Welcome to the seventh volume of The Savour Stack.

A thoughtful collection of 10 “things” that made me pause, ponder, and peruse. Whether for one delicious moment or as a current ongoing wonderment. Things, thoughts, books, ideas, tastes, observations, music, etc., that prompted me to slow my roll so I could lovingly savour them.

Let yourself be inspired, delighted, amused, or, at the very least, briefly entertained by the thought of them.

1. The evening chorus (summer edition) — Every evening in Virginia, you’ll step outside to be greeted by a symphony of sound courtesy of the crickets, cicadas, frogs et al. (with an accompanying light show from the lightning bugs, if you’re lucky). This particular cacophony of “nature sounds” does something for me that I can’t quite put my finger on. The rhythmic humming, the nostalgic buzzing, the occasional flicker of brilliant golden light that appears and disappears so fast you wonder if you’d imagined it altogether. It shakes loose all of the busy thoughts from the day and pulls you right back into the heart of the moment: here, fully immersed in all things summer.

2. verdure — If the paragraph above didn’t make it obvious enough, I have a very real enchantment with the natural world. So naturally, when I encountered the word verdure while reading Theo of Golden, it, of course, stopped me in my tracks (side note: please share your thoughts on this book if you read it, because I know they are mixed!). What an utterly perfect word to describe the life, texture, and essence of the greenery surrounding us. The word greenery alone never seems to suffice for me. Verdure captures the vim and vigor with which that greenery grows. How it gives itself, overwhelming so, to the world around us. Reminding us how generous this season of green can really be.

3. Alexander Calder’s jewelry — Georgia O’Keeffe has long been an inspiration for me. Not just her paintings, but her life and style as a whole. I’ve always admired the jewelry I saw her wearing in photographs, and I finally looked for more information on it the other day. I recognized Alexander Calder’s mobiles immediately, but had no idea the sculptor had created jewelry as well. One of the more famous pieces that he created for O’Keeffe was the “OK” brooch, which features the first 2 letters of her last name. However, she preferred to wear the brooch vertically oriented, so the design becomes more obvious than the lettering (for me at least). She wore the brooch into her old age, and actually had it recreated in silver by another artisan later in life. Calder’s jewelry speaks for itself, but the way he captures the fluidity of metal in such a creative way is just captivating.

4. An endless sea of reading - For me, and many others during summer, I’m filled with the insatiable urge to read anything and everything I’m drawn to. The urge to re-read what I’ve just finished reading, not because I forgot what I read, but because I want to savour the words, like turning a stone over in my hands again and again, noticing all of the new texture. Summer offers the gift of time (and daylight) to read it all.

5. The daily water — That is: giving to my plants & watching them give back (in growth & blooms). But also: giving to the neighborhood hummingbirds (in the form of sugar water, of course) & watching them give back in playful buzzing delight. This kind of daily water giving has never felt like a chore to me. It’s just a part of the reciprocal nature between myself and the land I live on. As routine as brushing my teeth in the morning, but filled with more delight & a dash of wonder (what blooms will open today? how many hummingbirds will come by my window?)

6. Froth - I first discovered my obsession with froth when I became a regular cappuccino connoisseur many years ago. It feels like pure indulgence. Not as rich as the beverage itself, yet still carrying the effervescence of the drink’s flavor. The perfect light, fluffy texture that feels like sinking your head on a pillow after a long day (aka the most delightful sensory experience that you can’t help but close your eyes and smile at). It is not a “necessity” per se, but it brings so much joy (and the occasional froth mustache) that it certainly makes a strong case for itself. Needless to say, I recently rediscovered my love of froth and believe we could all opt to have a little more of it in our lives.

7. Hamnet - I have not so thoroughly loved a movie as much as I did watching Hamnet for the first time earlier this year. If you read the last edition of The Savour Stack, you know how taken I am by Max Richter’s music. So before I watched Hamnet, I knew I would likely enjoy it if only because Max composed the music for the film (using Elizabethan-era instruments no less). But Max’s music simply set the stage for the beautiful masterpiece that Jessie Buckley and Paul Mescal brought to life. Brilliant and moving from start to finish.

8. Green Little Birds by Luca Firth - I’ve been listening to different rotating acoustic songs with full-bellied vocals (especially lately, but honestly always). This song by Luca Firth just screams summer to me. Especially these lines:

“You flew - to my room. 
We sat out and talked till two.
Summer anyway,
Showing you now how much I miss you."

9. The Summer Book by Tove Jansson — I finally read this lovely little book this Summer and was very glad that I did. Tove Jansson is most well known for creating the Moomins children’s books (I once heard her referred to as “that Moomins lady” so now she forever lives in my memory as such), but she also wrote several books for adults as well. The Summer Book was supposed to have been her favorite, and the characters were largely inspired by those in her own life. Given that it is a book of connected short stories, you can easily pick up and drop off while reading it, following the cadence of the lazy days of summer just perfectly. (P.s. - they just released a movie based on this “modern classic”; I have yet to watch it but certainly plan on it soon).

10. Just a whisper of Fall — A week or so ago, we received our first whisper of Fall. Just for part of a morning. Not only was it a sudden reprieve from all the heat, but it was also filled with such surprise at the need to wear an extra layer for the first hour of the day (before the weather remembered we are still in Summer and resumed our regular scheduled programming of heat & humidity). That whisper of cool air reminds us of the magic season coming ahead, but to first sink our teeth into the ripe peaches of high summer while we still have them. And I plan to do just that.

What are you savouring currently?

You don’t have to be an astro girlie to source your inspiration from the moon. In fact, you don’t really need to know anything about the stars or planets (or their natural satellites, aka the moon) for that matter. Just that they exist around you, somewhere far, far away, yet somehow still detectable in your field of vision. And while the stars twinkle in distant galaxies, the moon hangs large and commanding. Close enough to have a real and tangible presence in our lives, yet far enough away to still evoke awe & wonder (I mean, who hasn’t ever had a “woah…SPACE?!” kind of moment in their lives).

As day transitions to night, its light draws us in - full rapture - like moths to a flame.

Now there is a lot more to be said about the moon and all of the creatives it has inspired (art! books! architecture! etc!) - but this piece is exclusively a devotional on moon music.

But where to begin?

If you feel inspired, here is a playlist to listen to while you muse. These are, of course, not all of the songs ever written about the moon (what a feat that would be to curate!), but simply a collection of some I enjoy. From a variety of genres and artists. I encourage you to stay curious as to all the ways we can express our feelings about the moon in song + sound.

To be completely honest, I’ve been sitting on this article idea since the Fall of last year. I kept starting and stopping trying to write it. I have so much adoration for the moon myself that I question my ability to compose something that will do it justice in some way. And as I’m sitting here thinking these thoughts, finally letting my fingers click across the keyboard, I’m realizing that many of the artists on this playlist likely felt the same way too. Or had the same questioning: how can I capture something as large and inspired as the moon in one song?

But that’s the thing about the moon that makes it so alluring. We can never really capture it in its entirety. We can just reflect back what essence it conveys to us. And for many of us, that reflection comes out through song or sound (whether we identify as a musician or artist or not).

Some songs are obvious. Our adoration comes spilling out plainly in the lyrics. Like it just can’t be contained any longer. Human howlings directed right at the moon itself. In every language, our words for “moon” are incanted, but partnered with different sounds & marked measures of fervor (music being an acceptable place to express the “lunatic” sides of ourselves). We exclaim the moon! Then we blame the moon… Then we cry, why moon?! It does bear witness to all aspects of our lives, after all. Hanging high in the sky to illuminate all of our brightest loves and our darkest shadows.

Other moon music is more obscure. Sounds that capture the feeling of moonlight without expressly saying so. Serenades as luminous as the light of a full moon itself. Lyrics as mysteriously shrouded as the dark side of the moon. While some of the most popular moon music gravitates toward romantic, some of the most interesting moon songs leave us wondering and wanting for more understanding of the pie in the sky.

Every color and shade of the moon has certainly been captured in song. Blue, Pink, Strawberry, Orange…Blood. When we are gifted the more rare occurrence of a uniquely colored moon, a song (or two or three) is certainly warranted. While newslines will promote special moon events weeks and months before they happen, spontaneously bearing witness to one brings out the magic in a different kind of way (Are you seeing what I’m seeing?! Does the moon really look like that right now??).

Even its ring is noted in song. Nothing so special as the first time you spot a ring of rainbow around the moon. A lunar halo alone has the ability to reaffirm our faith in all that resides above and beyond (and prompts us to question whether or not the moon is the guardian angel of earth in a way).

And let’s not forget the dancing! What is it about the rapture of moonlight that compels us to dance and sway and shake it all out… Its spotlight shines on us on our earth-stage, and we take the cue to start dancing in whatever way comes to us. Naturally, moon music and dancing with the moon go hand-in-hand. So much so that there is an abundance of songs about dancing in the moonlight (a natural delight, as they say).

When the moon is full & commanding, we sing.

When the moon is a poetic sliver of a crescent, we sing again.

When the moon is dark, there but not there, we sing once more.

But of course, there comes a time in the night when the howling tapers off, and the dancing is done, and the moon begins to sink slowly back down towards the horizon line…and we finally feel inclined for a lullaby. The moon becomes a source of calm for us. An entity that watches over us as we sleep, protects our children, and fills our heads with the promise of sweet dreams. The morning is coming soon, but now it’s time to rest. And a lullaby to the moon does just the trick.

Seasons change, life rambles on for each of us, but the moon remains a mainstay through it all.

What moon music sings to you? Drop a comment below - I would love to know.

xx

Heather

Everything is Waiting for You
by David Whyte

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the
conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

I recently attended a short workshop led by Bhanu Joy Harrison, and she shared this poem written by David Whyte.

You know you’ve found a good poem when you want to re-read it again and again immediately after discovery. When you want to close your eyes and have it read to you so you can live between the lines more deeply.

David’s words touch on something that I think about often, and even more so these days. The fact that we are always living in conversation with everything around us, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.

Just the other day, the idea struck me to write a post about those special micro-moments and memories we share with others that can only really occur over time spent living in close relationship with someone else. The inside jokes. The memories of sharing and building a home together. The small ways you notice each other growing, changing, and aging alongside one another. The deep talks that are best massaged out after spending time together. The ways you attune to one another’s daily rhythms and routines, and how much you notice and learn about each other through bearing witness to them day after day.

This kind of relationality between humans is intricate and beautiful.

But, really, we live in relationship with everything. Not just other humans. And while we love to put ourselves at the center of everything all the time (because we’re human and have fabulous egos)... “to deny the intimacy of your surroundings” is to miss out on the magic of simply being in the world. With everything. Every animal, tree, rock, house, car, toaster oven - you name it.

Children naturally live this way without instruction. But adults write it off as simply childish playtime that eventually they grow out of (or are bullied out of) in order to be a part of the “real world”.

But what if this nature was something we grow into rather than out of? Something that evolves, as we mature, into a deep felt sense of connecting with the world. Something that expands our perception. Something that supports our inherent nature as relational beings with all things, not just other humans.

Far from immature, this way of relating with the world around us allows us to become more compassionate, more peaceful, and (arguably) more interesting.

