your confidence.
But among the things the pandemic has done, putting fear into perspective is high on the list. I mean, there’s fear and then there’s fear, right? In the face of the fear of death, fear of living out loud — in alignment with your truth and your desires — starts to pale.
And sometimes the closer death gets, the more vividly life blooms.
So how about you? What seeds are stirring, breaking loose, peeking up toward possibility?
Here are some links to things that have been feeding my mind and spirit lately:
Charles Eisenstein has been rocking my world since he came across my radar with his essay The Coronation in March. This is another, slightly older essay of his that I found particularly nourishing in the wake of George Floyd’s murder and the energy it unleashed in the streets and on social media: Building a Peace Narrative.
I also signed up for his online (pay what you can) course Living in the Gift, and it’s deepening a lot of intuitions and instincts I’ve felt stirring over the years in a powerful way.
I’m totally loving the book Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds and Shape Our Future by Merlin Sheldrake. (An appropriately forest-wizard-esque author name, no?)
Also loving the book Pleasure Activism by Adrienne Maree Brown, who espouses “a politics of healing and happiness that explodes the dour myth that changing the world is just another form of work.”
And here's Lawrence Wright writing for The New Yorker on how pandemics wreak havoc — and open minds: "Like wars and depressions, a pandemic offers an X-ray of society, allowing us to see all the broken places. It was possible that Americans would do nothing about the fissures exposed by the pandemic: the racial inequities, the poisonous partisanship, the governmental incompetence, the disrespect for science, the loss of standing among nations, the fraying of community bonds. Then again, when people confront their failures, they have the opportunity to mend them."
So there it is! The first missive of The Unfurling. It’s a little silly how many years and much worry littered the path to this humble offering.
I’d love to hear from you if you have any feedback or thoughts to share. And if you know others who might enjoy this newsletter, I’d sure appreciate it if you shared this with them. (If this was shared with you, you can sign up to subscribe .)
Until next time, I'm wishing you courage, calm, and comfort.