Since I first launched Wiley Canning Company in July 2020, I’ve written a weekly newsletter. It celebrates our accomplishments each week, previews what’s to come, and shares company announcements.

Nearly one year into writing this newsletter, I created a segment called, Thin Slices. It has become my favorite way to connect with you.

Thin Slices, named after one of my all-time favorite articles by Cup of Jo, intends to highlight fleeting moments, or thin slices, of joy, patience, heartache, and more that grow our hearts and minds. It is personal at times, witty at times, and simple it times. It is always written openly and honestly.

An archive of Thin Slices is below. It is organized by date and ordered from our newest newsletter to our oldest. It is updated weekly for you to read and enjoy.

Jump in below!

Week of December 26, 2022:

As we end a full year, I sincerely and hopefully wish for you the following:

I wish for you to know and feel the wonder and the marvel of an ordinary life alongside those you love most.

I wish for you to remember you do not have to be good.

I wish for you to take comfort in your bold heart where hope and fear are mingling.

Happy, ordinary, wild, and bold New Year to you, my friends. I am forever grateful for you.

Week of December 12, 2022:

In my last newsletter, I shared three thought-provoking questions as we closed out November and welcomed December.

What does it mean to build something that will stand when we are no longer a part of it?

As parents, friends of parents, aunts, uncles, and more, what might it look like to show a child abundance without spending money?

What is a good life?

In today’s newsletter, I will leave you with three additional thin slices of joy I experienced this week.

In order to express yourself, you have to know yourself. (This nine-minute TED Talk is worth every second.)

I asked Zachary Gray, a dear friend of mine, for a recommendation for music to listen to while creating. He recommended four albums I can’t stop playing. I invite you to listen while you create, too, here, here, here, and here. (Zachary said the first song on this album might be his favorite jazz song ever.)

Whose time do we ask for? How do we think about them? How can we honor them?

Week of November 28, 2022:

As we head into a new (and full) month ahead, I will leave you with three thought-provoking questions.

What does it mean to build something that will stand when we are no longer a part of it?

As parents, friends of parents, aunts, uncles, and more, what might it look like to show a child abundance without spending money?

What is a good life?

Week of November 21, 2022:

I write my best work when I’m confined to a single seat in a Boeing 737. This setting, unfailingly, helps me access the mind with which I write. It is not the mind with which I parent, and it is not the mind with which I cook or teach or run. It is the mind behind a locked door on the top floor of a secluded house, and I attempt to access it each day to write as if my life depends on it.

When I open that door, I might find a cold, bare room. Or, I might find a warm, inviting room, one filled with complete sentences that acutely describe my specific emotion or experience. No matter what I find, I write. Traveling in an airplane, thirty thousand feet above Earth, helps me unlock this door more quickly than any other setting. I know this to be true. I sit still. There is little distraction. Cellular service is unavailable.

I faced this truth when I found myself three weeks away from my final deadline for The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook with a mountain of pages yet to create. As a new mother, I had not yet learned how to best prioritize my day. I had not yet learned how to live and create well despite my exhaustion. I had not yet learned how to quiet my mind as it buzzed with excitement, worry, and curiosity about my infant son. Day by day, I let my work slip through my fingers, and time was running out. With only three weeks left, I knew I had to make a serious change. I needed to sit still, reduce distraction, and restrict my phone use. I had to access the mind behind a locked door on the top floor of a secluded house, the mind with which I write. To do so, I had to overcome the fear and vulnerability I felt to be apart from my son.

“I can do this,” I repeatedly said. “And I must.”

I boarded a Boeing 737 to Albuquerque, New Mexico and traveled to a small village named Galisteo. For five days, I found myself alone in the golden desert in a one-bedroom casita. There was a small desk, a single chair, and limited cellular service.

There, I wrote. I wrote. And I wrote.

For this brief moment in time, I successfully compartmentalized my fear and vulnerability, and I poured my mind and heart into my work. The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook mattered entirely to me. I created that mountain of pages. I felt relieved. I felt proud.

Now, it was time to travel home to my son. I needed to see him, hold him, and allow my mind to, once again, buzz about him. As I sat at my gate in Albuquerque to travel home, I continued to write. It was, after all, my goal to make the most of my time away.

My work was suddenly interrupted when the gate attendant began an announcement with trepidation in her voice. She said, “I have a very unfortunate announcement. Please remember I am only the person communicating this decision to you. I have no control over the decision itself.”

“What in the world could this be?” I wondered.

“All remaining flights out of Albuquerque have been canceled. There are currently no available flights for three days. In addition, all hotels in Albuquerque are sold out due to our annual International Balloon Festival. We will do our absolute best to ensure you have a place to sleep and eat until we are able to find a flight for you.”

Gulp.

I sat in sheer disbelief as I watched hundreds of panicked travelers form a rapidly growing line. I could not remain apart from my son for three additional days. Not only would it have been difficult emotionally, but it also would have been difficult logistically due to childcare needs. The day before, I wrote as if my life depended on it. Now, I had to problem solve as if my life depended on it.

Luckily, there was a rental car available. I needed to quickly reserve it, map my route, and ensure I had a full charge on my phone. I had to access the mind with which I endure, the same mind with which I run. To do so, I had to overcome the fear and vulnerability I felt to complete a cross-country drive through the black of night.

“I can do this,” I repeatedly said. “And I must.”

I rented a Nissan Kick and traveled toward Nashville, Tennessee as the western sun met the horizon behind me. For eighteen hours, I found myself alone on the highways of New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Tennessee. There were wind farms, plains, and dark, infinite skies.

There, I focused. I focused. And I focused.

For this brief moment in time, I successfully compartmentalized my fear and vulnerability, and I poured my mind and energy into the drive. Traveling home to my son mattered entirely to me. I completed that cross-country drive through the black of night. I felt relieved. I was home.

In a span of five days alone, my work mattered entirely to me, and my son mattered entirely to me. In one moment, I chose to board a Boeing 737 to Albuquerque, New Mexico and write as if my life depended on it, and in the next moment, I chose to rent a Nissan Kick and drive as if my life depended on it. As human beings, we pursue one instinctual experience after another. We make one careful decision after another. We grapple with one thought-provoking paradox after another. We do so much more than choose to board a Boeing 737, despite the fear and vulnerability we feel to be apart from our children. We do so much more than rent a Nissan Kick, despite the fear and vulnerability we feel to complete a cross-country drive through the black of night.

We pursue our first 5k because we believe it will bring us a tremendous sense of pride, despite feeling nervous, even unqualified, to step into running shoes. We decide to call our dying grandmother to tell her how much we love her because this might be our final chance, despite the excruciating heartbreak of that call. We find heroic strength in the profound love we have for our children, despite being brought to our knees by exhaustion and overwhelm. We begin to write our first book, despite an endless list of unknowns and quiet insecurities.

We break, and we rebuild. We second-guess, and we fully commit. We give away our love, and it finds its way back to us. We pursue and accept the complexity of our lives, and we do the best we can.

This is not easy. This is not comfortable. This is not predictable or tidy. The complexity of our lives tests our humanity at times, and it celebrates our humanity at others. It allows us to create a mountain of pages, and it allows us to complete a cross-country drive. It is what makes us authors, and it is what makes us mothers.