Annie Dillard’s quote comes to mind as I write this:

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

What happens when we start inviting the world around us into our days? When we start to ease into the conversation with our surroundings?

This conversation that started before we were born.

That continues on for our entire lives.

I’ve found it’s kind of like picking back up with an old friend, feeling like no time has passed. A kind of conversation that continues evolving, but always feels like home.

Welcome to the sixth volume of The Savour Stack.

A thoughtful collection of 10 “things” that made me pause, ponder, and peruse. Whether for one delicious moment or as a current ongoing wonderment. Things, thoughts, books, ideas, tastes, observations, music, etc… that prompted me to slow my roll so I could lovingly savour them.

Let yourself be inspired, delighted, amused, or, at the very least, briefly entertained by the thought of them.

1. The weather dance — Here in Virginia (and many other locales, I’m sure), we’ve been doing the weather dance for the past month. The playful push-pull between winter and spring. Each day is uncertain about which side it will choose (and sometimes changing its mind mid-day just to keep us on our toes). Although often inconvenient and unpredictable, this dance comes with the promise of warmer days ahead and an increasing number of blooms and new leaves popping up in the process. A reminder that there is joy to be had in these transitional times.

2. Max Richter — I couldn’t say exactly when I first discovered Max Richter’s music, but I can honestly say I never tire of it. Of course, his music and compositions are beautiful and masterful, but there is something else there between the notes. This kind of emotive “swelling” that captures what it feels like to be alive in the heart. If you know, you know. If you don’t: start here. And in the spirit of spring: finish here.

3. Berries & Cream — literally. Just berries & cream. So simple yet so decadent. Everyone puts so much emphasis on chocolate-covered berries (which are, of course, wonderful in their own way) - but berries & cream is winning for me right now. One of those luxurious treats that takes almost no prep time, but somehow feels fancy enough that you need to justify a special occasion to enjoy it. Well, I encourage you to celebrate the present moment as your special occasion and give this simple little ritual a try. Coco whip has been my go-to, but any whipped cream will do. You do you.

4. Alphabet Art of Joan Miró — I came across Catalan painter Joan Miro’s playful typography (also dubbed miroglyphs) on Substack one day, and it immediately sparked joy. I look at words all day, in various typical fonts that are easy-to-read and generally serve more in function than design. To re-create the alphabet into art is a different kind of skill. It bridges the analytical with the visual and invites a sense of curiosity and play into words that are not always there otherwise.

5. The History of Sound - For those who know me, you know I love reading an excellent book and then watching the film or TV adaptation shortly after (never in the opposite order, though). When I saw The History of Sound by Ben Shattuck on the shelf at my local bookstore, I knew it was going to resonate with me (it was merely reaffirming that The Boston Globe review stating “deeply resonate” also happened to be right on the cover). As soon as I picked it up, one of the store attendants noticed and began gushing about the book, exclaiming that it was the most moving one they had read all year. The book is a collection of interconnected fictional stories, all set in New England, with the first story being the most striking (in my opinion, but also clearly in the opinion of the filmmakers, as this is the story they chose to adapt into a movie). Through the arc of folk song collecting: the story, the movie, and the music all struck a chord for me.

6. Deep blue (color) — I have been increasingly drawn to deep, rich, and dark shades of blue lately. I’ve always been fond of indigo - but lately it’s almost like a color craving for me. I’m drawn to the color wherever I go (but ironically, not as much when it comes to clothing). In reflecting on this, I realized that deep blue is a naturally calming color for our nervous system. This, of course, has inspired me to acquire some indigo sheets for my bed… someday soon, I hope.

7. The first bulb sprouts & blooms of spring— This one is not earth-shattering, I know. But don’t the first sprouts & blooms deserve to be applauded every spring when they re-emerge? I think so. I am a newbie to bulb planting, and watching them come to life for the first time has been very rewarding. A direct invitation to pause every evening and step outside to observe their progress (or regression in the case of the rabbits & deer that devoured my tulips…)

8. Puzzling — This winter, I officially became a puzzler. I never used to understand why people were into puzzles. They always seemed so tedious and overly time-consuming to me. But in all honesty, I never really gave them a try as an adult (and doing them as a child when your attention span is negligible shouldn’t count). So with ample time over the holidays, I finished one with family and was hooked. I love that it’s like an intensive and interactive study of your favorite artwork (or just a rewarding exercise for your brain). One of the most remarkable things I realized, though, is the opportunity it gives you to practice shifting between sharp and soft focus. There are some aspects of the image you have to laser-focus in on to coordinate the pieces. And others where you have to soften your gaze and look more towards fitting the shapes of the pieces together - abandoning your attachment to the images on the pieces altogether (lest you blind yourself). Exercising this skill (soft vs. sharp focus) can benefit so many aspects of life. Who knew puzzling could be a tool for it…

9. “Royal rest” feeling — I was just now trying to decide what term I could coin to describe this sensation, and the “royal rest feeling” is the best I could do. There is something irrefutably calming about letting your foot (or feet) rest on top of a fluffed cushion. The royals of ages past were really onto something with all those velvety footrests accented in nearly every room of the house. Although my home (and decorating taste) is not nearly as ornate, I recreate this “royal rest” feeling when I rest my feet on my pillow-top couch cushion, post-pillow-fluffing (as discussed with my sister recently: it’s a level of comfort that’s worth working for). The same effect is achieved when you pull a foot out of a duvet or comforter and let it rest on top. Such simple luxury. No fancy footrests required (although to each their own).

10. Heart the Lover by Lily King — What is winter good for if not reading? I read a lot of (mostly) good books this winter, and Heart the Lover was up at the top of the list for me. This is the first book I’ve read by Lily King, and I really enjoyed her writing style. It was one of those books I knew I could tear through fast — but decidedly slow down so I can savour the nuance between the lines. The novel was at times fun + playful, but also serious + heart-wrenching. Lily captures the experience best:

What have you been savouring lately? Would love to know if you feel inspired to share.

xx

Heather

This winter, given that it is my first year back living in a place with a “real” winter in the last 5 years, I decided to (finally) read the book Wintering by Katherine May. This book has circled in my periphery since I first saw it glowing on the shelves of one of my favorite bookstores in Colorado (right around the time I left my mountain-town winterworld in search of warmer weather down south). I always planned on reading it eventually, but figured I would wait until I was actively “wintering” in place again to do so. Fast forward 5 years, and here we are.

Katherine’s story is easy to read and relate to (whether you live in a wintry climate or have weathered “internal winters” due to other challenges in life), but the book is also filled with little gems to reflect on & ponder over. One gem that I encountered when reading this book was the word nadir. This is a word I have heard before, but given that it is not a part of my daily vocabulary, its meaning escaped me when I came across it.

If you’re like me and need a refresher, nadir is the lowest point.

This can apply to the arc of a story, situations in life, careers, medical lab findings, finances, etc.

And of course, it applies to seasons as well. Winter is often considered the “low” point of the year. Plant life rests after months of growing, flowering, and fruiting. The days are shorter, and the nights are longer. Cold temperatures keep us indoors, nestling into a place of rest & retreat.

In astronomy, nadir is defined as the point on a celestial sphere directly below an observer. This opposes the zenith, which is the point directly above an observer.

So the observer exists in between these two polarities: the nadir and the zenith. And although our life story often has us dancing between these two poles, there is a part of us, the observer, that holds a steady middleground. That sees both sides and bears witness to it all.

The only reason why we can truly identify a nadir is because we can also identify a zenith (whether that be in the past or future tense). One does not exist without the other. A winter and a summer. A time the field lies fallow and a time it bursts with new life. We know we can’t live in a perpetual zenith (although we are likely all guilty of trying at one time or another). But our time in a nadir makes us appreciate the zenith all the more.

I like to think of the nadir period as a kind of “magic dark.” This time is filled with so much brewing potential. We know the next zenith is coming, but we do not know exactly how or when.

Although there are many examples of a nadir being “negative” (a major financial loss, the death of a loved one, a harsh winter), it is not exclusively so.

A low point is not always negative.

A nadir can also be deeply regenerative.

A deep rest.

A time to process.

A course correction.

A reset.

And to those in their nadir now, remember that spring is coming.

I wrote down this Substack post idea just hours before my grandpa passed away, suddenly, unexpectedly. The inspiration for this post also struck me, suddenly, unexpectedly - and I jotted the idea down in a Note on my phone so I wouldn’t forget. He is the one who inspired this post, even though it had been a while since we last spoke, and even longer since we last saw one another.

When I received the phone call with the news of his passing the next day, my heart sank, but then was buoyed slightly by remembering the idea that came to me the day before.

I almost couldn’t believe the timing of it all. I actually had to go check the “last edited” time stamp in my Notes app to be sure my mind was not just making it up.

But sure enough, there it was. His name typed next to a couple of beautifully incomplete thoughts on inheritance.

Now, before I lose you - this post is not about what you’re probably thinking it is about (i.e. - “inheritance” meaning a big lump sum of money, property, or valuable other objects bestowed upon someone with the passing of someone else).

This post is about the “things” we inherit that are not really things at all. The inheritance of hobbies, character traits, mannerisms, and ways of being. The shared dimples, freckles, and types of laughter. The related ways you choose to engage with the world. The unspoken gifts that pass from one person to another.

This kind of inheritance is alive.

A living “through line” between family members.

The inheritance of money or objects can also be special in its own way. (Finally, you have the funds to buy the new car you’ve been needing. Or perhaps you inherited a most beloved tchotchke that you will hold dearly for the rest of your days.)

But despite the energy we might give them, these “things” ultimately remain inanimate. Fixed by the laws of nature.

In my mind, the most meaningful inheritance is the living kind. The kind that stays alive through you, even after the person (or people) you inherited it from has passed.

For me, from my grandpa (my “Poppi”), through my dad, I inherited my love of gardening and my respect for the natural world.

It’s funny because I only recently pieced this together, even though I’ve been enamoured with the natural world for well over a decade now. I always thought I was “so unique” in my plant-focused interests compared to the rest of my family (as one does when they are a young adult who thinks the world should revolve around them). But realizing this generational through-line not only made sense for me, it also provided a sense of comfort. And of deep gratitude.

How fortunate am I to have inherited this gift from my dad and my Poppi (and maybe others before him that I never had the chance to hear the story of). I have since come to understand that the universe does not (and should not) revolve around me. But I am lucky to experience these instances when it moves through me.

A part of me wishes this idea of a living “inheritance” had come to me a week earlier, so that maybe I could have written it in time for my Poppi to read it, but also the meaning of it has deepened after his passing as well.

The best way to really thank him for this gift is to keep it alive within myself (and, in a way, his spirit is kept alive too). I’m not exactly “good” at gardening, but that’s not really the point. I inherited the love + appreciation for it, and I thank my dad and Poppi for that when I’m picking out my next plants or have my hands in the soil.

All of a sudden, the world is awash in this golden glow.

A prelude to fall that almost makes you forget that the sun is setting earlier and the daylight hours are shrinking.

If you blink, it feels like you’ll open your eyes smack dab in the middle of autumn. So you keep them peeled open, taking in every last hint of summer before it’s gone. When you finally close your eyes, you feel the memory of summer living on inside you.

