Liz, this lovely to read. I'm completely charmed, btw, about how many readers (relative to my subscribers) I have in the U.K. I'm flattered by that. It's also because my wife is English. My kids are getting their U.K. passports now, and England has become like a second home. What part of England is your vibrating little workroom? I will give a solid tug on the harpstring when I know which one yours is connected to. Thank you for your note. They are indeed tales (true ones), but you are the first to use, quite correctly, that word. And we are approaching an Arabian Dawn shortly. 🌘
Adam, a sweet reply! But I only found this a few days after it was posted - doesn't Substack automatically notify users for comments and responses?
I wonder if you have a high percentage of UK followers because your stories (and tales!) are not 'so' saturated with American idioms and cultural references as to make them opaque to people (like me) whose only experiences of your country, your world, are second-hand, through films, TV etc? Your writing, in addition to its eloquence, is generous and somehow welcoming, the tone compassionate, maybe these characteristics sit well with us?
My workroom looks across the house-filled valley of a stream that runs into the River Avon, in a really interesting (but not picturesque!) maritime village a few miles outside Bristol. This tidal river joins the River Severn just a couple of miles north west of the village; daily walks provide views across this 'great divide' to the enticing hills and mountains in South Wales (often visited by us) while gently rolling farmland (frequently walked by us) surrounds the rest of the village. I shall listen out for an ethereal, transatlantic harp-note!
You don’t need to listen across the Atlantic! I post later. Gently pivot to the southwest. I’m writing this from Torquay. I flew into Bristol on Tuesday morning, (sadly to be here for the passing of a family member).
It's sad to hear the cause of your visit, sympathies for you all. But welcome to wet and windy England, keep safe from the Devon waves. I'm halfway through reading (and thoroughly enjoying) Finisterre, and may have a (fairly low-key) coincidence to report once I've finished!
Serendipitous coincidence is the miracle of that walk. I look forward to hearing about ours. You'll come to that. If you get that far, then please share ours.
I love the Devon waves. Very dramatic! I love Devon sunshine and green hills more. :-)
The FInisterre coincidence I was going to tell you about didn’t quite make meet the criteria - the very slight coincidence relied on these two events happening in 2010 when I'd thought you walked the route, and it seemed possible you might have stopped at Melide (see below), but looking back at your story it must have been 2011? But hey, I've got this far, I'll tell you anyway! In spring 2010 my younger son was accepted onto a Camino-focused, EU funded project for young people (under 25). Two representatives of each EU country (pre Brexit days!) were selected to work in towns along the last part of the route (which they walked at the start of the project), the aim was to help develop tourism in the area, beyond Santiago, by encouraging pilgrims to stay a little longer in these stop-over points to discover some local culture, history, architecture and sample the towns' hospitality offers etc, he was based in Melide. It didn't really work, not for their want of trying, but as you discovered, when you're a pilgrim you have strict targets - in place and time, and lingering to see the sights en route is just an unecceary distraction - the project's objectives were flawed! But he had a good few months, made several European friends on the scheme, some he's still in touch with, and one of those, a lovely young woman from Austria, stole his heart! They've been together ever since, and he moved to join her in Vienna in 2017, so this story is also one of love, and in this case, gain, on the Camino!
Evidence of gathering or collecting things is a phenomenon that has been studied throughout history. An accumulation of what usually consists of objects having value to the beholder.
Your mom collected love.
Every tangible evidence of love gathered together, “…some of them bound together in ribbons and bows…” ,as if all could be tethered to the ground she stood on. Held tight in her hands or “hidden”. Always protected.
It was her treasure .
She held the value of the written word above all else. No surprise really.
Words, and stories, memories and photographs , an opus for her children.
If words could reach the stars and beyond, she would be smiling.
Every time I finish reading the next chapter, I think this one , this is the best yet. And so it is.
“And in that calm center the kaleidoscope of her heart would begin to stir in its opposite direction,…….. effortless thought after effortless thought, one lovely, unexpected treasure after the next.”
"Your mom collected love." Yes, indeed, in all of its forms: language in particular, but images, music, all of the arts. She was truly an intellectual as was my father, far more so than I am, but I am the beneficiary of some of that and certainly putting a premium on language as an expression of love. Tory Putney notes in a comment above that it was her Love Language. It was. She was not particularly physically demonstrative or a gift giver or the rest of them, but Love expressed through Language was her arena, and she got the job done there.