My wish for each of us is to know, without a shadow of doubt, that our work matters entirely when it matters most. My wish for each of us is to know, without a shadow of doubt, that our people—our children, partners, parents, grandparents, friends, and colleagues—matter entirely when they matter most. We must board the Boeing 737 when our work matters most, and we must rent the Nissan Kick when our people matter most. We must pursue our first 5k. We must call our grandmother. We must fall to our knees, and we must begin our first book.

We must pursue and accept the complexity of our lives, and we must do the best we can. In doing so, we honor every single ingredient that makes our miraculous lives so beautifully ordinary and so very delicious.

Week of October 24, 2022:

As I wrote The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook, there came a time when I realized I had to very strictly prioritize my efforts and energy. I remember thinking, “You can’t obsess over every detail.”

“Time is running out, and obsessing is slowing you down.”

“Move on, Chelsea. Move on.”

I admittedly felt deeply unsatisfied by this. I did want to obsess. Obsessing is what, I believed, would lead to unique, beautiful work. Not to mention, I enjoyed obsessing.

Luckily, I ultimately found an approach that allowed me to efficiently move forward and obsess. I simply needed to adjust the sentence, “You can’t obsess over every detail,” by only a few words.

“You can obsess, but obsess over the things that matter most to you.”

“Loosen your grip on everything else.”

“Be discerning, Chelsea. Be discerning.”

The story of my book mattered far more to me, for example, than the precise order in which I listed the equipment and tools needed to complete a recipe. I therefore allowed myself to examine, finesse, re-examine, and further finesse the story of my book—its impact, flow, and consistency—before revisiting lists of equipment and tools.

The lighting of my photos mattered far more to me, for example, than the way the napkin was situated in them. I therefore allowed myself to carefully capture the sunlight shining onto my jar at just the right angle before attempting to adjust the folds of the napkin.

When we allow what matters most to be the star of the show, we realize everything else becomes supporting material.

What things matter most to you?

Be discerning as you answer this.

Then, allow yourself to obsess over them. Allow yourself to get caught up in them. Allow them to be the star of the show.

Then, loosen your grip on everything else.

What might this be like?

Week of October 17, 2022:

Jared and I recently found a small lump on the top of Sullivan’s head. We discovered it because he had fallen, but Jared and I only heard his fall; we didn’t see it because we were turned away from him.

For several days, we assumed this lump was a result of his fall. We assumed it would decrease in size as it healed, as well. But, after several weeks, it hadn’t gone away or decreased in size. We began to worry.

We decided to call Sullivan’s pediatrician to express our worry. She asked us to come in for a visit the same day we called. She said, “Let’s call this a ‘peace-of-mind visit’”.

Her words alone brought me immediate comfort. When she said, “Let’s call this a ‘peace-of-mind visit’”, I heard, “Sullivan is likely healthy and well, but let’s connect in person to bring ourselves peace.”

We went to our appointment and heard what any parent would hope to hear. The small lump on Sullivan’s head is very normal, and we can free ourselves of any worry. It is very likely a part of his skull, or his suture, and we simply discovered it for the first time when he fell.

When we left his pediatrician’s office, we went to music class where he danced and sang more expressively and loudly than ever before. I sat back and watched as I filled with gratitude for my healthy and well baby boy. A “peace-of-mind visit” was exactly what we needed.

Since our visit, I’ve felt inspired to pay attention to small action steps that may simply bring me peace of mind.

Is there a cookbook recipe I might want to retest for peace of mind?

Is there a text message I might want to send for peace of mind?

Is there a question I might want to ask for peace of mind?

Is there an appointment I might want to schedule for peace of mind?

Sometimes, we need a “peace-of-mind visit”, don’t we? I hope we each follow through on them when they call to us.

This week, I wish you thin slices of peace and small action steps that lead to them.

Week of October 10, 2022:

I’ve written before about my letter to Sullivan at the beginning of The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook. Beginning my book this way honors his role in its creation process.

Throughout this letter, I focus on the importance of noticing and celebrating everyday occurrences. The goodness of life itself exists within the ordinary.

In his poem, “Do not ask your children to strive”, William Martin begins by writing, “Do not ask your children to strive for extraordinary lives.” He ends by reminding us, “The extraordinary will take care of itself.”

This sentiment feels particularly relevant as I sit with the finality of my book’s creation process. Having written a book feels extraordinary. It is extraordinary. I’m thirty-two years old, and I’ve written one book. It is, by definition, not an ordinary occurrence. It makes perfect sense to me that William Martin asks us to to honor and celebrate the ordinary because we see, hear, smell, taste, and touch the ordinary every single day, not once in our thirty-two-year-long life. Doing so gives us far more opportunities to feel the goodness of life.

As I wrote The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook, I felt the excitement, the potential, of opening my laptop each day…the ordinary. I felt the satisfaction of peeling fresh tomatoes knowing they would soon become a nourishing dish…the ordinary. I felt the joy of scooping Sullivan into my arms and saying, “I’ve missed you!” after a full workday…the ordinary. Repeatedly engaging in these ordinary acts simply gave rise to a completed book…the extraordinary.

Indeed, the extraordinary does take care of itself when we honor and celebrate the goodness of life itself that exists within the ordinary. May this idea continue to carry us.

This week, I wish you thin slices of ordinary excitement, satisfaction and joy.

Week of October 03, 2022:

I love seeing the way others see fruits and vegetables. Below are three recent favorites.

I’m so drawn to this color palette by Le Marké.

Just look at these frosty grapes!

Summer potatoes!

Week of September 26, 2022:

What does it mean to build a life with a healthy business?

What does it mean to build a business with a healthy life?

These are two questions on my mind as of late. At first, each question encouraged me to think about separation versus integration. What areas of my life and business are well separated? What areas of my life and business are well integrated?

Then, I came to a very simple conclusion, one that required me to zoom out a bit further.

I wish to build my business around my life, not my life around my business.

This approach will not only allow both my life and business to remain healthy, but it will also help me quickly and confidently decide when and how to separate or integrate them.

This simple conclusion has already impacted me this week. For example, I almost didn’t take Sullivan to our weekly music class because I could have continued editing The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook for an additional hour. But, hours become days. Days become months. Months become years, and years become our life. I want to build Wiley Canning Company around my life with Sullivan, and in small moments of indecision, this simple truth brings me clarity.

We had a blast at music class. Sullivan shouted, “Moo-sic cass!”, throughout our drive home.

“Moo-sic cass!”

“Moo-sic cass!”

“Moo-sic cass!”

I stepped away from my work to take Sullivan to music class. Separation. I revisited my work the next day with confidence in my decision, a fresh mind, and renewed energy. I ultimately reached my overall editing goal. This separation, and my renewed commitment to building my business around my life, ultimately led to integration.

What does it mean to build a business around your life?

What does it mean to nurture a relationship around your life?

What does it mean to uphold habits around your life?

This week, I wish you thin slices of discernment, curiosity, and clarity.