Every time you felt the sun beating down on you. Every bite of watermelon that unapologetically dripped down your chin. Every time a chorus of cicadas drowned out your conversation and thoughts into a smooth and steady hum. Every swim that gave you new life, especially on the hottest of days. Every bite of ice cream on the front porch swing in bare feet, feeling sticky and wholly unbothered for a fleeting moment.

Every precious summertime moment is celebrated in the final act known as September.

It feels like a mix of excitement and sorrow. The goodbye of the wild freedom that summer carries with it. The hello to the invigorating crisp morning air, vibrant changes in color (from the mainstay of green, green, green that our trees held all summer long), and the sudden break from weeks on weeks of unrelenting humidity.

September bridges these two seasonal worlds so well that we often find ourselves in debate whether autumn has officially arrived or summer is still singing its swan song. Some of us refuse to accept summer is ending by wearing shorts and flip-flops on repeat until the morning chill forces them otherwise. Others refuse to accept that fall is not officially here yet and insist on wearing their new back-to-school, fall clothes even though the afternoons repeatedly prove too hot to be comfortable in them.

We feel suddenly eager to hold on to summer while simultaneously yearning to let go into fall.

With each newly fallen leaf underfoot, we feel drawn to savor the last lingering moments from a summer whose unrelenting heat we, not so long ago, were dying to escape from. In all its intensity, summer is a fleeting gift. The season of “vacation”, gardens overflowing with bounty, firefly illuminated evenings, grilled food gatherings, seemingly limitless freedom, and sun, sun, sun. Summer gives us the gift of time with such long, light-filled days, when we suddenly realize the shadow of evening is creeping up the clock again, we tighten our grip in such a way - as if doing so would stop the seasons from changing.

But there is no stopping the seasons. Only a beautiful layering that reminds us how wonderful the one coming next really is.

Every day brings so much change with it, I can hardly write fast enough to capture it all in words. And I repeatedly fail to capture it in photos. A secret third thing that can’t quite be contained any which way. We feel it, we experience it, we revel in it…and then it’s gone. Only to be re-awakened in new yet familiar ways next year.

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As this swan song of summer comes to an end, queue up the September Song next, turn James A. Pearson’s words (below) over in your mind’s eye, then go forth and find your own glimmers in this magical transitional time.

September Now

September now
and the summer sighs along.
Only those who know it
catch its meaning.

As I grow old may I lengthen
like these late summer shadows,
every day embracing
a little more of
this needless world.
--James A. Pearson

Thank you to my dear friend Lily for inspiring the poem and song to accompany this post.

xx

Heather

Welcome to the fifth volume of The Savour Stack.

A thoughtful collection of 10 “things” that made me pause, ponder, and peruse. Whether for one delicious moment or as a current ongoing wonderment. Things, thoughts, books, ideas, tastes, observations, music, etc… that prompted me to slow my roll so I could lovingly savour them.

Let yourself be inspired, delighted, amused, or, at the very least, briefly entertained by the thought of them.

1. New leaves + fresh rain = pure delight — Our Bird of Paradise just sprouted a grand new leaf and it was a joy to watch it beautifully roll open. What made it even more joyful was witnessing the new leaf after a good rainstorm. Post-storm, when everything feels cleansed and scrubbed anew, unpredictable pearls of rainwater anoint the young ribs of the leaf. I strummed my finger along them, listening to this new rhythm of life with pure wonder. Welcome to the world new leaf.

2. Vivian Maier - I’m not sure how I happened across the life and work of Vivian Maier recently (and I’m equally unsure how I missed ever hearing about her before now). Her story is a curious enigma. In case you are in the dark like I was: she was a nanny and an American street photographer, whose work was only discovered and praised after she died. But even more mysterious, she never developed or shared any of her photos while she lived. Boxes and trunks full of undeveloped film were auctioned off after her death and sold to John Maloof who, by chance, began to develop them and set about puzzling together the bizarre life that she led in the film Finding Vivian Maier. Utterly fascinating.

3. Komorebi - A beautiful Japanese word that roughly means “sunlight leaking through trees”. One of the most subtle, ethereal, and beautiful phenomena (in my honest opinion). Easily encountered during a walk in the woods, I find it even more compelling when we can witness komorebi indoors. As a biophilic human, I’m always curious about the ways that we can bring the outdoors in. And the ways that they organically do so themselves. I was reminded of komorebi and the influence it can have on a home space in this recent article by Mayer Rus.

4. “Look at What The Light Did Now” song by Little Wings — While thinking about komorebi — cue this song.

5. Sunset siren song - (Almost) every evening these days I’ve been seduced by the sunset siren song. The song that lures me from whatever I’m doing at the time and draws my gaze outside, in a desperate need to see the sunset. The song that won’t let me look away until the fiery colors have begun to dissipate into the increasing darkness of night. The song that ceases the ability to become distracted while it’s being played. The song that demands my full reverential presence. The song that feels so familiar but is never quite the same each night.

6. “Garamond” Google search - Several weeks ago I followed one of those random “thought trails” (which can easily become wormholes) and happened across one of those “Easter eggs” of the world wide web. I was musing about different types of fonts and their origins, which led me to think about one of my favorites (Garamond) and the desire to learn more about it. When I typed it into Google search, I was surprisingly delighted to discover the entire search results had changed into Garamond! I don’t know much about web coding, so I’m not sure how easy this is to do, but it felt like one of those out-of-the-way things that someone does for the sheer creative joy of it - knowing that they might delight a random person who encounters it (which they most certainly did in this case).

7. “Reunion” painting by Frank Howell — I feel like somehow this painting has been buzzing around my periphery for a while now. And then, all of a sudden, here it is, in my line of vision with my full attention. If I close my eyes and hold my hands out, I can almost feel the hummers surrounding me too. Thank you for sharing your gift, Frank.

8. Summer Solstice by Nina MacLaughlin - I discovered and fell in love with Nina MacLaughlin’s essays Summer Solstice and Winter Solstice this year and I could not recommend them more. She perfectly captures the essence of these pivotal times of year, what they feel like, what they look like, and the memorable moments + rituals we practice around them (whether consciously or unconsciously). She writes in such a way that somehow her memories feel like my memories too. Like she is writing from a place of collective understanding that this is what this time of year must feel like. And for me, it rings true. One of my favorite quotes from Summer Solstice:

   “Let’s return to the screen door slamming, bare feet on the porch, peach juice sticky on the chin, sun on the back of your neck. You can return to a time of more time. Summer brings the memory of summer, a gentle flight backward. It’s the season when a person can feel their wingspan again.” - Nina MacLaughlin

9. Wind Phones — I just recently learned about Wind Phones and was immediately taken by the idea. I randomly came across a post by Jamie Lee Curtis who shared that her friends had recently created one in Joshua Tree, CA in honor of their children who tragically passed away. In essence, a Wind Phone is an unconnected telephone booth created as a place for people to communicate with loved ones who have passed on and process their grief. Originally created in Japan, Wind Phones now exist all over the globe and there is even an online directory to find (and list) a Wind Phone. The concept resonates with me so much (on many levels) and, synchronistically enough, there happens to be one near the city I’m moving to soon.

10. Lucky sea beans - On the same note of moving soon, I made sure to take one last trip (for now) to my favorite local shell shack before I leave. I had my sights set on getting a big conch shell (which I found!) for my new home. But I also happened across a small box of “lucky sea beans”. I picked one up and the store owner immediately chimed in with their beautiful story: these “beans” can float across entire oceans intact. Naturally buoyant with a smooth and well-protected shell, it is considered good luck to find them washed up on the shore. It felt like the perfect token to take with me as I “float” to my next destination (which right now feels oceans apart).

What have you been savouring lately? Would love to know if you feel inspired to share.

xx

Heather

Lately, I have had a micro-obession with the postal service. To be honest, my life has been a long series of often short-lived micro-obsessions (from ballet to anime to sewing to skincare etc. etc.) - but this one I find particularly amusing.

Most adults I know are not enamored with the postal service. If anything, it is a source of perpetual frustration (“I can’t believe how much I paid to mail this little package!” or “I waited in line for almost an hour!”). Having a micro-obsession with the postal service even sounds like it could be a cute juvenile interest (“I want to be a mailman when I grow up!”).

So as an adult who has many a time experienced those frustrating trips to the post office and who did not have a childhood fantasy of delivering mail - what’s the appeal here?

Well, it started with noticing that I would actually look forward to making a trip to the post office, despite the inevitable challenges that come with it. Then I started to notice all the other details too. That collecting my daily mail from the mailbox was sparking joy, even though I am often met with bills and unwanted adverts. That seeing the mail truck putzing along on the road always seems sort of jolly to me. That I always keep an eye out for interesting mailboxes, especially those in unsuspecting locations. That I am drawn to simply “pop in” to see different post offices while visiting new towns or cities, even though I don’t have any business there. That I get excited to mindfully select what stamps I will procure next (and even special ordered the new + exclusive Goodnight Moon stamps as soon as they were available).

But perhaps most importantly, I remembered how the postal service is the pulse behind the art of letter writing.

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved sending and receiving cards. Growing up I would save every card I received in an old shoebox, which my collection eventually outgrew and expanded into an old moving box. I looked forward to hand-selecting the perfect card for different family members and friends’ birthdays. And as I learned to write, I would eagerly await the recipient’s reaction when they read their card (always exclaiming — “read the card before you open the gift!!”). Afterwards delighting in the row of cards that would line the mantelplace on display for several weeks before being stored away.

I remember sitting at the old built-in desk in my childhood home sifting my hands through the stamp collection my dad encouraged me to start. Wondering about the interesting smell each of the stamps had and thinking about the people who decided that these stamps were worth saving over using. How something of utility could equally become something of treasure.

I remember having a “flat stanley” pressed in some of my first pen pal letters. And the utter delight in the mystery of the words I would receive from this stranger next.

As my friends began to take trips, I delighted in the postcards I would receive from them, leaving them pinned on my bulletin board for years to come.

I remember my creative-leaning friends who showed me that cards and letters could be so much more than just a store-bought fold of paper with your words inside. That you could turn them into little handmade works of art: collaging magazine clippings on the outside and filling the inside with pressed flowers or glitter or even sand from your trip to the beach. Card-writing could not only become a sensory experience, but one where the reader feels like they were there with you, wherever you were when you wrote it.

As I grew older, and some of my friendships and family members grew apart in distance, sending letters and cards became even more important. Not only was it a way to spark joy, it was a way to stay connected that felt real and handheld in an increasingly digital age (if you read my piece “A life you can hold with your hands” - you already know how I feel about this).

Not too long ago, writing letters was one of the only ways to communicate to someone else long-distance. With the dawning of the postal service, letter-writing as a means of long-distance communication became increasingly more efficient (all those carrier pigeons could finally retire I suppose…)

As someone who has had access to a telephone my entire life (and now computers, iPhones, tablets, you name it), I sometimes find myself daydreaming, wondering what life was like when letters still ruled the world of communication. The mounting of anticipation for a reply letter that could last days, weeks, or even months depending on how long your letters had to travel. The quickly scrawled letters that carried more function than feeling. The letters that contained multitudes. The letters sharing your next creation with a beloved friend or mentor (a new musical score, play script, chapter of a novel). The letters with a “burn after reading” directive. The much-loved letters that ended up tucked in someone’s coat’s breast pocket for years, to be re-read on a gloomy day for some extra cheer.

