Dearest Reader, Welcome to 2023! I trust this note finds you healthy, happy, and wise. Just know—you’re all of that and way, way more.
If you don’t care about the word I’ve chosen for 2023, you can stop reading now. If I were you, I’d be gone. If you’re still here, however, there’s a prize for you at the end.
My word for 2023 is surrender. Yes, it’s cliche, but I’ve let that go.
This is the very best word for me. I haven’t needed to look far to know my only job is to let go. Most of what we’re sure we know is best for us is a tiny portion of what’s possible. To control our destiny, we constrict. Convinced we have the wheel, we suffer-steer until our arms go numb and we run off the road. We’ve been sold a bill of goods. We’re each wonderful, yet we know very little about letting go.
This year, my practice is the great surrender. It’s truly a magnificent life. I shall allow more of it to take the lead.
The Journal Burn
Today, I dug a bin of journals from the garage at least 60 deep. I haven’t examined the contents, but I believe the earliest tales are from my college summer in Rome. Over the three months I was away, my boyfriend found another lady, while I gained 20 lbs on gelato and brushed up on my Italian. Buongiorno.
If that’s the foundation this bin is built on, and I believe it is, I’ll skip the stroll down memory lane. Instead, I’ll burn them all. Not the plastic or the filmy covers, but the papers. Ciao forever.
The plan goes like this: I’ll bring them to the home of a wonderful man. While we eat homemade spinach lasagna by the fireplace, I’ll open each journal to a random page and read the vomit aloud. Tossing the turmoil into the fire, we’ll alternate cheers and sighs—marveling at how far I’ve come (the last part isn’t mandatory, but it could happen).
Just by their existence, these journals take up physical and emotional space in my world. They’re filled with angst and utter discomfort. Not that my life is more uncomfortable than yours, but journals rarely carry the good stuff. Our youth is filled with a thunderous voice in our head. I don’t live that way anymore. Age rewards us. The lumpier the body, the smoother the mind.
The Surrender Experiment
I feel cliche every time I recommend a book. Even worse, a podcast. Still, I have a book recommendation (many, and podcasts, too).
Anything from Michael Singer is worth a recommendation, but I’m talking about The Surrender Experiment: My Journey into Life’s Perfection, which has me riveted by its regularness.
Michael writes about letting life call the shots, not his preferences, and how things continually unfold in his favor as a result.
With each situation, he gives his likes and dislikes their moment to shout (in his mind), then he does what life asks of him—flowing with, not against, what shows up. As a result, there’s little to no drama, and everything that transpires, good or bad, is for his benefit.
I’m growing in this mindset. Growth feels like the awareness that what was is no longer—and it’s a magical feeling.
New Years Gathering
Five spots remain. I hope you’ll join me IRL (in real life) for a gathering on Thursday, January 26th, from 5:30–8:00pm at a beautiful shop in Larkspur called Floramye.
Sure, we’ll share our dreams, but way more, we’ll surrender.
The same wonderful man who will accompany me in journal burning will accompany me here. Meaning, men are welcome.
If you’re interested, hit reply and let me know.
$50/each | includes materials, plus a spot of tea and a crumpet | Thursday, January 26th from 5:30–8:00pm | at Floramye in Larkspur, CA.
Letters to Paul
I finally wrote my letter to Paul Whelan, the American imprisoned in Russia. I mentioned Paul and his address two weeks ago in Issue 63. Upon Brittany Griner’s release, I was compelled to support a man who felt so far away yet so easy to touch.
I thought I’d share with you what I wrote him because I wrote it in one fell swoop—zero overthinking. I let the pen take me. I have no idea if this is what you write to a stranger trapped for four years in a forced labor camp. I only know it’s what I wrote.
While dismantling my holiday decor, I tore off the inscribed portion of this wonderful card sent to me and began writing to Paul:
Paul, My former mother-in-law sent me this holiday card—hand-painted by her. I think it’s beautiful. I hope you do too. You’ll get this long after Christmas. I hope that’s okay. I’m sure you’ve had to become okay with many things you don’t find okay. I bet you know what surrender feels like.
You’re a warrior. From a little town outside San Francisco, where I live—I salute you. It’s called Mill Valley. Maybe you’ve been. Maybe you’ll go someday.
The world knows about you. I bet you wonder sometimes if they do. I would. We know you’re out there, and we hope for your release.
Can you receive books? What do you need from a stranger? I know you have a wife and a sister and maybe, and hopefully others, but what can a stranger like me offer? Company through words, I suppose. I hope my words bring you more than a moment’s joy. From Mill Valley to Russia, Simone
Why write such a card? First, life asked me to. I saw the address posted by his sister and figured a note of any kind would be appreciated beyond what I could comprehend. If I simply followed my fingers to the page and then the mailbox, I’d provide something valuable to a stranger and open who-knows-what flow in the process.
I think that’s an act of service with a dusting of trust.
Picture of the Week
Ciao for now. Your prescription: Trust, surrender, and let go—if only for a moment. Until next time…
I mentioned a prize in the opening if you kept with me through The Letter. You made it. You’re the prize!
how inspiring- loved to read this Letter and the letter to Paul. i can imagine him reading it and feeling hope. oh I wish I could go to your vision board night. hopefully the next time around.... I have never made it to the point where I could accumulate even 1 whole journal because I would reread an entry, want to 🤢and then rip out page and throw away.
love your word for the year ... it is a go-to for me as well .
Beautiful letter to Paul. Such deep thoughts, lightly delivered. As always.