Week of September 19, 2022:

This morning, I noticed a fallen eyelash on my cheek. I immediately transferred it to my fingertip, closed my eyes, made a wish, and blew it away.

Do you make a wish when you find a fallen eyelash? I have for years. This time, though, I retroactively noticed how little I thought about what I just did. “I just made a wish on an eyelash,” I thought to myself. I began to giggle. “I just made a wish on an eyelash!”

I then realized we do something for ourselves, beginning at a very young age, that only we can do.

We create magic for ourselves.

We wish on fallen eyelashes. We deem a song our song and feel extra special when we hear it. “It’s our song!” We put our favorite necklace in a small, glass jewelry box to add a simple, romantic step to our routine each morning. We create magic for ourselves, and when we do, we experience the magic of ourselves: our ability to perceive tiny details and feel big, beautiful feelings because of them. This is extraordinary.

This week, I wish you thin slices of quiet magic. Make a wish, won’t you?

Week of September 12, 2022:

This week, I feel moved by the hearts and minds of three people in particular.

Elise Joseph, a dear friend, began a thought-provoking newsletter. I especially love this piece she shared, entitled In Praise of 'Scruffy Hospitality.

Scruffy hospitality is certainly something I can further embrace.

Secondly, Jedidiah Jenkins, New York Times bestselling author, writes beautifully on Instagram any time he posts. Recently, he shared the following:

“How common for a generation to distrust the one before? For a child to be forged in the chemistry of the current time, a chemistry alien to those that made it? Some of us millennials feel that with Gen Z. But what can we imagine of our children, generation Alpha? What will they care about?

The boomers birthed us. And they have cares and beliefs and movements and achievements of their own. They joined the civil rights movement, second wave feminism, invented the internet, the personal computer, the computer in our pocket…so many things. And these things sent the Greatest Generation into a flurry of fear and rage and unraveling. But what have millennials cared about that was a little too much? A little too far for them? I remember hearing a millennial gay guy talking to a boomer gay, saying, “Oh, marriage is not for me. Why would I want to join that failed institution?’ And the older gay man said, "Because we marched in the streets for forty years so you could.”

Every generation is going to twist the arm of the other, bend it uncomfortably behind their back, and leave them moaning. It is promised.”

“Teaching others to create is an honor, and it's a wonderful way to connect people with the process of how physical goods are made. Understanding all that is required to make something from scratch is the first step towards making more informed and responsible consumption decisions.”

“When I uphold my own values, vision, and boundaries, my well-being—and subsequently my work—flourish. I believe I will impact the world most positively when I tend to my own needs with just as much care as I tend to the needs of our colleagues and customers.”

Week of September 05, 2022:

I recently stumbled upon a commercial space for sale that is perfect for Wiley Canning Company. It is located in my favorite neighborhood. It is soaked in golden sunlight that travels through every window. It is ready to be filled with eager minds and hearts of lifelong students.

I was not in pursuit of this specific space. In fact, I was not in pursuit of any space. However, when I saw this specific space, I suddenly wanted, strongly, a commercial space for Wiley Canning Company. I can envision a completed, unique, and inviting space in detail. Isn’t it fascinating how desires are born?

But, there is one key detail I must share. This detail immediately brings me back to my reality.

The key detail is this: I cannot financially afford to buy a commercial space right now.

I simply cannot afford it. One day, I believe I will be able to afford a commercial space, and even then, I must decide if it’s what’s best for Wiley Canning Company. Plus, I already have a completed, unique, and inviting space. It is my home. It is where Wiley Workshops take place as it fills with eager minds and hearts of lifelong students. While, for a moment, a commercial space sparked genuine curiosity, it also reminded me to take stock of my reality. When I did, I was quickly reminded I have everything I need.

Additionally, I cannot energetically afford to buy a commercial space right now. We each have limited resources, including financial and energetic resources. I have chosen very carefully where to invest my energy: workshops, recipes, The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook, and the Wiley Subscription. If I were to pursue a commercial space right now, my investment of energy would inevitably shift in some way.  (We can do it all, but we cannot do it all at once.) When I asked myself, “Do I desire this shift?”, my answer was a resounding, “No, thank you.” I feel deeply invested in what is. I feel so excited by what is. I feel so lucky to have what is. Right now, I am in pursuit of nothing other than appreciating and nourishing what is.

You see, when I recently stumbled upon a commercial space for sale, I stumbled upon an opportunity to take stock of my reality. Do I really want a commercial space, or is the idea of it simply fun to explore? Am I proud of my financial and energetic investments, or is it time to shift? What currently is? How do I feel?

Daydreams can be so fun, can’t they? But, sometimes, not every daydream must become our reality. We can enjoy each daydream for what it is, and recently, my daydream was simply an opportunity to honor what is already true.

This week, I wish you thin slices of appreciation for what is, right now.

Week of August 29, 2022:

When I trained for my first Ironman 70.3, I did my best to precisely follow my training plan. There were, however, a handful of days I could not fully train due to family commitments, work commitments, or personal planning errors. Instead of resisting these inevitable conflicts on days they arose, I simply prioritized the skill that needed the most work overall. An Ironman includes three events: swimming, biking, and running. I was the least comfortable while swimming, and I was the most comfortable while running. My comfort level while biking fell somewhere between those of swimming and running. If my training plan directed me to swim one mile and bike fifteen miles, I made sure I at least swam one mile since that was the skill that needed the most improvement. If my training plan directed me to bike fifteen miles and run five miles, I made sure I at least biked fifteen miles since that was the skill that needed more improvement.

This approach created grace and spaciousness throughout my training process. Most importantly, this approach allowed training to remain enjoyable and possible.

On my best training days, I trained. On my worst training days, I trained.

No matter the precision or caliber of training on a given day, the point was always to train. No matter the lack or presence of conflict on a given day, the point was always to train.

I began to repeat a mantra to remember this each and every day.

My mantra was, “Stay the path.”

If a conflict arose, I said, “Stay the path.”

Additionally, when subtle doubt arose, I said, “Stay the path.” When crippling fear arose, I said, “Stay the path.” When inexplicable shame arose, I said, “Stay the path.”

I stayed the path, and because of this, I ultimately experienced one of the proudest accomplishments of my life.

More than I could have predicted, this mantra has carried me while writing The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook. There have been countless interruptions to my writing process due to a huge list of causes — many of which are entirely due to my own planning errors. There were several moments I thought to myself, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

But, over and over again, I repeated, “Stay the path.”

When subtle doubt arose, I said, “Stay the path.” When crippling fear arose, I said, “Stay the path.” When inexplicable shame arose, I said, “Stay the path.”

Now, we are in our second round of edits of a 250-page book, and this, already, is one of the proudest accomplishments of my life.

When we are faced with subtle doubt, crippling fear, or inexplicable shame, how can we stay the path? What might this look like for each of us?

For some, this may look like sending a single email to a co-worker or collaborator.

For others, this may look like updating a single line on our resume.

For many, this may look like taking a single step forward and allowing this single step to be the entire day’s success.

What might happen when we stay the path? Where might we go? Who might we become?

This week, I wish you thin slices of persistence.

Week of August 15, 2022:

The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook opens with a letter to Sullivan, my son. Beginning my book this way honors his role in its creation process.