But perhaps most fascinating (to me at least) of all my “mail-driven” memories and daydreams, is the mystery of what happens to all of the letters that become lost at sea. Whose hands do they fall into? What mail sorting factory did it slip between the cracks in? How long after it was lost was it re-discovered (if ever)? Were the words ever read by another? Were the words written felt in the same way the writer intended them to (even if read by an unknown recipient’s eyes)? Were they savoured and cherished? Or were they immediately trashed and dismissed? Did they spark an undesired scandal, controversy, or debate? And, of course, was the intended recipient dismayed or confused to have never received word from the sender?

There is an element of mystery here, but also one of unwitting voyeurism.

What would you do if someone else’s letter fell into your hands? If the envelope was illegible or the address incorrect and there was no way to track the intended recipient down, would you open it yourself? Or would you blindly roll it into a bottle and cast it back out to sea? Or throw it into the evening fire?

I don’t write these questions to spark a debate about “right vs. wrong” - but to shine a light on the words that never had a chance to be received and read.

Every letter (whether a short note or a longer missive) that is stamped and cast out into the postal service, has a shared intended purpose: to be read. In a way, when a letter becomes lost at sea, it takes on a new life. The chances of it reaching its original recipient become much slimmer, but the chances of it being read and experienced by a new set of eyes become much larger. The letter becomes a form of art: something hand-crafted and now up for interpretation by a public audience (perhaps of just one, but possibly many). The letter becomes an enigma. Even if originally written in a simple and straightforward way, it becomes a puzzling curiosity when read by anonymous eyes (did “I went to the store to buy milk today” really mean just that? or did it have a deeper meaning? or was it code for something else entirely?). The letter becomes as interesting and curious as the mind of the person who ends up reading it that day. Or the mind of the person whose hands it ended up in but who chose not to read it. The person who thought about it later on from time to time (“I wonder what that letter with the purple envelope actually said inside…”).

The life of letters lost in transit is one that we can wonder about day in and day out, but never know the full story.

And as much as our curious selves might be dying to know: not knowing is the point.

The life of lost letters reminds us that grand mystery is still alive and well in the world.

And, personally, I like it that way.

xx

Heather

Welcome to the fourth volume of The Savour Stack.

A thoughtful collection of 10 “things” that made me pause, ponder, and peruse. Whether for one delicious moment or as a current ongoing wonderment. Things, thoughts, books, ideas, tastes, observations, music, etc… that prompted me to slow my roll so I could lovingly savour them.

Let yourself be inspired, delighted, amused, or, at the very least, briefly entertained by the thought of them.

1. Tulips! - Although I’ve been acquainted with tulips practically my entire life, I, admittedly, used to find them sort of dull compared to other flowers (and yes, I am judging myself for judging something as pure as flowers!). Lately though, I’ve been completely enamored by them. Or rather, the idea of filling a garden with them since I do not currently live in a climate where they thrive. Call it a gardening fantasy. A daydream about all the bulbs I plan to plant at my next home. Regardless, tulips truly are swoon-worthy flowers. The ruffles! The stripes! The shadows! The inky-black stamens! And of course, the evolution of them transforming from a pristine bud to an “undone” cascade of flower parts. I am here for all of it.

2. Fancy knobs - In particular, this fish doorknob shared by Natalie Stiles (pic below), stopped me mid-scroll and initiated a mid-morning wonderment about how lovely fancy knobs are. While they do serve a function, having your doorknob be fancy is pretty unnecessary. But something changes in you when you enter one room to another. Doors are portals between spaces and worlds (the inside and the outside). Why not have a doorknob that accentuates the reality that lies on the other side? Or that punctuates the process of entering through the portal? Or simply for a touch of joy & whimsy? The argument for fancy knobs is a compelling one that I stand for.

3. The second swim - One of the perks of living in S. Florida is being able to swim most months out of the year. While your first swim of the day is refreshing, there is something even more tantalizing about the second swim. The daily, first swim is invigorating and revitalizing. You feel a sense of accomplishment after. Ready to continue on to the next phase of your day. The second swim is luxurious. It is un-promised and unexpected. The weather, the timing of the day, the light in the sky…everything aligns in such a way that you cannot resist going for a second dip. You want to linger longer. The second swim becomes a form of ablution. To have water remind you that you are alive not once, but twice in one day, does something different to the body.

4. “House of Woodcock” by Jonny Greenwood — I love discovering movies through their music first. This is not the first time I have discovered a song I loved, played it daily for a bit, then later on realized it was composed as part of the soundtrack for a movie. The song in this instance, “House of Woodcock”, was composed for the movie Phantom Thread, and the way the song makes you feel when you listen to it (the feeling of being swept up in the experience of being human, in love, and in awe of all that is beautiful before you), is married with the movie in perfect measure. The composer, Jonny Greenwood, turns out to also be the lead guitarist/keyboardist/jack-of-all-trades for Radiohead (whose music has long been striking similar heart chords of mine as the Phantom Thread soundtrack does). We love a full circle moment.

5. Kemetic Yoga with Sarah Wes - These days, I frequent YouTube for my at-home yoga practice. I recently stumbled across Sarah Wes’ channel and was introduced to Kemetic Yoga for the first time. I immediately resonated with the slow but powerful sequences, her visually captivating yet peaceful video landscapes (practicing among the dunes, albeit through my iPad, is now a new favorite), and simply experiencing a new form of yoga I’ve never felt move through my body. Her videos have been a refreshing and much-needed reset for my yoga practice. Thank you Sarah.

6. Becoming a clog girl — It’s official: I’m a clog girl. I’m not sure anyone in my immediate world understands the appeal of clogs. I’m not sure I completely do either… They are sort of unpractical and clunky. But for some reason I feel a newfound sense of joy when I’m able to “clog around” the block in them. In a world where everything feels increasingly flashy, I am here for the humble clog.

7. Elsa Peretti’s World — Some days the Substack algorithm takes me through the most wonderful wormholes into the lives + thoughts of different creatives. On one such day, I discovered and read “Elsa Peretti’s World” on Jessica Menda’s Substack and was so captivated, I took my research to Google for some time after. I have always been vaguely aware of Elsa Peretti, as an iconic jewelry designer and model, however I had no idea what to expect when I encountered the design & artistry of her home spaces. In a world of white washed walls and soft, warm textures filling many homes (naturally people tend to want their homes to look clean and comfortable), it feels both captivating and somewhat puzzling to imagine living in her chic, cave-esque domicile.

8. The Overstory, by Richard Powers - This was a book that felt like nine books woven into one - but in the best way possible. With a connected, overarching “overstory” of how trees and the environment connect us in more ways than we often realize, The Overstory truly was masterfully written (after all, it did win the Pulitzer for a reason). I am not sure if this was Richard’s intention, but I ended up reading this book in a very similar way to how I would wander through the woods: I ambled through it slowly and purposefully, pausing to notice and pick up little interconnected threads as I went. And there were many. From start to finish.

9. Widow Clicquot movie — Based on the story of the Veuve Clicquot champagne legacy, this movie was as aesthetically pleasing as Veuve Clicquot bottles are to look at (and while I do not drink, I certainly enjoy keeping empty bottles around for cut stems and branches). I throughly loved it from beginning to end, and not just because I was imagining what it would be like to inherit a farm in the French countryside.

10. Post sunset evening lulls — Every evening, the chaos of the day is commanded to stop, in reverence for the sunset. And while the sunset is the lure to press pause and step outside for “just a moment” to watch the warm colors dissolve in the sky, the real magic comes in the lull during its aftermath. The aptly named “magic hour”, post-sunset is a time when the rest of the world can cease to exist. It’s a time when all that is needed of you is your presence. When you can witness real change happening in slow motion: the curtain of inky-night sky gradually pulled down over the day.

    

    What have you been savouring lately? What odds & ends of life have been commanding your attention? Would love to hear in the comments below.

xx

Heather

Some time ago, I was walking through my grandmother’s garden.

I’m sure if she were reading this she would wave her hand and say “what garden!” or comment on how overgrown things are now that she stopped tending to parts of it.

I know I’ve never been a traditionalist when it comes to planting gardens - and as an herbalist, I typically let the “weeds” grow (particularly the medicinal ones) - but I really love a garden that is a bit wild. A garden with deep roots and a collection of native “volunteers” that are happily thriving with the others. And her’s fits the bill.

As I wandered aimlessly through my grandmother’s garden, I re-visited some of the plants and trees that have been woven into her stories and phone updates over the years.

The storied Ginkgo tree - much taller than I last remembered!

The old Oak tree - once such a small sapling and now large enough it threatens to overthrow the septic system.

The Lilac “bush” (now so tall it rivals some of the other trees) - whose blooms elegantly fill the corner window of the living room.

The odd Goldenrod plant - a quoted “unwelcome” volunteer that is not-so-secretly my personal favorite.

The patch of Cleavers - that one visit my mother had a very funny, surprise encounter with.

The ghost of the Blueberry bush - no longer there but forever a part of some of my fondest childhood memories (and one of my very first edible harvests).

It feels so different to walk through a garden and yard that has been nurtured for ages. The trees that hold more and more stories the taller they grow. The rich and varied plant life (including the ones that you resist that keep coming back and you finally give way to). The former beds that have been long overgrown but will always have a few blooms from ever-defiant bulbs. Maybe even the haphazard sculpture that was gifted and crafted by great aunt petunia-something-or-other - which you’ve been watching the moss partially reclaim for years now.

These kinds of gardens don’t happen overnight.

They take a lifetime of love, care, and letting go.

Yes, you can technically pay someone loads more money to transplant fully mature trees and other plants - so you can have your “mature” garden now, without waiting - but then you miss out on the magic that happens when you choose to grow with a piece of land for decades. When you watch your trees weather storms year after year. When those randomly scattered seeds surprise you in full flourish one day. When you take a step back and realize how that beloved flowering vine has beautifully taken over your wall.

In this day and age where nearly all of us expect whatever our hearts desire at the drop of a hat (Amazon deliveries, Uber Eats, any question answered via Google, et al.) - growing a garden from scratch actually becomes an act of defiance. These kinds of gardens are the antithesis of immediacy culture. They demand that you love them long & slow — sitting back in your rocking chair through the seasons and tending to them as needed. You can’t snap your fingers and make sure your rose bush is blooming on Valentine’s Day. You can’t expect your sapling trees to immediately take to their new home and bear fruit the next season.

Just like when we move homes, plants often need a little extra time to settle in. It often takes extra time at first for them to bloom and fruit. And they do so on their time, not our time. (May this be a reminder to give ourselves the grace + time we need too - especially after we experience a major life transition like transplanting ourselves in a new location).

Tending to a garden long-term also means that you will be nurturing a long-term relationship with that garden (the kind of relationship can be of your choice - whether your garden feels more romantical for you or if it feels more like caring for a beloved grandchild). But just like any relationship, you can’t always be sure what direction things will grow and how things will look 10+ years from now. This is where the “letting go” element comes in. We give love, care, and nurturance - but we also step back and let things grow how they please (with perhaps some guiding and pruning along the way). We let their personalities come forward and we observe their wild + beautiful changes over the years. We start to mark time based on how overgrown things have become or how now certain trees rival the height of the house.

