begin again

here in Belington.

The last thing I did on Substack was share a note about committing to a meditation practice. That was January 2024, a year and a half ago. I can tell you now, that did not last.

Other things did not last. An engagement, a home, a job, friendships. There has been so much loss since then. Cavernous, reverberating, identity-quaking losses.

And, too, so much gain. So much gain. A new home with new neighbors that are like family. Business ownership, employees, community. A dog, a bike, a 14-year-old best friend. A sense of self that is actively being carved out, painstakingly, by necessity.

I’ve learned that loss happens to us all, repeatedly, in this life. No one is exempt. I will be over here, repeatedly quoting this Pema passage which illustrates this difficult truth so perfectly, until the end of my days…

We think that if we just meditated enough or jogged enough or ate perfect food, everything would be perfect. But from the point of view of someone who is awake, that's death. Seeking security or perfection, rejoicing in feeling confirmed and whole, self-contained and comfortable, is some kind of death. It doesn't have any fresh air. There's no room for something to come in and interrupt all that. We are killing the moment by controlling our experience. Doing this is setting ourselves up for failure, because sooner or later, we're going to have an experience we can't control: our house is going to burn down, someone we love is going to die, we're going to find out we have cancer, a brick is going to fall out of the sky and hit us on the head, somebody's going to spill tomato juice all over our white suit, or we're going to arrive at our favorite restaurant and discover that no one ordered produce and seven hundred people are coming for lunch.

I’m sitting here writing you now, the window behind my desk open to the misted field and its mowed paths. One of the great things about Belington, and many of these West Virginia hillside towns—the morning mist is reliable, a gauze through which the day breaks gently.

The neighborhood forest lies beyond the field. From within its canopied shadows, our resident pileated woodpecker cackles mirthfully.

It feels good to be here, now. This sense has been growing, but for the first time in a long time, all I want is to be right where I am. The unlikeliness of that peacefulness and contentment, particularly in the wake of the past few years, is borderline astounding to me. It’s heightened by the fact that I just deleted my Instagram (hello my name is Andrea and I’m a social media addict.) I’m giddy with the release of social media shackles while simultaneously queasy with the awareness of how unmoored by own mind became after ten years on the app.

(I could write, maybe will write at some point, about the very real, unsettling addiction that social media and screens became for me.)

The resident kingfisher just trilled near the creek that leads to the wood.

Last night, despite delirious exhaustion from a string of 12-hour bakery days, Shadow and I drove to Teter Creek Lake. He galloped in and out of the water while I moseyed behind, fuzzed with fatigue. Thankfully, the forest felt soft the way it does in late August. I experienced the world, therefore, as momentarily forgiving—laden with summer warmth and tinged gold with that sacred evening light.

I felt gratitude again, as I do so often, for the natural wonder and remoteness of this area. It’s so blessedly quiet. I can breathe, dissolve in the space, blur at my small ego edges. There’s freedom, for me, in not being perceived beyond the perception of the sky and the fungi and the quivering beech leaves, I suppose.

I’m reading Entangled Life by Merlin Sheldrake right now and playing with the notion of mycelial networks weaving their way through everything, especially forests. That’s the closest I get to a notion of godliness. I like to imagine mycelium’s earthen omniscience, how it speaks the language of connectivity unintelligible to my limited human mind. It’s a comforting thought.

More gratitude for my dog. Dogs are gods, too. Shadow, my pure soul who keeps me grounded with snuggles and walks and loves me so much. I wouldn’t be privy to half the magic I encounter these days if it weren’t for him.

Anyway. I’m back here, again. It actually feels similar to quitting Instagram: giddy and queasy. Like a homecoming, maybe? But one I can’t think too much about. It’s weird to acknowledge a thing you love dearly, a thing that feels innate, that others express appreciation for.…that you haven’t given the time of day in a decade.

How many times will I skirt around the things I love?

On a lighter note, my cat, Douglas, is spinning compulsive, insistent, cuddly circles under my chin as I write these last lines. Pancho is perched behind me and Shadow is sighing, warm under my foot. I will take these all as encouraging animal omens.

Oh, and this song is playing on repeat.

I hope you’re having a good Tuesday. Tell me about your peace, contentedness, or where god resides for you (send pics of your dogs.)