When my writing process first started, I felt a specific tension any time I was with Sullivan and not writing.

“But I could be writing right now.”

“What could I be writing if I wasn’t with Sullivan?”

I believed I could have written more, perhaps better, if I hadn’t yet become a mother.

The reverse was also true. When I first became a mother, I felt another specific tension any time I was writing and not with Sullivan.

“But I could be with Sullivan right now.”

“What could I be learning about him, witnessing, if I wasn't writing?”

I believed I could have held him in my arms more, perhaps while he slept, if I hadn’t yet committed to writing my first book.

Then, I had a significant “Aha!” moment. To say this moment transformed my state of being would be a huge understatement.

Firstly, I was yearning for a moment that was not my present moment. Secondly, I was more curious about the absence, not the presence, of two powerful, miraculous, and irreplaceable tenants of my life: Sullivan and Wiley Canning Company. I was asking the wrong questions. Aha.

“I will write this evening. What might I write this evening because I’m with Sullivan now?”

“I will see Sullivan in two hours. Where can I wander, what can I discover, and what can I write during this precious time?”

“What parts of Sullivan will I notice this weekend and carry with me as I head into a new work week?”

“What might I share with Sullivan about my work once he’s in my arms? Make it interesting, won’t you?”

Aha.

What are you creating because you are a mother? A father? A partner? A lover?

How deeply can you love because you create? Write? Photograph? Design?

How profoundly can you experience your life because of its rich complexities?

Week of August 08, 2022:

Leonardo da Vinci said, “Art is never finished, only abandoned.”

As I near the completion of The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook, his words feel true. I could work on this book for the rest of my life. Choosing to set it free evokes a complex set of emotions. As I edit, I look at the pages before me and say, “I want to keep you to myself forever, but it’s time to share you.”

I believe in what this book has become. I respect what this book has become. Most importantly, I honor what this book has become.

The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook is a snapshot of my knowledge and heart, right now. Is it possible that our work is never finished because we are ever-evolving? Our minds grow, and our hearts grow. Our capacity to love expands, and our capacity to grieve expands. Our experiences of the world around us change, and our desire and ability to articulate them change. Our work is of us, and therefore, it may never feel finished because we are never finished.

About his work, poet Ocean Vuong said, “It’s never done. If I had a chance now with every book I wrote, every page would be a little different. Commas would be moved, words. And I think that’s beautiful, actually. That’s a good thing. It reminds us that the artist and the mind and the poem still grow. The poem is like a tree, and the book is a photograph of the tree. You take a photograph of the tree, but the next day, the tree has new cells. The next year, it has new branches. We have to make peace with the fact that a book is actually just a photo album, and that the organic, psychic life of the poem is already growing somewhere else, somewhere inside you. And we pin it down.”

As artists, writers, and creators, we pin down a moment in time. We hold on tightly. We bravely share it. We continue to grow and expand and change, and we honor, we must honor, what our work was and has become.

Week of August 01, 2022:

On Sunday morning, Sullivan and I went to the zoo with a clear mission. We went with a mission to see DinoTrek, an interactive exhibit of life-size dinosaurs.

Throughout the past several weeks, Sullivan has shown consistent interest (and awe) in large creatures who roar, and dinosaurs remain at the top of this list of creatures. In some way, he has interacted with dinosaurs every day—through books, puzzles, toys, and television—since his initial interest. So, you can imagine my uncontainable excitement when we arrived at the zoo, primed with interest, mere moments from experiencing large creatures who roar right before our eyes. He was going to love this exhibit, and I was going to bear witness to this.

As it turns out, life-size dinosaurs are far different than those found in books, puzzles, toys, and television. They are far louder. They are far bigger. They are far scarier. Sullivan did not love this exhibit.

He did, however, experience something deeply profound, and I bore witness to this. It was so profound that I said to myself, “This. This is what makes motherhood so undeniably rich and sweet.”

As we walked through this exhibit, Sullivan filled with fear. I knew this because his big, brown eyes welled with tears, and his bottom lip tensed and quivered. He wanted to be out of his stroller and in my arms, and if I tried to put him down, he held onto me as tightly as he could.

Nevertheless, through his tears and quivering lip, he began to whisper, “Hi, T-Tex,” his name for all dinosaurs.

“Hi, T-Tex.”

“Bye, T-Tex.”

“Hi, T-Tex.”

“Bye, T-Tex.”

He repeated these quiet sentences as we passed each dinosaur that was far louder, far bigger, and far scarier than any we had seen before. He was working so hard to connect with them despite his trepidation. He was working so hard to make sense of the creatures right before our eyes. He was working so hard to be brave.

Bravery is not something I have ever taught Sullivan. In fact, I’m not sure it can be taught. It can, however, be praised and honored when we bear witness to it.

Bravery, like love, is deeply profound, and it is far louder, far bigger, and far scarier than we might know until we’re facing the very thing that requires it.

Week of July 25, 2022:

Wiley Canning Company was founded when I was four months pregnant with Sullivan. I do not know Wiley Canning Company without him. I do not know Wiley Canning Company without motherhood. Sullivan and my role as his mother influence my work tremendously.

Both Sullivan and Wiley Canning Company have taught me how expansive my capacity is for many things. Both have also taught me how large my needs are for many things. Today, I’m struck by my need to consciously transition from one role to another throughout my day. In other words, I’m struck by my need to warm up for my time with Sullivan and my time with Wiley Canning Company.

When I first became a mother, my time spent working felt very timed. At any moment, I might be pulled away to tend to the needs of my newborn baby. At any moment, my plan for my day might suddenly change. At any moment, this imaginary timer might alarm, and my work for the day might suddenly end.

This feeling caused me to immediately begin working the moment I sat down at my desk. Once I made it to my studio, I would open my laptop and immediately begin writing. Once I made it to my kitchen, I would wash my fresh produce and immediately begin testing a new recipe. The timer, you see, was always ticking.

Over time, I noticed this behavior felt intellectually and emotionally abrupt at best and careless, at worst. I also noticed how I never approach physical work, or physical movement, this way.

By now, you might know I love to run. I love to move. When I set out for a run, no matter the distance, I follow a full routine before taking my first step. I have to have the right pair of socks. I have to have the right pair of underwear. I have to have the right headphones. Hat. Sports bra. Playlist. I stretch and wiggle and loosen my entire body—from the muscles in my face to the muscles in my feet. I rotate my neck, and I roll my shoulders. I thank my legs for remaining strong. I warm up.

Any athlete will tell you a warm-up period is absolutely essential to the health of their body and sustainability of their sport. And, I would agree with this fully. Why, then, would I treat my intellectual and emotional self any differently?

Since this realization, I prioritize a warm-up before I begin writing or developing a new recipe. I transition from what I was doing to what I want to do. Sometimes, I rotate my neck, and I roll my shoulders. Sometimes, I thank my mind for remaining curious. Always, I warm up.

If I have one minute or one hour to warm up, I always find it useful. Some days, I warm up for my time with Sullivan by taking a single sip of coffee before I pick him up from his crib and kiss his warm cheeks. Some days, I warm up for my time with Sullivan by waking up before the sunrise to write for an hour. Some days, I warm up for my time with Wiley Canning Company by meditating for a single minute. Some days, I warm up for my time with Wiley Canning Company by running with the right pair of socks.