There is love and admiration in every word written here. The passion, verve, and idiosyncrasies your mother possessed paint the picture of a woman who lived big and lived well. I love that the written word was her love language as well, and that you continue her legacy with each new story you share. They are all filled with such incredible detail, and deep meaning. I'm always swept up in the currents of your mind. Thank you for sharing these experiences with us.
The written word is in fact the love language of both of my parents. Much of this piece is about the legacy of that. There are only a few chapters left, but they are deeply focused on language and my parents gift to my brother and me in that regard. My dad is up twice to bring their story home, fwiw.
Honestly can't wait to read them. Each of these chapters have taken me to unexpected places emotionally, and reminded me of so many of the things I love about my parents and the world they built for me and my brothers. One of my absolute favorite things about growing older is the deeper understanding of the human beings our parents were, and how their worlds were so much deeper and richer than our kid minds could ever grasp.
Obscenely gorgeous. Your voice over was excellent, too. I loved listening to you while I read (I'll go round two just listening, but the double was a treat), I hope this becomes a regular thing. It'd be magic to have you on car journeys!
I'd committed to doing one to see how I felt about it. Thanks for your kind words on it. I'm of two minds, but it's not a car crash either. This is really the last thing that I've written -- will ever write? -- about my mom. I thought it fitting to read this one aloud. Dad is up for a couple of chapters and then I can take my leave.
In other news, I was thinking about my focus on "goodbye" in my work. I think everything I write with a teaspoon of seriousness has farewell as an ingredient. I though briefly about "The Art of Goodbye" as a Substack title but decided that would crash under its own weight. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't read something with that title. I'm even of two minds on feel something, although I like the brazenness of it.
None of that is my point, though. My point is that writing about Goodbye and writing about Death are related. I think I'd rather go to your page to die than my own, but some of that is because I see how the sausage is made over here.
For sure not a car crash. I’ve been getting these awful headaches lately and when I’m in the grip of one it’s very hard to read, so I’m finding myself even more appreciative of the voiceovers. Whether or not you carry on, it’s nice to have heard this piece, especially.
I hear you on The Art of Goodbye. I would’ve rushed to it, obviously, but it’s not for everyone. Feel something is wonderful, and you deliver on it, making it extra wonderful.
They’re definitely related, and equally as potent. I think even the smallest of goodbyes (or endings, or leaving) is an opportunity to practice for death-in as much as it offers the chance to practice showing up in the least distracted and most considerate way as we are able. Either way, I assure you that the Death & Birds sausage factory is a truly chaotic place.
Off topic, but do you happen to know how Damien is? I think of him every day.
You did a voiceover!!! Like all your pieces, this one is an exquisite polished gem, so rich with metaphor and feeling. I really enjoyed listening to it and I think others will too. I know you’ve been nervous about reading your work, but it really is magical. Keep it up. I can tell you were trying to do it in one which is breathtakingly hard to do. Let me know if I can be of any technical assistance.
Yes, you can! Maybe jump on a quick call. We can figure out offline when. My goal here was simply to do it. Success was including it. And I did it! I won! 🙌 And now, inevitably comes the inner tidal wave of “hmm” and the undertow of “why did you just do that,” but I’m in from time to time.
You can’t fake the spoonerism! I delivered that effortlessly!
It would be my pleasure to help you out. I'm sick at the moment, but let's plan something over the weekend or next week. In the meantime, I can email you links to some gear you might consider.
You have mastered the tightrope walk that such a mercurial motherhood demands... finding your balance somehow between adoration and whatever that exasperated place is that is not hatred, but something at least acquainted with it. That we can see and admire her, warts and all is credit to her, certainly, but also credit to you. It is a great deal to hold in just two human arms, and allowing us to see her and still understand loving her, well that is rather wonderful.
Very much enjoyed your voice Adam....the way you write is served by how you tell it, the storytelling comes alive....no AI can do that...
I did dive into the Inner Life piece you suggested and haven't surfaced yet....I think Sam Kahn in onto something very important and it deserves several follow ups....thanks...
In the writer-call last Saturday you said you live for those meetings, aargh I dread them, fear them, but also long for the kind of contact that grows out of them. Your vulnerable expression of what the project did for you was very close to my experience, but I could never have said it like that...thanks
Thank you for the kind words on the voice over. We'll see. If it makes me happier to do it, I'll continue. If it adds additional weight to the writing, I'll let it go. Or, honestly, if it rises higher than the curiosity level for readers.