The relationship is dynamic and it gives you back so much more than what you put in to it. But you do have to invest time and practice patience. And hold the foresight of the future. Understanding that the garden is never fully yours, but ultimately a gift to the land that you are a steward of for however long.

Several weeks ago I was taking a break between appointments looking out over a field with my father. We both marveled at how beautiful the big live oak tree was in the middle of it, dappled with morning sunlight. He mentioned the small, young live oaks in front of his house. How they have grown so much since their planting 5 years ago, but still just babies compared to this giant before us. How by the time they are fully mature, he will be long gone. How it feels bittersweet to know that he won’t be around to appreciate their full beauty when the time comes, but that regardless he loves that they are there.

Every house in his community had 2 small live oak saplings planted in front of them when the neighborhood was developed, but many of his neighbors decided to rip theirs out and replace them with fully established palm trees or other fast flowering ones. But for anyone who has appreciated the wild beauty (and luxurious shade) of a live oak tree in the South - you would know what a gift it would be to have your street lined with them decades later. The trees were a gift not so much for this first generation of home owners, but more for those who follow later. But it is up to the first generation to see and understand that vision. To steward the land and remember that everything they give into it will be (hopefully) re-appreciated for many more years to come.

I’m reminded of that famous quote (attributed to Audrey Hepburn, but I have my doubts she was the first to say it…) that goes:

By the time some of your garden is fully mature, so will your bones be.

But your garden is not really yours - it is your gift for those who follow. And what an important and beautiful gift that is.

What have you planted with dreams of tomorrow? Or what would you plant in your legacy garden if you had one now?

xx

Heather

I’ve come to realize that part of my “authentic code” is building and nurturing a life that is handmade. A life where there is a story behind every odd armchair in the house. Where you can feel the love stitched right into your sweater. Where the scratches on the floorboards remind you of all the feet (and paws) that have danced happily through your home.

A life that you can reach out and grab with two hands.

With the advent of the digital age and rapid expansion of AI technology, I find myself needing to fight a little harder to keep these cherished analogue elements of my life alive and well. An innocent creative inquiry turns into a “quick” Google search - then 30+ minutes later I’ve found myself lost down another digital rabbit hole, checking emails, messages, and feeds, quickly justified by the thought that “I might as well while I’m online.”

But in reality, I am rarely ever fully offline.

My smartphone goes with me everywhere I go. And in the off chance it is left behind - I am likely still surrounded by a sea of them in the pockets and handbags of those nearby (so if I really needed to go online I could). And just the fact of knowing this, keeps me mentally online, even when I’m technically “offline”.

While there is a part of me that grieves for the more analogue days of my youth and yore, I have learned to accept the fact that, in this day and age, technology is an engrained part of life. Of course I love certain aspects of tech too (who doesn’t love sharing pics and texts with friends instantly or streaming their favorite movies/shows from bed??) Not to mention I would be, quite literally, lost without it (thank you Google maps!) But with technology only becoming more and more efficient and convenient at doing, well, almost anything for us…and then watching this become the new norm everywhere I go…I’ve become increasingly aware of how tech continues to push my analogue daydreams to the wayside. And how important offline time really is.

I remember being the last person in my friend circle to *finally* get a smartphone. As exciting, and somewhat necessary, as the transition was, I didn’t realize the impact it would have on my life. And how much of my attention it was going to take.

Aside from the common cautions that too much screen time can be bad for your eyes, the first real “wake up” call I had to the effects of technology came shortly after I got my first smartphone. I encountered an academic article online (I did a brief scour to try and find the source again but I had no luck so you’ll just have to take my word on this…) which discussed new findings on the effects of touch screen technology. And it concluded that not only do humans become desensitized to feeling human touch after excessive touch screen use, but we become more attracted to touch screen use instead of human touch over time and technological habituation.

So we become more inclined to have our fingertips glide repeatedly over our smooth smartphone screens than we do to hold hands with a loved one, reach out to a friend for a hug, or even respond to someone tapping our shoulder on the plane.

Reading this article at the time stopped me in my tracks, mouth agape, feeling simultaneously disgusted by the device in my hands and in sheer awe of it.

As the years have rambled on, and using my smartphone has inevitably become second nature, I have had to strive to be more deliberate with my online and offline time. (However, despite my best intentions, my eye strain is often the “canary” that alerts me first that I need a screen break.) In a recent attempt to better remedy my screen time habits, I happened to recall that aforementioned article on touch sensitivity and realized that what I was really craving in those moments when I absentmindedly pick up my phone was to make contact with something. To make contact with life and create some sort of feeling through my fingertips.

But I don’t really need my phone to make contact with life. I just need my hands.

And I don’t need to rely on my phone to create something for me, I can actually create it myself.

After I had this mini epiphany, I let my mind track back to my pre-smartphone college knitting days (yes, I had a knitting phase in college…and yes, I still had friends!) In between papers, classes, and parties, I devoted myself to knitting (and sewing in general). It was the perfect fixation for my overactive academic mind. It was fun, stress-soothing, and I was able to create something from it. Something I made with my own two hands.

Did I ever become an expert knitter? No. But there was something so gratifying about reclaiming my free time to, first, learn something new, and then, create something new. I didn’t want AI to knit a pair of socks for me, I wanted to do it myself. And even though it took me much longer than a machine to do so, the experience and end reward was beyond worth it.

So in light of this remembered gratification, I have re-introduced crafting into my life. I decided to try my hand at weaving first and recently created a simple and beautiful little linen cord basket. As I was weaving, I remembered the second most gratifying thing about making something with your hands: you can thoughtfully gift your creation to someone you think would appreciate it when you’re done. As someone whose love language is gifting, it brings me as much joy to create something with my hands as it does to pass it along to someone else’s hands (especially when they are my grandmother’s).

Creating a life that you can hold in your hands is important.

But not just a life held in your smartphone. A life that is built in connection with all of the world around you. Not just a metaverse, but a physical, real life with relics and treasures. A life that you can say you’ve built yourself and you’ve left your mark on. A life that you took the time to love into creation.

When was the last time you created something with your hands?

xx

Heather

Welcome to the third volume of The Savour Stack.

A thoughtful collection of 10 “things” that made me pause, ponder, and peruse. Whether for one delicious moment or as a current ongoing wonderment. Things, thoughts, books, ideas, tastes, observations, music, etc… that prompted me to slow my roll so I could lovingly savour them.

Let yourself be inspired, delighted, amused, or, at the very least, briefly entertained by the thought of them.

1. “Mirage Hour” — Every evening, during the sunset afterglow, the (self-proclaimed) “mirage hour” begins. The pyramid-roof houses across the waterway become backlit by a golden glow, casting perfect equivalents of shadow onto the water in such a way that, amidst the growing darkness of the evening and the feeling of “magic hour”, it suddenly becomes “mirage hour”. The hour where you can entertain the idea of not knowing which way is up or down. Where once definitive houses become slightly hazy while their pyramid replicas ripple before them on the water. After finishing dinner, I eagerly take a front row seat outside, imagining what it would feel like to be amidst a long trek in the desert and stumble upon a mirage such as this one. These house pyramids are a far cry from The Great Pyramids - but when the light refracts in such a way - who's to tell?

2. Summer Novels — While every season has its virtues, there really is no better season to indulge in novel reading than Summer. My deep-rooted, “ever-industrious” temperament perennially reminds that I should be reading books of a certain depth or with the purpose to “learn something”. This (often irritating) internal dialogue naturally gets in the way of me enjoying many novels (especially the juicy page-turners that you don’t have to think to hard to read). But for some reason, the volume on this inner dialogue turns down 5 notches in Summer, and I’m finally able to give myself permission to tear through some novels (aka I allow myself to have fun with reading for once! How novel…pun intended). Some novels I’ve devoured this Summer so far are Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver and Firefly Lane by Kristin Hannah. Ever the note-taker, this was one of my favorite quotes from Prodigal Summer that I feel really highlights what it feels like at the height of a long, hot Summer:

   “She learned to tell time with her skin, as morning turned to afternoon and the mountain’s breath began to bear gently on the back of her neck. By early evening it was insistent as a lover’s sigh, sweetened by the damp woods, cooling her nape and shoulders whenever she paused her work in the kitchen to lift her sweat-damp curls off her neck.” — Barbara Kingsolver

3. Linen — Easy, breezy, beautiful. Before moving to the tropics I always thought of linen as simply part of the oceanside-chic aesthetic. But now that I live here, I understand not just the beauty of it, but the functionality. How lovely it looks draped in any which way, and how lovely it feels to let your skin breathe on a hot day. Soft yet durable. The obsession is real.

4. “Send your brain on vacation.” — Lily Sais, a favorite anxiety coach and creator I discovered on IG, shared this quote recently and it immediately stopped my scroll. I love this framing. When we're feeling anxious or worked up, our mind tends to shift to overdrive, working extra hard to try and “fix and figure out” why we are feeling off. When really, our brain is designed to return to balance on its own and there is nothing we need to do to make that happen. In fact we are better off putting our brain on vacation mode. There’s no need to feel anxious about anxiety or feel stressed about stress - just let it be, just like if we were on vacation watching the clouds roll by.

5. Pen pal letters — For me, there is hardly anything sweeter than spontaneously writing and receiving letters in the mail. This is made even better when exchanged with a stranger. You can (almost) anonymously share an intimate window into your lives and private world contained within pen, paper, and envelope. I haven’t had a pen pal in ages, and I somewhat synchronistically acquired one recently. We are only a couple of letters deep so far, but the joy is real. Receiving hand-written letters makes getting the mail all that much more exciting again. I found myself dropping whatever I was doing to eagerly tear open my first letter like a kid opening a birthday card expecting a gift inside. Except this time, the gift is in the words alone.

6. Sweet Songs Volume 1 by Allison Young — This album is just that. Full of sweet songs that warm the heart like a glowing candle. I stumbled across this album of covers randomly (but is it ever really random?) - and was instantly taken by how Allison brings them to life again. So playful, light, and free, but with so much soul. Full of songs I grew up hearing that now feel kind of like a distant memory that I want to run head first into with an open-armed embrace. Needless to say, it’s been on repeat. Especially Oo-De-Lally … oo-de-lally, golly, what a day.

7. Childhood relics, journals, and more — In the vein of childhood memories, I took a pause the other day and spontaneously rifled through some boxes in the closet filled with childhood relics, old journals scribbled with academic notes and epiphanies, cherished rolled up drawings from friends, and other (temporarily) forgotten treasures. As I was rummaging through everything, I thought to myself how there really is a “just right” amount of nostalgia that nourishes us, feeds us, and helps us grow. Too much and we stay stuck in the past. Too little and we cease to cherish where we came from and who we once were. Here’s to those moments of sweet reflection on the past that continue to buoy us years later.