I encourage each one of us to prioritize transitions, or warm-ups, no matter how long they might last. I will now tell you a warm-up period is absolutely essential to the health of our minds and sustainability of our work. We have expansive capacities, and we have large needs. Thin slices of conscious transition will support the existence of both.

Week of July 18, 2022:

I write weekly about thin slices of emotion and experience: thin slices of joy, thin slices of bravery, thin slices of liberation, and more. This past week, I realized I also experience thin inner voices, or very subtle gut feelings.

Last Monday morning, around 4:00am, I was preparing to leave for the airport to travel to Oaxaca, Mexico. As my departure neared, I began to doubt my decision to travel to Oaxaca altogether. I began to feel fear, guilt, and surprisingly, sadness, and I wondered if I made the right decision to leave Sullivan for five days. I took my time packing the last of my toiletries, and I thought, “If I miss my flight, it would be okay with me.”

But, as each minute passed, I continued to check in with myself. At each check-in, I heard an inner voice that said, “You can do this. You can do this.” It was ever-so-slightly louder than the inner voice that said, “You should stay back. Everyone is safer that way.” Both voices were present, but the encouraging voice was louder by a very thin margin. I was able to sense this subtle, nearly imperceivable, difference in volume. I was able to notice and ask, “I hear two voices. Which voice is speaking to me more loudly? Which voice wishes to really be heard?”

This, to me, is one of the most profound phenomena—the phenomenon of noticing and naming subtleties in emotion and experience—of living as a human. We are able to perceive and understand nuance and complexity more than any living creature on Earth. Motherhood and creativity only amplify this phenomenon. To be a human, to be a mother, and to be a creator begs me to pay acute attention to thin slices of emotion, experience, and inner dialogue before humbly attempting to make the better, braver decision.

I am so grateful I heard the words, “You can do this. You can do this.” It was the better, braver decision to go to Oaxaca. My trip was deeply moving, educational, and transformative as a human, mother, and creator. I cannot wait to tell Sullivan about it one day. I cannot wait to travel with Sullivan to Oaxaca one day. I cannot wait to learn more about his inner dialogue one day…and his better, braver decisions.

As we move forward, we must listen to our inner voice that is ever-so-slightly louder. Some days, it may ask us to stay home after all. We must identify the decision that feels a bit more right. More often than not, our deepest desires—our deepest truths—are not sitting front row, dressed in neon clothing, and waving their arms overhead. More often than not, our deepest desires—our deepest truths—take a humble, middle seat, and we must listen, discern, and honor the subtle, the thin, ways they are begging to be seen, heard, and chosen.

Week of July 04, 2022:

This morning, I arrived at my gym ready to ride a stationary bike. I wasn’t just ready to ride; I was ready to ride really well. I felt strong…confident. I made a new playlist, put on my favorite sports bra, and envisioned myself pedaling, sweating, and working hard for 45 minutes. I was on a one-person mission to have an excellent workout. I was after a very specific feeling, an endorphin high, and I set myself up to feel it today.

But, when I walked into my gym, the bikes were full. Today is the first day they have ever been full.

I began to linger. Surely, a bike would open soon.

After a few minutes, it seemed no one was close to finishing. I started to sense a feeling of disappointment I wasn’t prepared to sense. I was so ready to ride.

Then, I caught a glimpse of a completely empty row of treadmills. My day was continuing to pass, and I needed to make a call. I could wait for a bike, or I could pivot. I begrudgingly decided to walk toward an empty treadmill, step onto it, and click, Start.

At first, I felt heavy…locked up. I glanced at the bikes once more, and still, they were full.

I decided, then, to fully commit to the treadmill. I slowly increased my speed and started to run. Minute by minute, I began to feel lighter…loosened up.

I ran and ran, and I began to sense a very specific feeling, an endorphin high, I was after all along. I was running quite slowly, between a 10- and 12-minute mile, but I was running nonetheless. And, I was having a great time. I was coming home to myself. I was feeling strong…confident.

As I ran, I remembered I didn’t need to run really well to feel really good. I simply needed to put one foot in front of the other, over and over again.

For years, I have run at a relatively slow pace compared to women my age. I, almost always, finish in the lower 50% of women my age when I race. But, we all feel a very specific feeling, an endorphin high, despite our speed. We all have a great time. We all feel strong and confident as we cross the finish line.

We do not have to be in the top 50% of something to feel its joy and goodness. We can run slowly, sing out of tune, and cook messily and still feel the reward of engaging at all. Mediocrity, or averageness, can be as fulfilling, if not more fulfilling, as excellence sometimes.

Today, I needed an empty row of treadmills to remind me of this. I am an average runner at best, and oh my word; I love it so much.

This week and next, I wish you thin slices of joyful mediocrity. Engage without a goal of excellence. Engage simply because you might have a great time.

Week of June 27, 2022:

Last week, I wrote about the importance of taking twenty when we’re approaching overwhelm. To reset ourselves, we might take twenty minutes to shower, drink a glass of water, or make an iced coffee.

This week, I have something to admit.

I have needed to take twenty about twenty times since then. Sullivan is currently teething, resisting nap time, and experiencing separation anxiety. As a team, we are in it right now.

When I experience hardship, one key way I cope is to talk about it (or write about it) and attempt to understand it. As an 18-month-old, Sullivan can’t engage in conversation about what he’s experiencing the way I can. Sullivan and I can communicate about it, but this doesn’t mean we can discuss it.

I wonder what it must be like to feel big feelings without the words to discuss them. When I can’t find the words to describe what I’m experiencing, I feel quite lonely. Carl Jung said, “Loneliness does not come from being alone, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important.” This rings true. And, understanding this myself has helped me parent this week. I think, “Sullivan is feeling big feelings. He isn’t able to communicate them to me. He might feel lonely. No wonder he wants to be physically near me. No wonder he wants to be held. No wonder.”

I have done my best to give my son my all this week. At times, it has felt like an endurance race, and when possible, I have taken twenty to reset. My mom arrived on Tuesday afternoon to help us this week, and the first thing I did was take a long, steamy shower.

I will end by sharing three ideas for a quick reset when we might not have twenty minutes.

Rinse your face and neck with cold water.

Brush your teeth.

Say aloud, “I love you. This is hard. I love you. This is hard. I love you.”

Week of June 20, 2022:

I haven’t shared much publicly about my postpartum experience. I plan to do so, and I trust I’ll know when the time is right.

Today, I will tell you I crashed into some very low valleys after I gave birth to Sullivan, my son. When I was in a valley, my physical urge was to run away. Rather, it was to drive away. I wanted to get in my car and drive toward Chattanooga, Tennessee—a city two hours southeast of Nashville. I didn’t want to stay away forever. I fantasized about a day or two of silence, a day or two of uninterrupted sleep, a day or two to cry my eyes out with no one asking, “What’s wrong?”, because I couldn’t answer that question as hard as I tried. I didn’t have the words. I still don’t today.