It meant a lot to me to meet with everyone. I'm so far from through the pieces (closer to the middle than the end), but I've loved the journey of this and am deeply grateful to Ben for pulling this together, both the vision and the project management of it.
The Sam Kahn piece is timed just right for my thinking right now. This dabbling across essays and fiction makes a lot of it relevant -- and, as I mentioned, allowing myself to get a little non-rational about including certain thoughts/images that aren't entirely vetted by the left brain. It's like some ancient cultural ritual where you leave the window open in the barn to let the good spirits in. I'm making that up, of course, but that pre-thinking kind of communication. I think there might always be room for that (My Left Brain reminds me as I type that, that that is complete bullshit, and I should always run all ideas, images, text and metaphor through the Left Brain Checker and otherwise cannot include ideas without the express written consent of...
I loved this, Adam. So many jolts of recognition, starting with the bundle of delicate blue airmail letters. We had a similar bundle--my father’s letters to my mother from the year he was in Vietnam (very early ‘60s). Sadly, when they passed, I became the keeper of those letters but before I could read them, they disappeared. As if he reclaimed them from the beyond.
I also thought of my mother’s own memorial with her friends’ stories, and of her epic letter-writing. I can see where your yearly Christmas letter tradition came from. ☺️
An exposed heartstring, tugged by these swirling memories of your mother; reverberations cross the Atlantic and vibrate into my little workroom in England, where I had just been writing about my own mother. I think heartstrings might sound like harpstrings when they stretch across oceans - perhaps that's what makes your stories sing so colourfully and carry so far! Fanciful nonsense but heartfelt - I am utterly beguiled by these Scheherazade tales, thank you!
Liz, this lovely to read. I'm completely charmed, btw, about how many readers (relative to my subscribers) I have in the U.K. I'm flattered by that. It's also because my wife is English. My kids are getting their U.K. passports now, and England has become like a second home. What part of England is your vibrating little workroom? I will give a solid tug on the harpstring when I know which one yours is connected to. Thank you for your note. They are indeed tales (true ones), but you are the first to use, quite correctly, that word. And we are approaching an Arabian Dawn shortly. 🌘
Adam, a sweet reply! But I only found this a few days after it was posted - doesn't Substack automatically notify users for comments and responses?
I wonder if you have a high percentage of UK followers because your stories (and tales!) are not 'so' saturated with American idioms and cultural references as to make them opaque to people (like me) whose only experiences of your country, your world, are second-hand, through films, TV etc? Your writing, in addition to its eloquence, is generous and somehow welcoming, the tone compassionate, maybe these characteristics sit well with us?
My workroom looks across the house-filled valley of a stream that runs into the River Avon, in a really interesting (but not picturesque!) maritime village a few miles outside Bristol. This tidal river joins the River Severn just a couple of miles north west of the village; daily walks provide views across this 'great divide' to the enticing hills and mountains in South Wales (often visited by us) while gently rolling farmland (frequently walked by us) surrounds the rest of the village. I shall listen out for an ethereal, transatlantic harp-note!
You don’t need to listen across the Atlantic! I post later. Gently pivot to the southwest. I’m writing this from Torquay. I flew into Bristol on Tuesday morning, (sadly to be here for the passing of a family member).
Chilly!🥶
It's sad to hear the cause of your visit, sympathies for you all. But welcome to wet and windy England, keep safe from the Devon waves. I'm halfway through reading (and thoroughly enjoying) Finisterre, and may have a (fairly low-key) coincidence to report once I've finished!
Serendipitous coincidence is the miracle of that walk. I look forward to hearing about ours. You'll come to that. If you get that far, then please share ours.