8. “Ablution” — The act of washing oneself as a ceremonious or religious rite. - For some reason, this truly incomparable word did not enter my awareness until last year, and now, I (joyfully) find it everywhere. Woven into my favorite books, whispered in my ear as soon as my feet step into the sea, remembered every time I pause and cup my hands to splash water on my face during a hot day. Ablution. The more I turn this word over in my mind, the more ceremonious and holy all of my encounters with water feel. What a gift it is to be cleansed by water. To love and take care of your body in such a way that the act of washing oneself becomes a ceremony. A prayer. A moment to receive. A moment for purification.

9. Veils — The epitome of liminality. An ethereal sheath dividing one world from another. The most delicate seeming boundary that is only lifted through permission, initiation, or transition…I could go on and on about how veils have captured my attention recently. The ritual of wedding veils, the moon peaking out behind a veil of cloud, and even the re-emergence of veils in high fashion (a la Lana del Rey in McQueen or Schiaparelli’s latest couture collection). While some might argue that the veil simply symbolizes contained innocence, I’m under the belief that it’s more about contained power. Clarissa Pinkola Estés explains it well: “In feminine psychology, the veil is a symbol for women’s ability to take on whatever presence or essence they wish. There is a striking numinosity to the veiled one. She inspires such awe that all those she encounters stop in their tracks, so struck with reverence for her apparition that they must leave her alone.” Now that’s power.

10. Condensation on the outside of an iced glass on a hot day that makes you grip even harder to summer every time you take a sip. — And how before you know it, your hands will be chattering to curl around some warm beverage as an antidote for the cold.

    

    … so, what have you been savouring this month? Drop a line in the comments below and let me know.

xx

Heather

The other day, I had a thought about an old dear friend whom I’ve lost touch with. The unexpected thought of them prompted me to pause and wonder what I would say if there was some way to make contact with them again after so much time has passed.

It’s true that with some friends the adage of “picking back up right where you left off” holds true, regardless of the years passed in between.

But, we can never assume this will always be the case.

So much life has happened in that gulf of time. So many stories, experiences, joys, and pains. So much that has not been shared. So many versions of yourselves lived.

As I was daydreaming about this, I landed on the thought:

I would like to re-meet you as you are today. As the version of yourself you are now.

I realized that as wonderful as our friendship was years ago, I was more interested in who they are as a person today than who they have been since I last talked with them. I was more interested in re-meeting them bright-eyed and blank-slated than trying to fill a gap with endless stories and re-tellings of events that happened in the past.

It felt refreshing to think about making a new friend out of an old one. Of choosing not to hold any sort of gravity from the past and re-meet them as they are today.

As I continued turning this thought around in my head, I started to wonder what it would be like to “meet myself” as I am now. I began scraping the boxes of my memory trying to recall when was the last time I really truly honestly “met myself”.

For anyone who practices yoga, meditation, or therapy of any kind, you’ve likely heard the words “meet yourself where you are” re-used and recycled time and again.

Although sometimes met with a hinge of annoyance (“not this phrase again…”), these words usually feel affirming for me to hear. As if I have been granted some permission slip to just be present with myself in that moment as I am, not trying to be any other version of myself. Not trying to “fix” anything I perceive is wrong. Not trying to jump 5 steps ahead or hang 5 steps back.

But often in these little carved out spaces of time, I find I’m often only meeting the parts of myself that are relevant. In yoga, I’m meeting the tension or openness in my body that day. In meditation, I’m meeting the cluttered-ness or spaciousness of my mind that day. In therapy, I’m meeting the big or small emotions that day.

I started to wonder what it would feel like to re-meet myself fully and completely, as I am today. Like meeting an old friend again after many years apart. With openness, acceptance, and curiosity.

The thought is exciting but also a tad bit hair-raising.

The idea of meeting someone is fun up until the point where you actually set out to do it. Then the inklings of social anxiety start to kick in…

How will they perceive me?

What if it feels awkward and uncomfortable?

What if we have nothing to say to each other?

What if there is hostility?

Is this is a mistake altogether?

While it might feel more second nature to second guess before re-meeting an old friend, the idea of re-meeting yourself can sometimes feel equally as daunting.

But this time, when I imagined asking myself all of the questions above, I was surprised by how downright funny I found them. Not just because quirky existentialist thought makes me laugh sometimes. But because I was able to see the absurdity of these thoughts when they were framed against me.

I realized that I didn’t care. And why should I care what my thinking mind thinks about who I am today?

I realized that I’m not interested in entertaining any judgements about myself from myself. And that these questions demeaned the entire purpose behind re-meeting myself: to objectively meet myself where I am right now. With openness and curiosity. No judgement, just presence.

The anxiety, the self-questioning, the doubt - it all parades as if it’s protecting us from harm. But really it's inhibiting us from connection with ourselves and others. A real “wolf in sheep’s clothing” kind of scenario.

So, with nothing to lose and everything to gain: go have coffee (or tea) with yourself as you are now.

You might be surprised at what comes up in conversation when you really show up for yourself.

xx

Heather

I’ve had multiple friends in the last year or so say to me out of the blue (with no prompt):

“I feel safe with you.”

Each time the words have stopped me in my tracks. Striking a chord in the heart in a way that feels similar to when someone tells you they love you for the first time. But not in a romantic way. And not in a way where it feels like there are ulterior motives or some expected form of response given in return. Nor in a way that feels “declarative” or driven by ego. But simply in a way that touches the heart in a place so deep that it often goes unseen altogether.

Somewhere along the line, I learned to equate “safe” with “boring” and “risk” with feeling alive and truly “living”.

I was told: “Don’t play it safe - be bold! Take risks!” when it comes to career choices.

I listened to friends lamenting about their relationships saying: “It feels safe to stay with them, but there’s no spark or excitement.”

I started rolling my eyes as a kid hearing all the adults at school chiding “Safety first!” before we were to attempt any sort of outdoor activity.

“Safe” became synonymous with “boring” - and by the time I was a teenager, I wanted nothing to do with it anymore. I ran head first after whatever made me feel the most excited and stimulated. It was exuberant and wildly fun at first, and then increasingly wearisome.

I began to crave a sense of place where I felt I could put down roots and rest. I had lived and learned from experiences I felt unsafe in and people I felt unsafe with - what safety really means for me. And at first, I began to cultivate that feeling within my home space. Then I started teaching more classes and participating in more retreats that were fostered around creating “a safe space” for those attending. I became enamored with healing arts and, without receiving any direction on the matter, inherently understood how much easier healing is facilitated when you feel safe in your environment. Safe enough to let your wounds air out and be seen, held, and heard.

“Safe” was growing a new meaning for me, and I was attracted to it. I began to value it and focus on curating this feeling for myself in every home I moved to (and continue to today). Soft textures, comfortable seating, dim lighting, a warm feeling, relaxing music, all the simple amenities you could need nearby…

But over time, I learned that safety meant more than cozy sheepskins and a warm house. I learned that everyone has their own definition of “safety”, which can change and evolve over time.

Safety is connected with a sense of deep trust and security. A resting place. A haven. An oasis. A harbor.

To create a place of physical safety is a practiced skill.

To embody it with your presence and personhood is a feat.

I spent so many years completely undervaluing the feeling of safety, then running away from it entirely, then fixating on creating it in physical spaces…and now…I have landed in deep wonderment at what it feels like to be a catalyst for someone else’s feeling of safety.

To have someone else tell you: “I feel safe with you.”

In a world that can be so challenging, complicated, and, at times, downright dangerous, these 5 simple words mean everything.

To feel safe enough to let your guard down with someone, even for a moment.

To feel secure in someone else’s presence.

To feel a sense of protection when you’re around them.

To feel like you are in good hands.

To feel like you can open yourself up in relaxed surrender.

To feel trust.

To feel cared for.

To feel held, supported, and loved.

“I feel safe with you.” can mean so many things.

When I was on the receiving end of these words, I did not ask the speakers what they meant. Even though they affected me in that deep pocket of space in the heart. Even though I was moved to hear them. I knew they were not about me. I am touched that my presence helped them recognize that they felt safe in that moment. But their personal feeling of safety is only theirs to define.

What or who feels “safe” to them might not for someone else. What matters most is that we value our own feelings of safety and those around us. That we check in with each other and support each other’s feelings of safety as much as possible.

And, most importantly, that we share our feelings of safety with others when we feel them. You never know how deeply those words will reverberate with them. How much of an impact they will leave. How they are not actually boring at all and instead can leave the person feeling more alive than before.

I’m brought back to an expression my dear friend once shared with me: In West Virginia, whenever a loved one is heading out, your parting words for them are: “Watch for deer.” Which he explained is West Virginian for “I love you.”

One and the same: I love you. I care for your safety. Watch for deer.

May we all practice being a safer landing place for one another and for ourselves.

How do you create a feeling of safety within yourself?

When was the last time you told someone you feel safe with them?

xx

Heather

Welcome to the second volume of The Savour Stack.

A thoughtful collection of 10 “things” that made me pause, ponder, and peruse. Whether for one delicious moment or as a current ongoing wonderment. Things, thoughts, books, ideas, tastes, observations, music, etc… that prompted me to slow my roll so I could lovingly savour them.

Let yourself be inspired, delighted, amused, or, at the very least, briefly entertained by the thought of them.

Share

1. (Almost) Summer Afternoon Thunderstorms — The heat of Summer has officially set in here in Florida. And although intense, there is no greater and wilder feeling of refreshing relief than an afternoon thunderstorm. Always ephemeral and never consistent, I have been frequently gambling with myself on if and when I can catch a sunset at the beach that day. Yet in this gamble, for me, it’s always a win-win situation: you either get doused in the most revitalizing shower, left feeling wild + alive while time stands still, or, you get swept away in the most mysteriously beautiful sunset, complete with dark + ominous clouds contrasted with brilliant egg yolk + cotton candy hues.

2. Tat Tvam Asi — तत् त्वम् असि — loosely and simply: “That Thou Art” or “You Are That”. These powerful words have resurfaced and been recycled several times throughout my life. Originally written in the Upanishads (a collection of 200 ancient Sanskrit texts estimated to have been written between 800 and 500 BCE, but passed down through oral tradition long before then) - these words continue to sing true today, for me and for many. While there are (very) long-winded explanations and deep-dives that explore their etymology (many of which are quite fascinating if you’re inspired to research on your own) - every time these words reappear in my life - the simpler they become. Loosely. Simply. “You are that”. A force greater than you could ever imagine. And connected to a source deeper than the inky night sky. No need to complicate. But not to be forgotten: Tat Tvam Asi.

3. The incomparable Oyster dress! — I never could have imagined to be captivated by a gown as much as I was by this one. Seeing actress Anya-Taylor Joy emerge from this work of art like the Mother of Pearl that she is quite literally stopped my scroll and captured my full attention. Handcrafted by Chinese couture designer Cheney Chan, “the oyster dress” (or at least that is what I enjoy calling it) - is equally beautiful as it is playful. Dynamic. Pure. Enchanting. Lyrical. You get the picture - I was adequately moved by this dress. And not just because of the dress itself, but because of my current love affair with shells (which I wrote about in my recent Substack article here).