But, I didn’t drive away. I didn’t drive away because valleys only exist where there are also tall peaks. We cannot crash if we do not have a high peak from which to fall. And, my high peaks carried me. They carried me until I found my new rhythm as a mother, until I fully grieved the closing of my pre-motherhood chapter and began wearing my identity of “Mom” like a second skin.

As I climbed and crashed and grieved and overcame, I learned a lesson I still apply today: when I feel an urge to drive away, I might just need twenty minutes. I am always amazed by what a shower, a glass of water, or an iced coffee can do for me.

Today, I often tell myself, “Take twenty.”

If you, like me, feel an urge to run or drive or hide or get away, remember you can always take twenty. Take twenty minutes to enjoy a steamy shower, drink a glass of water in a room by yourself, or make an iced coffee with your favorite cream or sweetener. Trust this will carry you.

More importantly, trust there is always a way to climb out of a low valley. We still might be learning to read our new map, collect our new tools, and listen to our very new needs and instincts.

Take twenty, baby.

Week of June 13, 2022:

I became a mother when many of my close friends became mothers. We lean on each other tremendously. We encourage each other constantly. We plan playdates with our kids often.

Yesterday, Sullivan played with two sweet (and impossibly adorable) friends while I visited with their parents. As I watched Sullivan throughout the day, I observed three things.

When Sullivan wanted to hug his friend, he walked right up to him and just hugged him.

When Sullivan connected with a song playing through our speakers, he just started dancing.

When Sullivan felt joy, he just laughed. At one point, he was standing to the side of everyone just…laughing…with himself!

I asked myself, “Why do these things stand out to me?” I realized they stand out to me because I myself add a variable into each equation above, a variable Sullivan has not yet learned to add. For example, when I want to hug a friend, I often make sure it’s an appropriate time to give a hug. If it is, I proceed. When I connect with a song, I first wonder who might see me dancing. Will I stand out? When I feel joy, I first read the room to see if others are laughing, too.

But, how liberating would it be to simply do what I feel, without this added variable? Right now, Sullivan feels, and then he acts. I feel, and then I seek permission, and then I act. I so admire Sullivan’s approach. I feel inspired to feel and act more often, especially when it comes to hugging, dancing, and laughing.

Week of May 30, 2022:

As Sullivan grows, Jared and I are often asked if we will have a second child. Right now, our answer is, “Maybe.”

Sullivan is the light of our lives. As parents, Jared and I wish to provide a full and rich life for him, one of ordinary magic and thin slices of joy. I understand why some of us might believe a full and rich life includes a sibling, maybe even a few. I myself happen to believe this because (perhaps only because) my siblings are rare diamonds. This, of course, isn’t a given. Sometimes, siblings create great pain at worst and ambivalence at best. But, when you’re remarkably lucky, you find yourself with two sisters who support you before you yourself realize you need it, poke humor in just the right moments, and protect your light any chance they get.

Sarah and Amy, my sisters, are my closest, most open, and most honest friends. I feel the most myself around them. And, I know they would each say the same about me. We are each other’s keepers through and through.

This month, I could burst attempting to celebrate every event it has brought our way. Throughout the past 30 days, Amy has turned 28 years old, and Sarah has turned 34 years old. We’ve thrown Amy a bridal shower, and we’ll all take part in her wedding next week. It’s nearly too much to bear as their sister. This month feels full of more than thin slices of joy; it feels full of wide, tall, far-reaching slices of unbreakable sisterhood. My siblings, for certain, have created fullness and richness in my life. Next weekend, I can’t wait to celebrate Amy and the life she has so thoughtfully built with Ben.

Week of May 23, 2022:

Recently, I was speaking with a close friend about her divorced parents. We are both children of divorced parents, and we often lean on each other when navigating the dynamics of blended families. Multiple active text threads, full schedules at Christmastime, and the steadfast prioritization of our own healthy marriages come with their own sets of joys, and they come with their own sets of heartaches, especially for the two of us who wear our hearts on our sleeves.

Her parents have been divorced for several years, and not much has changed about their relationship. But, so much has changed within their family. They’ve welcomed sons-in-law, grandchildren, career moves, and more. Yet, their relationship has remained the same; it is one of tension and heaviness. It lacks softness and ease.

I asked her, “Has it always been this way? Did they begin their divorced relationship with tension and heaviness?” She answered, “Yes. It’s always been this way. Things began on a tough note, and they’ve never really found their new footing.”

This led us to a discussion about the beginning of something new.

We agreed on this point: when you begin something on a tough note, it’s very difficult to recalibrate. It’s difficult to reel it in. Your idea of a better-case scenario gets further and further away from you; it feels further and further out of reach. And, the more time that passes, the harder and harder it becomes to begin again.

On the contrary, when you start something on a good note, it feels difficult in the moment, nearly impossible perhaps, but you’re much more likely to remain on a good note than you are to recalibrate after starting on a tough note.

In other words, beginning well is hard, but the act of re-doing is harder.

I believe this lesson can be applied to many things in my life.

Beginning my day on a good note (an early wake-up, physical movement, and a brief writing session) motivates me to have a good rest of my day. Beginning my day on a tough note (a late wake-up, no physical movement, and a lack of direction) creates a flustered feeling that really lasts throughout my day.

Beginning a new friendship in a way that feels open and flexible motivates me to maintain space within and around the friendship. Beginning a new friendship with expectations and plans creates a more pressurized feeling, is unsustainable, and will ultimately require recalibration.

This list continues.

Beginning a recipe…

Beginning a trip to the farmers’ market with Sullivan…

Beginning a vacation…

We do not always find ourselves at the starting line of a new habit, relationship, or practice. We more often find ourselves in the middle of the race, feeling at peace or feeling a desire for change. But, when we do find ourselves at the startling line, what if we tried to begin really well? Healthily? Honestly? What might that look like for us? How might that last?

So, I leave us with this question this week:

Is there something I will begin soon? How can I begin well? How might I get it right on the first try?

Week of May 09, 2022:

I celebrated Mother’s Day last Sunday with Sullivan and Jared. Sarah and Mark, my sister and her husband, joined us for a homemade brunch by Jared, a family hike, and a homemade dinner by us all, including Sullivan.

Many loved ones celebrated and grieved on Mother’s Day, including my own mother who lost her own nearly one month ago. Many loved ones carried on as normal. Many loved ones sat in their wonder, unsure if a future child is a part of their personal journey, unsure if a second or third child is a part of their personal journey.

No matter how you experienced Mother’s Day, it was yours to experience in a way that felt most honest and true to you. I hope it was exactly what you needed it to be this year. To me, the best way to spend Mother’s Day is to spend it honestly.

Am I celebrating? Am I grieving? Am I celebrating and grieving?

What do I need?

Am I ambivalent?

Where does my mind wander?

In the name of honesty, I cherished these words by fellow women I admire.

“Motherhood is messy and heart-wrenching and exquisitely expanding.”

“I can no longer participate in World Breastfeeding Week.”

“Lately, I’ve been on the fence about whether or not I want to have children.”

Remember, mother is not only a noun; it is also a verb. No matter who or how we mother, we can each mother our children and puppies and planet and selves.