I love the Devon waves. Very dramatic! I love Devon sunshine and green hills more. :-)
The FInisterre coincidence I was going to tell you about didn’t quite make meet the criteria - the very slight coincidence relied on these two events happening in 2010 when I'd thought you walked the route, and it seemed possible you might have stopped at Melide (see below), but looking back at your story it must have been 2011? But hey, I've got this far, I'll tell you anyway! In spring 2010 my younger son was accepted onto a Camino-focused, EU funded project for young people (under 25). Two representatives of each EU country (pre Brexit days!) were selected to work in towns along the last part of the route (which they walked at the start of the project), the aim was to help develop tourism in the area, beyond Santiago, by encouraging pilgrims to stay a little longer in these stop-over points to discover some local culture, history, architecture and sample the towns' hospitality offers etc, he was based in Melide. It didn't really work, not for their want of trying, but as you discovered, when you're a pilgrim you have strict targets - in place and time, and lingering to see the sights en route is just an unecceary distraction - the project's objectives were flawed! But he had a good few months, made several European friends on the scheme, some he's still in touch with, and one of those, a lovely young woman from Austria, stole his heart! They've been together ever since, and he moved to join her in Vienna in 2017, so this story is also one of love, and in this case, gain, on the Camino!
Evidence of gathering or collecting things is a phenomenon that has been studied throughout history. An accumulation of what usually consists of objects having value to the beholder.
Your mom collected love.
Every tangible evidence of love gathered together, “…some of them bound together in ribbons and bows…” ,as if all could be tethered to the ground she stood on. Held tight in her hands or “hidden”. Always protected.
It was her treasure .
She held the value of the written word above all else. No surprise really.
Words, and stories, memories and photographs , an opus for her children.
If words could reach the stars and beyond, she would be smiling.
Every time I finish reading the next chapter, I think this one , this is the best yet. And so it is.
“And in that calm center the kaleidoscope of her heart would begin to stir in its opposite direction,…….. effortless thought after effortless thought, one lovely, unexpected treasure after the next.”
(And all that was written in between)
"Your mom collected love." Yes, indeed, in all of its forms: language in particular, but images, music, all of the arts. She was truly an intellectual as was my father, far more so than I am, but I am the beneficiary of some of that and certainly putting a premium on language as an expression of love. Tory Putney notes in a comment above that it was her Love Language. It was. She was not particularly physically demonstrative or a gift giver or the rest of them, but Love expressed through Language was her arena, and she got the job done there.
There is love and admiration in every word written here. The passion, verve, and idiosyncrasies your mother possessed paint the picture of a woman who lived big and lived well. I love that the written word was her love language as well, and that you continue her legacy with each new story you share. They are all filled with such incredible detail, and deep meaning. I'm always swept up in the currents of your mind. Thank you for sharing these experiences with us.
The written word is in fact the love language of both of my parents. Much of this piece is about the legacy of that. There are only a few chapters left, but they are deeply focused on language and my parents gift to my brother and me in that regard. My dad is up twice to bring their story home, fwiw.
Honestly can't wait to read them. Each of these chapters have taken me to unexpected places emotionally, and reminded me of so many of the things I love about my parents and the world they built for me and my brothers. One of my absolute favorite things about growing older is the deeper understanding of the human beings our parents were, and how their worlds were so much deeper and richer than our kid minds could ever grasp.
💯. As you can imagine, writing all of this I have one eye in the rearview mirror and the children sleeping in the backseat (for now).
Obscenely gorgeous. Your voice over was excellent, too. I loved listening to you while I read (I'll go round two just listening, but the double was a treat), I hope this becomes a regular thing. It'd be magic to have you on car journeys!
I'd committed to doing one to see how I felt about it. Thanks for your kind words on it. I'm of two minds, but it's not a car crash either. This is really the last thing that I've written -- will ever write? -- about my mom. I thought it fitting to read this one aloud. Dad is up for a couple of chapters and then I can take my leave.
In other news, I was thinking about my focus on "goodbye" in my work. I think everything I write with a teaspoon of seriousness has farewell as an ingredient. I though briefly about "The Art of Goodbye" as a Substack title but decided that would crash under its own weight. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't read something with that title. I'm even of two minds on feel something, although I like the brazenness of it.
None of that is my point, though. My point is that writing about Goodbye and writing about Death are related. I think I'd rather go to your page to die than my own, but some of that is because I see how the sausage is made over here.
For sure not a car crash. I’ve been getting these awful headaches lately and when I’m in the grip of one it’s very hard to read, so I’m finding myself even more appreciative of the voiceovers. Whether or not you carry on, it’s nice to have heard this piece, especially.
I hear you on The Art of Goodbye. I would’ve rushed to it, obviously, but it’s not for everyone. Feel something is wonderful, and you deliver on it, making it extra wonderful.