4. savoring a moment on by Robert — I have been discovering many new writers and divulging in many wonderful new articles lately (thank you Substack!) but this one especially jumped out at me. It is a short essay and I implore you to read if you have a moment. Robert shares the story of a beautiful memory that he is savoring, and it got me thinking about how wonderful it can be to slip into a reverie from a time past and turn it over in your mind again. Wonder at how much that moment impacted you. Savour the beauty of it. And notice anything new you gleam from it when you look back months (or years) later. His ending quote slash prayer says it all:

   “May I never be so focused on what is to come that I forget the past moments that have made me who I am today.” — Robert

5. “Glacial” — I remember reading a share from a favorite writer I follow (Lisa Przystup) recently, where she described drinking a dram of rosé after a hot day in the sun as being “glacial” in comparison to the heat. Something about the word “glacial” struck me, especially when used in the context of something hot. Suddenly the word was no longer confined to only describing snow-covered alps and penguin-ridden places — it was opened up as a means of expressing a deeply felt and refreshing contrast of experience. An experience of uncanny, cooling relief, after baking in the heat of the sun. Perhaps it’s just because I live in Florida and can relate to this feeling and expression so much, but now when I notice my cold drink instantly percolate with condensation on a hot day, I think “mmm…glacial” as I take a sip. Awash with gratitude and relief.

6. Sconces! — First of all, new favorite word. Second of all, how delightful are they! I am in the process of envisioning and fantasizing how I want to decorate and design my next home, and one that I’ve realized is of utmost importance to me is lighting. During the daytime, I’m all about natural, sun-filtered rooms. During the evenings, I love soft candlelight glows emanating from different corners of the home. When I (re)discovered sconces on a design page recently, I stopped all other online exploring and focused in. It’s such a perfect way to bring a touch of light to a room or stairwell without a full-blast of illumination. It also allows room to play with shadows in a space (and if you read last month’s Savour Stack, then you know how much I adore shadows).

7. Practices for Embodied Living: Experiencing the Wisdom of Your Body by Hillary L. McBride — I have been following Hillary’s work for some time now and was very excited to see this book (or more accurately: workbook) come out earlier this year. There is not much to “read”, but more-so inquiries into the self and simple somatic-based practices to experiment with. Its refreshing to see a trauma-informed guidebook that does not get lost too much in the “technical depth” but instead delivers easy-to-reference nuggets of wisdom, practices to explore, and prompts to meditate on. It has been a wonderful manual to pause with in moments when I want to reconnect with myself and my body. Also, I personally love the body graphic she uses throughout the book: featuring a disproportionately small head comparative to the size of the body. It puts into perspective how much less attention we should give to our minds when distorted thoughts or feelings arise and how much more wisdom there is to be discovered through connecting to our bodies. If you’re a fan of workbooks and/or you’re on a nervous system healing journey, I highly recommend.

8. Water or Swarovski? - The other day after a refreshing late afternoon dip in the pool, I laid out in the sun to dry off and, suddenly, found myself taken aback by the simple beauty of water droplets on skin. Glittering and shimmering in the sunlight. I couldn’t help but wonder: was it water? Or was my body adorned in hundreds of Swarovski crystals? In that moment, they were one and same. Brilliantly there in full crystalline radiance one minute, and magically dissolving the next. The experience of being adorned in this kind of natural beauty felt fit for a Queen. Yet to have been experienced in something so mundane… *sigh* - these kind of moments get me.

9. The Royal Tenenbaums — I recently watched the movie The Royal Tenenbaums (yes, for the first time…I am slowly becoming more cultured in watching movies and shows after living under a rock for many years). I adored it. But the thing I adored the most was their whimsical home. Yes, the color-blocking (very classic Wes Anderson of course) with a touch of absurdity and maximalist design. But mainly the energy of the house. A house teeming with people of all different shapes, sizes, and temperaments, experiencing a new chapter of life together under one roof. How a physical entity such as a house can become a breathable, animated, dynamic force of life - brought forth by its motley crew of inhabitants. The perfectionist in me breathes a sigh of relief in surrender when witnessing movies like this. Realizing that life can exist and thrive in less than orderly or contained spaces. A refreshingly chaotic way of life that oddly enough works just right.

10. Healing by Rahill Jamalifard — A track I recently discovered (thank you Discover Weekly), that struck a deep chord, but in a soft place. A short anthem for healing featuring an easy cadence of repetitive and cyclical words and processes (to me, mirroring the often cyclical nature we feel like we are looping in when we are healing), ending with voice samples of what, I would assume, are clips from old home videos of Jamil’s childhood (to me, an ode to the inner child work at the root of it all). Simple. Impactful. Beautiful. Healing.

    

    I hope you enjoyed this month’s Savour Stack as much as I did writing it. I’d love to hear what you’ve been savouring lately! Drop a line below or share with a friend who might be inspired.

xx

Heather

A couple of months ago, I spontaneously cast off an essay in response to an Impromptu Challenge set forth by Princeton University Concerts, Suleika Jaouad, and The Isolation Journals (Suleika’s beloved Substack community). Although, admittedly, my competitive spirit is usually lit ablaze whenever I accept challenges (this aspect definitely runs in my bloodline) - I felt no such competitive spark with this one. I saw the writing prompts as a through line for healing. A place to channel words in a beautifully curated creative container - then shared and hopefully read amongst at least one set of resonate eyes.

There were several prompts to choose from, but naturally, I gravitated towards the one on dancing. Dancing has always held a special place in my heart and continues to be a healing medium for me. Music moves me in ways seen and unseen, and although I’ve never taken up learning how to play an instrument, I realized recently that I’ve taken up learning how to play the instrument of my body instead. A lifelong practice that I approach with continual curiosity, oftentimes intuitively but sometimes guided.

In the moment, I remember how healing it felt to connect two of my passions (writing and dance) into one intentional prompt, then share it with a music-driven community outside of the confines of my personal journal.

To my joy and surprise (as I had quite honestly forgotten I had written the piece at this point) - I was informed last week that I received an Honorable Mention in the contest. A most wonderful and appreciated surprise indeed!

I felt inspired to share the essay here in The Sacred Pause Substack as well. I hope it resonates with you. And if you’re inspired, I challenge you to answer the prompt for yourself too.

I have the great fortune of letting dance move through me often.

It comes about suddenly, all at once on the kitchen floor while the soup pot simmers.

On a walk when the wind blows through the trees.

After I’ve been given cause to celebrate something or someone.

And even when I’m wallowing away.

I can’t help but dance as my bridge and outlet through daily transitions. From item to item on my to-do list and from elation to anger to sadness to peace. The whole spectrum and range of emotions are invited to move through me. Through dance.

The last time I danced, it was a kitchen scene.

Classical piano moves me more than most other music (and I like to dedicate this attribute about myself to the doctor who helped deliver me in the hospital promptly exclaiming upon birth: “She’s destined to be a pianist with these long fingers!”).

Certain classical piano songs speak to me more than others…and Liebestraum No. 3 (in A-flat Major) by Franz Liszt is one such song. Lang Lang plays an absolutely beautiful rendition that is almost instantly transportive for me. In fact, it’s a frequently played track on my “keys to my heart” (pun intended) Spotify playlist, an ever-growing collection of piano tracks that make me swoon time and again.

A mundane weeknight dinner featuring a can of Tom Kha soup and rice simmering gently on the stove suddenly transforms into a swirling ocean of movement – my body yearning to express the emotion this song stirs in my heart so much that it must be professed on the kitchen floor of my apartment in that very moment, wooden cooking spoon still in hand. My dog watches reverently from her bed – knowing not to interfere with this prayer in motion.

Something about Liebestraum strikes a chord in my heart that moves through my spine and flutters out through my fingertips. If love was taking flight this is the song that would play. A soft but passionate cascade of keys mounting in exaltation as my feet lift from the ground. The excitement, the beauty, the tenderness, the softness. The notes move through me lovingly, leaving me reminiscent of a time when love blossomed in me in just this kind of way – giving me wings – and simultaneously leaving me hopeful that this kind of love will find me in this lifetime yet again.

A glassy-eyed feeling stayed with me. As the song concluded, my body stopped waving around and found a moment of stillness – returning to the soup pot – returning to the mundane – but this time with a fire kindled in my heart. But this time with a prayer of love resonating in the airwaves.^[1]

This song reminds me to be kinder to my body. To move with more intention – which often means slowing down considerably – instead of simply throwing myself from one activity to the next.

Dancing reminds me that every movement we make can be an act of beauty. Of grace. Even if expressed through seemingly violent or aggressive motions. There is beauty there because there is presence. Presence with exactly what is in that very moment.

Instead of running away from it – I run into it. Dancing is an act of bravery. And a reminder that I can live in this way at all times. And for any time I need a reminder – I can simply start dancing and my body will whisper it in my heart’s ear yet again:

“This is who you are at your core.”

You brave, soft, beautiful, radiant human you.

Dance does this for me.

Music does this for me.

And when spontaneously combined together on the kitchen floor whilst cooking, one can only imagine how much more delicious a dinner of canned soup can taste afterward.

^[1] It was only after I finished writing this piece that I realized the translation of Liebestraum from German to English is “love dream”.

xx

Heather

Lately, on my low days, I find myself thinking “I feel like a shell of a human”.

I think this thought from a place of being devoid. Empty. Distant from the person I once was. All that remains is my shell of a body and I’m not sure what else.

Lately, on my good days, I find myself growing a natural curiosity for shells themselves.

I’m increasingly drawn towards them. I wonder about them. I want to find more of them. An outing to the local “shell shack” has suddenly become the perfect afternoon excursion.

It was only very recently that I connected the dots and began to bridge these two sides of me together. Realizing that not only do shells find themselves in most all of my days (the good ones and the bad ones), but that perhaps there is something healing for me here too.

The expression of being “a shell of ourselves” implies that we have been hollowed out. That we are still alive, yet devoid of something. That only a portion of the person who we once were remains.

When this expression comes to mind on my bad days, I am a melancholic shell. I think these things with sadness or disdain. Sometimes wondering to myself how I got to this place at all to begin with. How a became a shell (of myself).

I’ve repeated this thought pattern periodically over the past several months, until the other day when all of a sudden I stopped it in its tracks. Blinked several times. And thought to myself: “But I love shells.”

The thought itself felt so pure and innocent.

The question circling my mind was no longer “how I became a shell of myself”, but how did I find myself in this habit of showing disdain against something that I actually, truly, wholeheartedly loved?

I had been blindly using this adopted expression of “being a shell of myself” for years, and in the process, was creating a contemptuous narrative about shells for myself.

To be a shell is a beautiful thing.

Yes, you may feel a bit hollowed out, but only because you know what it feels like to have life lived within you. Because you know what it feels like to be a home to some kind of vital life force. Because you know what it feels like to protect something that you love.

Your long and captivating life continues to evolve, the ocean you’re immersed in continues to churn, until you find yourself washed up basking in the radiant sun.

At first, you might feel washed up on a deeper level. Letting the state of being “washed up” equate to “used up”, tired, expired.

But darling, you are a shell.

The next chapter of your life is just beginning.

You’ve been washed up for a reason. To rest, re-set, and bask on the beach in the sun. Until one day, without any effort or striving, you become an essential treasure for someone new. The small hermit crab looking for a new home, the adoring human looking for a special addition to their home altar, or the great ocean sweeping you back under its watery wing.