Week of May 02, 2022:

Strawberries have returned.

Soccer has arrived in Nashville.

Roses have bloomed in Germantown.

Week of April 25, 2022:

Do you know?

If you put a penny in your vase of water, your tulips will stay perky and happy for several additional days.

If you submerge your avocados in water and put them in your refrigerator, they will stay perfectly fresh for several additional days.

If you put a piece of bread in your storage container of homemade cookies, they will retain their soft and spongey texture for several additional days.

Week of April 18, 2022:

“Why yuck someone’s yum?”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“What was so moving?”

Week of March 28, 2022:

Last week, I wrote to you about how I feel quite nervous showing myself on camera. I’m human, and I therefore navigate both consistent and transient personal insecurities. My relationship with my insecurities has become healthier and healthier over time, but they remain present nonetheless.

In the name of complete honesty, I’ve been insecure about the way my mouth moves when I speak for years, hence my hesitation to create and share videos of myself speaking. This is both specific and strange; I know. But, it’s the truth. This single belief about myself, my mouth moves asymmetrically when I speak, has, at worst, kept me from speaking at times and, at best, taught me the lesson below. 

I have zero control over the way my mouth moves when I speak. Zero. Therefore, I am going to avoid making this a part of my chosen identity. My worth.

I have complete control over the way I speak. I can speak with kindness when I speak to anyone. I can speak with confidence when I’m knowledgeable and excited about a topic. I can speak with gentleness when a topic feels tender. I can speak to connect with those I admire, enjoy, and love.

I have zero control over the way my mouth moves when I speak. I have complete control over the way I speak. The latter is precisely where I wish to channel my focus and incorporate more and more into my chosen identity. My worth.

“I am Chelsea O’Leary, and my mouth moves asymmetrically when I speak.”

“I am Chelsea O’Leary, and I speak with kindness, confidence, and gentleness.” 

Can you hear the difference? Of course. Of course, you can. Of course, I must focus on the latter.

This awareness has had a major trickle effect in my life. When I encourage and affirm others, I now try to avoid commenting on what they cannot control, and instead, I try to comment on what they can control, as simple or obvious as this might sound.

Instead of telling a close friend, “I love your voice,” I try to say, “I love the way you speak to me.”

Instead of telling Sullivan, “You’re so tall,” I try to say, “Your presence is captivating.”

Instead of telling a new mother, “You look great, mama,” I try to say, “I am so amazed by the will and strength of your body.”

I am so surprised by how often I notice and comment on characteristics completely beyond our control. What characteristics are we fostering with purpose and agency? What qualities are we growing and strengthening? What can we control? Let us notice them. Let us commend them.

Week of March 21, 2022:

I will never tire of seeing this photo.

I will never tire of reading this poem.

I will never tire of hearing this song.

Week of March 14, 2022:

This made me cry.

This made me laugh.

This made me think.

Week of March 07, 2022:

Compost Nashville very simply shared the difference between composting our food waste and throwing our food waste away.

“Since food can naturally decompose, it may seem like you can throw it in your trash can, and it would still breakdown. Unfortunately, that is not the case due to the way landfills are set up. Instead of breaking down, the waste creates methane, a powerful greenhouse gas.”

Read more on Instagram here.

Hot Poppy is my favorite way to locally source food as of late. This past week, I ordered chicken pot pie by CaityPies for close friends who recently welcomed their first child into the world.

Lastly, have you ever considered canning water? Ashley Adamant of Practical Self Reliance makes a strong case for doing so. I would love to can 12 quarts of water (an amount that fills a Ball® box) to keep in my car at all times in case I accidentally leave the house without my water bottle.

This week, this year, I wish us all thin slices of improvement in our personal food supply chain. I’m a huge believer in small shifts over a long period of time. One year from now, how might our personal food supply chain have improved? Five years from now, how might our personal food supply chain have improved? The potential excites me.

Week of February 28, 2022:

This segment was written the week after Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022.

Last week, Jared and I took Sullivan to Bicentennial Park like we often do when the sun is shining. Sullivan searches for sticks and rocks, and he even presents them as gifts to us from time to time. He quietly observes grown men rehearsing football plays. He bravely shares a few words with older toddlers riding their balance bikes. He consistently makes sure Jones is nearby despite his own confidence and independence.

He also gazes into the low sky and points in awe when he hears our military’s helicopters flying above us. It is likely they are returning to Fort Campbell Army Base which exists 60 miles north of us after flying a practice route. In this moment, time stands still to Sullivan. He is overcome with curiosity and admiration as he sees these mechanical birds made of steel and resin propelling their heavy structures through the air. He doesn’t dread them. He doesn’t run from them. He doesn’t sense a lick of fear or despondency. He isn’t hiding or fleeing from war like children his age are doing across an ocean of salty water—children who also search for sticks and rocks and hope that when they look over their shoulder, their family’s dog will be nearby, too.

If you, too, find you’ve stumbled into an existence of sheer luck and fortune like we have, join me in simply paying attention and spreading kindness. We are likely not experts in Russian and Ukrainian affairs, but we are human, and this means we have the power to soften and love ourselves, partners, babies, and friends. Only softened and loved humans detest the option of beginning an invasive war. It is when we harden like poured concrete and feel we belong to no one that a deadly attack on fellow humans becomes a catastrophic option.

This week, I wish you thin slices of softness, love, and peace. Be gentle toward those darker circles under your tired eyes. Pour your partner a glass of cool water. Smell the soft skin of your young children, and run your hand across the sheets of their warm, safe beds as you tuck them in this evening.

Week of February 21, 2022:

When I first began this section of this newsletter, Thin Slices, I felt moved by one of my all-time favorite articles by Cup of Jo, written on April 03, 2017.

Joanna of Cup of Jo writes, “When life seems consuming, I think about this article’s 'thin slices of joy.' Chade-Meng Tan, Google’s former happiness guru, explains his philosophy that happiness doesn’t have to be a constant overarching feeling. It can come as sweet, short moments throughout your day.”

Last week, Sullivan and I both tested positive for COVID-19. His symptoms began on Friday evening, and he awoke with his first-ever fever on Saturday morning. By Sunday evening, though, he was nearly back to himself—my sweet, zesty, bright boy. In total, we quarantined for eight days. I relied heavily on my belief that happiness, or in this specific case, self-care, can come as sweet, short moments throughout my day. I added fresh lemon slices to my water. I enjoyed a cough drop here and there. I savored long, warm showers once Sullivan went to sleep. Ultimately, I learned a surprising and cherished lesson throughout our quarantine.

Taking care of myself is simple.

Somehow, I came to associate self-care with commitment.

“Self-care equals a 60-minute massage.”

“Self-care equals an expensive moisturizer.”

“Self-care equals blocked downtime in my calendar.”

While there is absolutely nothing inherently wrong with the above forms of self-care, they aren’t the only ways to care for oneself. This past week, self-care proved to be much, much simpler.

“Self-care equals fresh lemon slices in my water.”

“Self-care equals the enjoyment of a cough drop.”

“Self-care equals a few extra minutes in my warm, dark shower.”

Taking care of myself is simple.

