i. Scaries
Elizabeth Moore
Greetings from the end of winter.
Just yesterday, icy wind numbed my fingers and toes as I walked through Central Park with a new friend. Our teeth chattered and our coffee quickly went cold while tiny buds rounded the edges of tree branches like warts. The hope of spring is around the corner, even if sheets of ice still cover the lake. I hope you, too, are finding time to go on walks, look for budding trees, and gaze into brilliant blue skies until your eyes hurt.
I’m resurrecting this email newsletter because I adore this space. I miss telling stories, writing freely, and processing new discoveries. I hope to meet you here on Sundays for a slow morning, a cup of coffee, and a few words. Here, I’ll share snatches from my week, some simmering thoughts, and a piece of art I’ve either created or consumed.
Ironically, this is the most inconvenient time to start this. My room-turned-office is disastrously littered with books, laundry, and cups on every surface. I’ve been handed more work this week than I know what to do with, and I don’t know if I’m thriving or drowning. At first, the mountainous workload was wonderfully invigorating. I loved waking up at 6am to crank out a few tasks or pages before morning meetings. But now, I’m practically crawling from my bed to my desk, scarfing down food and barely tasting it, feeling defeated by the never ending amount of work and nagging sense that there will always be more to do.
You see, working in publishing is both magical and crushing. Like many other industries, there is an expectation to always be working. From the endless amount of submissions to the ever-changing list of bestsellers and award-winners, there is more to do than can possibly be done. There are always unread books on the shelf, always manuscripts to get through, always articles to read, deals to make, and up-and-coming talent to keep up with, not to mention marketing plans to create, emails to send, meetings to attend, sales reports to analyze, and a business to run. I’ve felt gripped by the merciless fist of stress this week and been tempted to follow in the footsteps of colleagues who have gone before me, enduring sleepless nights, living in this frantic awareness of all that is undone, working to prove your worth by more accomplishments.
On Tuesday night, I went for a walk in Riverside Park at dusk with hundreds of pages of reading to do. I intended to walk and read on my phone, but as I walked, a flaming sunset over the Hudson River pulled my eyes up and away from my phone, calling to me without words. How could I walk with my head down when this was before me? Those pages quickly lost their urgency, and I walked for an hour in silence, giving myself fully to the sunset, the river, the winter.
I think the deft art of staying alive in this industry is knowing when to stop. It requires finding a pace that leaves room for my soul to breathe, recharge, and remember that work doesn’t give me any more significance than I already have. Hard work is thrilling, but at the end of the day, accomplishments are temporary, fading as soon as they come. So I’m practicing, imperfectly, the discipline of pace and perspective. I’m learning to incorporate prayer and mindfulness into my work, asking God for the discernment to know when to step up and when to step away.
Thankfully, this weekend, I’ve spent some time away—watching movies, driving to Yonkers for the best pizza in America (Frank Pepe’s), FaceTiming my family, and reading for fun (which is still a delight). I’m still learning how to work in a way that doesn’t kill me slowly, but I’m finding rest in cold walks, in morning jazz, in eating slowly, and in welcoming pockets of empty space.
Artistic Offering
A Liturgy for the Rebellious
From Church of the City New York’s “Liturgies for Lent” series
O God of Prodigals,
we have hardened our hearts
and questioned Your goodness.
We have not heeded Your loving commands
because we have not trusted them.
Seduced by our senses,
we have delighted in the taste of forbidden fruit
more than the sanctuary of Your spirit.
We have run from the provision of Your table,
believing it would be better to be our own god.
We have heard Your voice and willingly covered our ears,
listening instead to the Deceiver’s refrain:
Did God really say…
God of severe mercy,
wrestle our rebellious hearts and win.
Give us soft hearts and devoted spirits
that willingly bend to do Your will.
Do not leave us in our sins,
but guide our wayward souls back to You.
In our defiance, You wait for us.
In our distress, You come after us.
When we cower behind fig leaves of shame,
You clothe us with the garments of Your protection.
When we feel we have disqualified ourselves from Your family,
You run toward us with compassion.
Reframe our perception of rules, O God,
so that we welcome Your pleasant boundary lines of love.
Restore us to the Edenic joy of obedience,
so that we walk, unashamed, in friendship with You.
May we look to the example of Jesus,
whose obedience to the cross purchased our life.
May Love melt our rebellious hearts,
and costly grace bring us home.
WHAT I’M READING
Just finished:
Wintering by Katherine MayIn the Middle:
Love and Other Thought Experiments by Sophie Ward
We Ride Upon Sticks by Quan Barry
Up Next:
All We Can Save edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine Wilkinson