It does not matter if you are chipped, broken, peppered with holes, or fading in color.

You are a treasure simply because you are a shell. And some creature, some entity, some force - will come into your life and remind you of this during those washed up moments. Remind you that being a shell of yourself is actually a beautiful thing. The beginning of a new chapter of life with new meanings and new purpose.

xx

Heather

Introducing…the very first installation of The Savour Stack.

A thoughtful collection of 10 “things” that made me pause, ponder, and peruse. Whether for one delicious moment or as a current ongoing wonderment. Things, thoughts, books, ideas, tastes, observations, music, etc… that prompted me to slow my roll so I could lovingly savour them.

Roll them around in my mind a moment longer.

Feel them in my body.

Process them a layer deeper.

Through sharing this Savour Stack (the first of many), my hope is that you find some inklings of inspiration in the collection too. That at least one, or several, prompt you to pause your day, or simply your scrolling, and wonder. To strike inspiration to pick up a new book, take a chance on a new song, wonder about a new “thing” you might encounter on your path…and perhaps even start taking note of things that would belong in your own version of a Savour Stack. Which is really, anything worth savouring (and yes, I do prefer to use the UK version of the word “savour”, vs. the U.S. “savor”, simply because there is an extra vowel in there that helps me draw out the feeling of really savouring something…)

So indulge me for a moment, and join me in perusing this special first collection of The Savour Stack.

1. Magnolia Blooms! — Magnolia bloom season is in full swing here in Southern Florida and, without fail, every time my walking path crosses by a Magnolia tree, I must dig my face in a bloom, marvel at their buttercup saucer petals, and relish in their ostentatious beauty. A dear friend of mine shared with me recently that traditionally women would pluck + tuck the petals into their shirts or bras to promote breast health and act as a natural perfume! How brilliant. I’ve been daydreaming about giving it a try myself (perhaps when the neighbors are not looking I’ll sneak a petal or 2…)

2. “Rollicking” — “boisterously carefree, joyful, or high-spirited” (according to Merriam-Webster). This word captured my full attention by surprise! I was indulging in a movie night the other week (watching Poor Things, which I thought to be truly brilliant and bizarre), and encountered a scene where Bella Baxter (Emma Stone) and Duncan Wedderburn (Mark Ruffalo) are sitting at the bar of a restaurant indulging in oysters (Bella’s first ever experience of them). Duncan guides her through the process (“shuck, chuck, and bubble”) - following the slurp of oyster by a swish of champagne and the exclamation: rollicking! Bella follows suit, rollicking et al. While the film and scene are certainly a delight for the senses (colors, ruffles, sounds, etc.) - it was something about the word “rollicking” that captured me most of all. I found myself turning it over absentmindedly in the days following, and even exclaiming it myself when the mood struck! It really does feel carefree and joyful to exclaim, but there’s also a bit of wildness to it that I’m drawn to…

3. Halloween Pennant Dragonflies — I have made some new friends recently. Bug friends. I certainly have many flower friends, but not many bug friends, so this newly blossoming bug friendship is delighting me in many ways. Several weeks ago, all of a sudden, the Halloween Pennant Dragonflies arrived for their *season* in the spotlight. For the first week or so, there were SO many that you would quite literally be bumping into them while trying to go for a walk. I was immediately taken by them, not frightened, but intrigued. Their “Halloween”-esque striped color pattern gives them their name and there is something so fascinating about combining 2 things that would otherwise never be associated: Halloween and Summer (the dragonfly being a quintessential bug of the Summer - or rather, the warmer months of the year as Summer is not quite upon us yet). They continue to herald my path when I go for evening walks and I love watching them dance amongst the tall grasses as the sun sets. Needless to say, I’ve been looking forward to saying my daily “hellos” to them and their presence always delights me, reminding me to pause for a moment and just be.

4. Tabula Rasa — The blank slate…the mind not yet affected by experiences, impressions, senses, and the outside world… This is one of those concepts + ideas that keeps returning to me time and again. This last week has been one of those such times as the words “Tabula Rasa” have appeared to me at least twice. Enough to make me pause and wonder…what virtue do I have to gain from this? What part of me needs to approach my life with a blank slate? And what healing can occur from doing such a thing?

5. Prizewinning by Julianna Barwick — This track has been transformative for me lately. Every time it plays, I savour every last drop of it. To be honest, I am pretty much entranced by everything that Julianna Barwick creates (and it is on my life list to see her perform live one day…). But for some reason, I missed discovering this track until only recently. When it came up on radio, I instantly stopped what I was doing, turned up the volume, and listened. But not just auditorily: with my whole body. With all my senses. With my heart. There is some sort of magic there when you discover a track that does this for you.

6. Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés — I’m sure many women reading this Savour Stack have already encountered this book. I have deliberately and intentionally been “re-encountering” it this past month, as I am slowly re-reading it from start to finish. For anyone who has read it before, you know how special it is. How it somehow finds a way to meet you where you’re at, while also calling out your own stagnant patterns and presenting a through line on how to move forward. I’ve admittedly only ever jumped around and read individual chapters at a time, but I am realizing now that there is a really beautiful and intentional weaving between them when read from beginning to end. Which sounds obvious enough, but sometimes it takes you over a decade of owning a book, moving it from home to home, and even toting it along on international travels, in order to realize such a thing.

7. The Isolation Journals Substack weekly chorus of collective gratitude — One of my favorite Substacks, The Isolation Journals by Suleika Jaouad, offers a weekly thread loosely referred to as the “chorus of collective gratitude” where everyone is invited to share a joy they experienced, big or small, over the past week. Every Friday, the thread is flooded with different streams of joy and gratitude offered up by humans all over the world. I look forward to flipping through everyone’s shares and somehow, even on weeks when I’ve been feeling extremely low or un-inspired, I am able to dig up something of personal joy. Oftentimes, on those low days, it is through pausing and reading other’s joys first that draws forth a moment of joy from my own life over the past week. I’m sure anyone who has contributed to this thread can attest to how special it is. And how we can experience joy tangentially from the joys shared by others.

8. “Everything is life. Birth and death are only transitions between life.” — I had the beautiful opportunity of reconnecting with one my friends and mentors this past week, whom I had fallen out of contact with for many months now. At some point during the length of our conversation, he shared these words: “Everything is life. Birth and death are only transitions between life.” Upon hearing them, some impulse in me wanted to immediately dissent and disagree with them, but my mind drew a complete blank. The words arrested me in a way where I could say nothing but, kindly, “please explain yourself.” It’s a very simple reasoning that I have not contemplated in quite some time and really enjoyed re-exploring in a new way. Low and behold, shortly after this conversation, I began to read the “Skeleton Woman” story in Women Who Run With The Wolves, which directly comments on the Life/Death/Life cycle that we move through time and again, in love, and in many aspects of our lives. There’s something here for me, and I’m paying attention…

9. Sun-cast shadows — I’ve been intentionally trying to slow my walking tempo lately. My tendency has always been to carry myself at a fast clip, and since recently moving from the city to more nature-centric, quaint neighborhood-life, I’ve been wanting to slow my roll even more. Through the process of slowing down my walks, I’ve begun to notice shadows more. Living in Florida, “the sunshine state”, the sun casts so many brilliant and complex shadows. In combination with the windy season of Spring here, I’ve noticed how the shadows dance across the pavement, conducted by the wind. I’ve begun to notice my own shadow more too. How our shadows layer and silently intertwine. The simple beauty of it all.

10. Pearls. Period. — Apparently I’ve lived by the sea just long enough to now, FINALLY, understand the obsession with pearls. I have never been a pearl person in the past. The tightly bound string necklaces of them feeling stuffy and outdated since I first wore one for a youth choir performance many years ago. But Pearls do not belong solely for the “Southern Belle” archetype. Oh no. They are an ancient pure form of a beauty, born fresh from the wild, churning ocean. The more time I spend at the ocean here, the more I have been daydreaming of pearls. Their raw simplicity and purity is enchanting… And how this beautiful pure “thing” is essentially formed by an oyster as a way of neutralizing a threat (be it some form of invader or irritating foreign material that has wormed its way in). Unable to dispel the invader, the oyster covers it with layer upon layer of aragonite (nacre), until a pearl is formed. What a powerful way to transform adversity into beauty.

Thank you for enjoying the very first installation of The Savour Stack with me! Again, I hope this list inspired you in some way, and, if you’ve been savouring anything recently, I’d love it if you shared in the comments here.

xx

Heather

When I launched The Sacred Pause Substack I had a very well-curated dream of creating and building an online space that inspires folks to use different wellness tools (herbs, somatic practices, recipes, etc.) to help them find calm in the daily chaos of life. While I don’t doubt that these articles and practices have helped others through my sharing of them (and they certainly have helped me at different periods in my life) - my narrative on wellness has evolved tenfold since the origin of this Substack. I have found myself gravitating less toward sharing curated practices and herb profiles, and more toward the beautiful simplicity of sharing my thoughts and observations when I find a moment to catch my breath, gather my thoughts, and take that self-prescribed “sacred pause”.

While there certainly are many virtues to be had in “doing” (and writing this Substack is one of them for me), there are just as many (or arguably more) to be had in simply “being” and learning how to “be” (aka being present with yourself, in this body, in this moment, with all that is - without trying to actively change anything.) And this is exactly what I have been “pouring” all of my free time into: simply being and noticing all of the life that exists in the liminal, or “in-between”, spaces.

So, like any good writer would do, it’s time to pivot my focus here on The Sacred Pause, just like my focus is pivoting in real life.

A WIDENING - AN OPENING - A NEW BREADTH OF WRITING FROM A NEW BREATH OF LIFE - SIMPLIFICATION

The Sacred Pause will still be “The Sacred Pause” - but more open.

More real human voices, more essays that feel healing to read, more personal memoirs, more inspiring resources, more raw realizations on what it means to “heal” and “be well”, more authentic shares from those “liminal” moments in life when we take a sacred pause and find the courage to slow down, more words sourced from a place of awe at the front lines of being human in a sometimes broken yet ever beautiful world.

It will still be filled with my favorite kind of poetic prose (would you expect anything less??) But also more “off-the-cuff” thoughts + shares straight from the heart of my journal page to you. In an overly curated world, I crave for more authenticity (and these are the kinds of publications and accounts I find myself instinctively reading and devouring first over others lately).

In that vein, I feel inspired to let my voice here on The Sacred Pause evolve and grow too. I want to share more about what inspires (or recently inspired) me to pause. What stopped me in my tracks, awe-struck, humbled, and a little tickled. And I want to know what inspires you to pause too. What recent encounter left you simultaneously breathless and inspired at the same time.

I have some new *sparkly* ideas, plots, and plans for this Substack that I hope you’ll stay tuned for too…consider this your official teaser.

Take heart that The Sacred Pause continues to be a 100% reader-supported publication, so please know that your support means everything to this writer (each subscription is like a little love note nudging me to write more + share more because now I know one more pair of ears is listening).

Subscribe now

It always feels vulnerable to change your vision - especially once you have already started crafting, creating, and sharing it with the world. So thank you for listening, for reading, and for supporting the evolution of The Sacred Pause.

xx

Heather