I began to overcomplicate it, and this past week, I was reminded the best care is felt through through thin slices all day long.

Additionally…

I appreciated this sentiment about aloneness.

I found the kitchen of my dreamiest dreams.

Week of February 07, 2022:

Two weeks ago, I shared my desire to better cultivate a mindset of abundance in my daily life. Each day, Jared asks, “How was your day?” Until two weeks ago, my answer, almost always, included the phrase, “…, but I didn’t get as much done as I would have liked.” I have very consciously tried to shift this mindset to, “…, but I noticed thin slices of abundance.”

Oh my goodness!

This small shift in the way I describe my day aloud to Jared is already making a difference in how I feel, in how I experience my daily life. I notice and honor what I do move forward. Yesterday, I even told Sullivan what I accomplished, and the day ended on a hopeful and high note. Very little about my day to day has changed throughout the past two weeks. My focus has simply shifted. Mindset alone is so incredibly powerful.

Speaking of mindset…

How can we gratefully experience gray spaces?

We’re doing the impossible. Well done.

Week of January 31, 2022:

The essay below, Close by David Whyte, struck me like an arrow this past week.

Close begins to capture how it feels to own a business, write a book, and really, inhabit the human experience.

“Our human essence lies not in arrival, but in being almost there.”

Always, we are on our way. Yet, we idolize arriving.

Always, I want to write. When I wake up each morning, I want to write. When I walk away from a conversation, I want to write. Why, then, might I idolize a finished book? What drives me is being on my way to a finished book.

This thin slice of understanding has given me new perspective this week.

”Close is what we almost always are: close to happiness, close to one another, close to leaving, close to tears, close to God, close to losing faith, close to being done, close to saying something or close to success, and even, with the greatest sense of satisfaction, close to giving the whole thing up.

Our human essence lies not in arrival, but in being almost there: we are creatures who are on the way, our journey a series of impending anticipated arrivals. We live by unconsciously measuring the inverse distances of our proximity: an intimacy calibrated by the vulnerability we feel in giving up our sense of separation.

To go beyond our normal identities and become closer than close is to lose our sense of self in temporary joy, a form of arrival that only opens us to deeper forms of intimacy that blur our fixed, controlling, surface identities.

To consciously become close is a courageous form of unilateral disarmament, a chancing of our arm and our love, a willingness to hazard our affections and an unconscious declaration that we might be equal to the inevitable loss that the vulnerability of being close will bring.

Human beings do not find their essence through fulfillment or eventual arrival but by staying close to the way they like to travel, to the way they hold the conversation between the ground on which they stand and the horizon to which they go. We are, in effect, always close, always close to the ultimate secret: that we are more real in our simple wish to find a way than any destination we could reach; the step between not understanding that and understanding that is as close as we get to happiness.”

Week of January 24, 2022:

Each day, Jared asks, “How was your day?” I respond with a variety of honest answers. Almost always, though, my answer includes, “…, but I didn’t get as much done as I would have liked.”

I have no shortage of new ideas and actionable to-dos. Each day is an opportunity to see as many of them through as possible, and I do my best to remain disciplined. I have bought into the idea that a disciplined hour leads to a disciplined day, and a disciplined day leads to a disciplined week. A disciplined week, ultimately, leads to a disciplined life.

The truth is, though, this idea of accumulation—an hour leads to a day leads to a week leads to a life—applies to far more than discipline. If discipline accumulates, then mindset, for example, must accumulate as well.

If at the end of a day, I look at how I invested my energy and think, “…, but I didn’t get as much done as I would have liked,” how might I feel at the end of a week? At the end of a life?

If this is the mindset I cultivate each day, why would I expect to find myself in a different one at the end of my life?

So, I feel strongly it is time to challenge my daily mindset. I cannot simply flip a switch, but I can certainly begin to consciously honor the abundance of my day each day. I plan to start by writing down three thin slices of abundance in my notebook to end the workday. The more days that pass, the more this practice will cultivate a new mindset—a mindset I wish to find myself in at the end of my life.

“How was your day?”

“…, but I noticed thin slices of abundance.”

“How was your week?”

“…, but I noticed thin slices of abundance.”

“…and your life?”

“…, and it was full of abundance.”

How can we honor the abundance of our lives on a daily basis?

Speaking of abundance…

Bells Bend Farms opened their 2022 CSA this week!

Adding books to your kitchen immediately adds a sense of abundance.

Week of January 10, 2022:

Every once in awhile, when we’re lucky, there is a single paragraph that makes an entire book worth reading. I recently experienced this when reading Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit.

She writes, “I'm in a room with the obligation to create a major dance piece. The dancers will be here in a few minutes. What are we going to do?

To some people, this empty room symbolizes something profound, mysterious, and terrifying: the task of starting with nothing and working your way toward creating something whole and beautiful and satisfying. It's no different for a writer rolling a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter (or more likely firing up the blank screen on his computer), or a painter confronting a virginal canvas, a sculptor staring at a raw chunk of stone, a composer at the piano with his fingers hovering just above the keys. Some people find this moment—the moment before creativity begins—so painful that they simply cannot deal with it. They get up and walk away from the computer, the canvas, the keyboard; they take a nap or go shopping or fix lunch or do chores around the house. They procrastinate. In its most extreme form, this terror totally terrorizes people.”

I find this to be keenly true. The moment I open my laptop to write, I have an urge to walk away instead. The moment I tie my sneakers to set out for a long run, I have an urge to tidy my home instead. The moment I reach for my canning supplies to test a new recipe, I have an urge to organize the pantry instead. This flicker of time right before we begin our creative practice can feel excruciating. Join me in identifying this moment and overcoming it with a thin slice of bravery every single day.

Next…

While reading about grief isn’t exactly joyful, reading a piece that helps me understand more about our brutiful world is. This article on grief gave me the tiniest amount of additional understanding of grief as a ubiquitous human experience. 

“There are so many ways to live in this world…” I’m tucking this sentence away for the future. As a mother, the way I envision finishing this sentence when speaking to Sullivan is, “…and I am always here to help you find yours.”

Finally…

I mentioned above that sickness is spreading at a rapid speed right now. Jared and I canceled plans we had made for this week and weekend. Canceling plans so frequently lately has left me feeling disappointed at best and insecure at worst. So, I then ask myself, “Where does this leave me?” It leaves me with a choice. I can choose to exist in a space of disappointment and insecurity alone, or I can create joy to add to the mix. Jared and I work hard to choose the latter as much as possible. Tonight, we are going to make dinner and eat by candlelight. I’m going to wear my Christmas pajamas and put a fresh lemon slice in my water. Thin slices of joy are everywhere. If we can’t quite see them, we must create them ourselves and be relentless in doing so.

Week of January 03, 2022:

If you are interested in growing your canning library, below are three books that have brought me joy recently.

An Illustrated Catalog of American Fruits & Nuts: The U.S. Department of Agriculture Pomological Watercolor Collection by Adam Leith Gollner, Marina Vitaglione, Jacqueline Landy, John McPhee, and Michael Pollan

The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Fruits, Vegetables, and Herbs: History, Botany, Cuisine by Barbara Santich and Geoff Bryant

Memory Jars by Vera Brosgol