Hello from the inside of an empty peanut butter jar.

Let's gather with what we have.

Photo by Steph Ironside

Hello from the final days of edits of the first book I’ve ever written. I am unwell.

We see two distinct types of videos of marathon runners crossing the finish line: there is the triumphant athlete, much less red faced than me after a 12 minute jaunt around the block, decked out in their techy-tech sports gear that is all sweat wicking and aerodynamic and a watch that carries enough data to probably get them to the moon if they wanted. And then there’s the person whose legs are made of spaghetti. They’re battered and bruised and are fighting for every step forward. They are probably already crying. We are definitely already crying on their behalf. Something rises up in me where I go, somebody get in there! Carry them across!!!!!! Sometimes a fellow runner will swoop in and hold them up as they wobble, almost crawl, across the checkered marker. It was gnarly, but they made it.

Needless to say, I’m runner #2.

This has not been a graceful season. It has been painfully confronting. I am cagey and vulnerable and irritable. I am grouchy and sad. I am heartbroken in about eight different ways. I started this process with burn out probably, and while I thought I’d be tapping into some deep well of creativity and inspiration, instead it’s felt like scraping the final dregs of an empty peanut butter jar. Confronted with the fact that I forgot what I needed the last time I was at the store for the essentials. Toast already in the toaster. I’m already in it; what can I make with this?

My friend asked me this week what I’m going to do when the book is officially officially done. It’ll probably be a random Wednesday (hopefully this coming Wednesday or something), hitting send at 10:04am, and whoosh, with one final email, it’ll be done. I think about the finish line of that marathon, the cheering crowd, the gatorade stations, the DJ blaring some cheery pop music, and I wonder how socially appropriate it would be to crawl under the plastic folding table with all the ribbons on it and take a nap. Someone might want the runner to say something about grit, about finding the strength within them. Maybe we should just get them a snack and save the inspirational quotes for after they’ve had a shower and caught their breath.

I’ve sat here week after week thinking about what I can say to all of you about the state of the world and the state of my heart. I’ve sat here for months thinking, what can I offer them? What can I say? And I come up short. I want to say something helpful. I forget that all I have to do is say something true. I’m tired of my own current truth which is: I am spread thin. I am spinning. I am trying. Still. Over and over again.

When I started Dinner With Strangers, I wasn’t in an inspired place—in fact, I was going through the most difficult season of my life. I had been assaulted earlier that year, and was dealing with the impossible grief that follows a trauma like that. The band I was in had just broken up after my other bandmates were done playing gigs hours away from home for $40 each. I was struggling with crippling self-doubt that I would ever be able to hold my own as a solo artist. And I was lying to myself that I wasn’t in love with my friend Rob. At twenty-seven, I was in the abyss of grief from a life-altering trauma; I was aimless as far as having any idea how to make any money from my creative work, and in lieu of that, what professional back-up plan to start working on; I was in angsty not-love love—I was truly having an existential crisis about what I should do next.

The dinners brought deep conversation that felt hopeful and inspiring. I was so relieved to not talk about my serving job or what I should possibly make of my life. I didn’t feel like I had a deep well of insight to offer anyone; I was simply desperately eager to talk about things that were deep and meaningful and true. Hearing other people share about making it through hard times, where they were finding joy, and how they were finding meaning among the mundane buoyed my spirit and began to give shape to a new dream for my future.

So we’re here, beloveds. Creating, seeking, asking, caring: all radical acts of defiance. Running the race in whatever cadence we can. Even if it’s bloody. Even without the bells and whistles. Even if, ten minutes in we get a cramp and we don’t remotely hit our goals and the little golf cart that rounds people up at the end is puttering at our heels.

(Obviously this is a figurative running of a marathon because baby, that’s crazy. I’ll see you at the finish line.)

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Ways To Gather

We’ve got some sweet online events on the horizon as I return to the world that exists outside my head!

In Conversation: David Gate & Jess Janz

Substack Live - Tuesday, May 20th
7pm EST - 8pm EST

Join David and I right here on Substack to discuss his forthcoming poetry book, ‘A Rebellion Of Care.’ A video recording will be available for those who can’t make it live :)

(David’s website/ instagram)

In Conversation: Sam Bradshaw & Jess Janz

Substack Live - Sunday, May 25th
8pm EST - 9pm EST

Our very own Sam Bradshaw’s book, ‘(Spoiler Alert) It’s Me, I’m The Fool’ will be released on May 24th (pre-orders are open here!), and we’re getting together on Sunday to talk about her writing process, hear some of her poems, and ask lots of questions. A video recording will be available for those who can’t make it live :)

(Sam’s website/ instagram)

Poetry Club

On Zoom - Monday, June 2nd
7pm EST - 8:30pm EST
Theme: Poems About Steadiness

Poetry Club is back! We’re gathering on Monday, June 2nd to share a poem you love based on our monthly theme. Enthusiastic listeners welcome!

Poetry Club is included for paid Substack subscribers ($5/month) or you can sign up here.