They’re definitely related, and equally as potent. I think even the smallest of goodbyes (or endings, or leaving) is an opportunity to practice for death-in as much as it offers the chance to practice showing up in the least distracted and most considerate way as we are able. Either way, I assure you that the Death & Birds sausage factory is a truly chaotic place.
Off topic, but do you happen to know how Damien is? I think of him every day.
This is very beautiful. I have very little from my mum that is so precious and so heartfelt. Previous memories woven into beautiful prose. Thank you 🙏
You did a voiceover!!! Like all your pieces, this one is an exquisite polished gem, so rich with metaphor and feeling. I really enjoyed listening to it and I think others will too. I know you’ve been nervous about reading your work, but it really is magical. Keep it up. I can tell you were trying to do it in one which is breathtakingly hard to do. Let me know if I can be of any technical assistance.
Yes, you can! Maybe jump on a quick call. We can figure out offline when. My goal here was simply to do it. Success was including it. And I did it! I won! 🙌 And now, inevitably comes the inner tidal wave of “hmm” and the undertow of “why did you just do that,” but I’m in from time to time.
You can’t fake the spoonerism! I delivered that effortlessly!
It would be my pleasure to help you out. I'm sick at the moment, but let's plan something over the weekend or next week. In the meantime, I can email you links to some gear you might consider.
Stunning story eloquently written.
Thanks so much, Frederick. I appreciate your support. 🙏
A beautiful eulogy for a complex woman.
❤️
You have mastered the tightrope walk that such a mercurial motherhood demands... finding your balance somehow between adoration and whatever that exasperated place is that is not hatred, but something at least acquainted with it. That we can see and admire her, warts and all is credit to her, certainly, but also credit to you. It is a great deal to hold in just two human arms, and allowing us to see her and still understand loving her, well that is rather wonderful.
My readers are brilliant and wise. 🙏
Had to digest this one, your mother was a remarkable woman...
Thanks, Troy. She was indeed. Maybe not the easiest to have as a mom, but one with long-lasting dividends.
Definitely hearing more sweetness than not in your homage...
💯
Very much enjoyed your voice Adam....the way you write is served by how you tell it, the storytelling comes alive....no AI can do that...
I did dive into the Inner Life piece you suggested and haven't surfaced yet....I think Sam Kahn in onto something very important and it deserves several follow ups....thanks...
In the writer-call last Saturday you said you live for those meetings, aargh I dread them, fear them, but also long for the kind of contact that grows out of them. Your vulnerable expression of what the project did for you was very close to my experience, but I could never have said it like that...thanks
Bertus
Thank you for the kind words on the voice over. We'll see. If it makes me happier to do it, I'll continue. If it adds additional weight to the writing, I'll let it go. Or, honestly, if it rises higher than the curiosity level for readers.
It meant a lot to me to meet with everyone. I'm so far from through the pieces (closer to the middle than the end), but I've loved the journey of this and am deeply grateful to Ben for pulling this together, both the vision and the project management of it.
The Sam Kahn piece is timed just right for my thinking right now. This dabbling across essays and fiction makes a lot of it relevant -- and, as I mentioned, allowing myself to get a little non-rational about including certain thoughts/images that aren't entirely vetted by the left brain. It's like some ancient cultural ritual where you leave the window open in the barn to let the good spirits in. I'm making that up, of course, but that pre-thinking kind of communication. I think there might always be room for that (My Left Brain reminds me as I type that, that that is complete bullshit, and I should always run all ideas, images, text and metaphor through the Left Brain Checker and otherwise cannot include ideas without the express written consent of...
I loved this, Adam. So many jolts of recognition, starting with the bundle of delicate blue airmail letters. We had a similar bundle--my father’s letters to my mother from the year he was in Vietnam (very early ‘60s). Sadly, when they passed, I became the keeper of those letters but before I could read them, they disappeared. As if he reclaimed them from the beyond.
I also thought of my mother’s own memorial with her friends’ stories, and of her epic letter-writing. I can see where your yearly Christmas letter tradition came from. ☺️
What a beautiful reflection.
An exposed heartstring, tugged by these swirling memories of your mother; reverberations cross the Atlantic and vibrate into my little workroom in England, where I had just been writing about my own mother. I think heartstrings might sound like harpstrings when they stretch across oceans - perhaps that's what makes your stories sing so colourfully and carry so far! Fanciful nonsense but heartfelt - I am utterly beguiled by these Scheherazade tales, thank you!