Journal

I’ve lived with my brain for a few decades at this point, and it’s served me reasonably well. I sort of take it for granted though—don’t you? Lately I’ve been getting to know it better, and I wish I’d done it sooner.

You have but one brain (as most or all of us do) and it has to last your entire life. If you’re lucky, that life will be long, and if you’re even luckier your mind will stick around and serve you right until the very end.

It’s easy to think your brain just “works how it works”, but we could say the same for our eyes—and I know many people who wear glasses (myself included). We never tell folks to be “optically tougher.”

When it comes to our mind though, we often do the equivalent. We throw some negative self-talk at it and expect it to simply improve.

“Just suck it up.”

“Be mentally tougher.”

“Power through it again.”

“Stop being so weak; stupid etc.”

I saw a post on Threads recently that summed up this sentiment pretty well (and whilst it was a joke, it seemed to resonate with a lot of folks—me included). In case that link dies, the post read:

Me, to my nervous system: “Regulate you fucking fuck.”

Sometimes, we really do just try to will it to be. We get mad that our mind isn’t working the way we want it to, and then we get mad because we’re mad. You might be thinking that there must be a better way.

It turns out that there is, and it starts by taking your mind seriously and then being serious about your mind. Your specific journey is your own to embark on, but I can fully endorse embarking on it.

We have but one brain, and we deserve it to be in the best condition that it can be. To serve us as best it can. To treat it as best we can. I’ll write more about my journey some day, but I’m glad that I started it.

In the midst of thinking that something would go wrong recently (I’d name the thing, but it happens a lot), a thought struck me that’s stayed with me since: I only think this about the small stuff, really.

I’m purely reflecting on my own experience here, but—with that caveat in place—I rarely think with any sort of regularity that the really big things will go wrong. Some things that I assume to be true:

1. I’ll wake up tomorrow (and the next day)
2. Earth will be inhabitable for my lifetime
3. I won’t be directly affected by civil unrest
4. I won’t get terminally ill any time soon
5. My wife will love me for the rest of my life

I think those things (and more), I suppose, because life would be pretty difficult to lead if I was constantly thinking about them, or if I assumed that any of them would be (at least imminently) false.

When it comes to the day to day things, though, I’m somewhat regularly plagued by something akin to self doubt, or otherwise assume that things could (and will) go wrong. A few examples:

1. I won’t be able to solve this hard problem
2. I’m sure that I offended [basically everyone]
3. I’ll probably give up on [this idea I have]
4. I’m going to sound dumb when I express [thought]
5. I’m not prepared for [thing I want/need to do]

Of course, it can be healthy to have some of those thoughts, but it can be unhealthy to have all of them, or to have them too often. On the flip side, it can be good to assume some of the first list is false.

Because I (and presumably others) rarely need a nudge to think of the worst outcome though, this is a reminder to myself that I should borrow my assumptions about the first list for the second list.

1. I have solved hard problems and can solve this
2. I likely didn’t offend but I can ask and clarify
3. I’ve accomplished many things and can do this
4. People aren’t thinking about all the stuff I say
5. I’m prepared, and it doesn’t need to be perfect

At this point I realize that I’m simply giving myself therapy-via-blog-post, but it’s a thought I had and one that I wanted to articulate. One that I want to remember. To re-read a few days from now.

If you needed the reminder, then here it is. Most of us, I believe, move through life assuming that so many things will work out for us tomorrow. Let’s all borrow that energy for the stuff we doubt.

I’ve written about some of the places I’ve moved to, but I haven’t really written about the place I moved from. The place where I grew up.

I was born in the City of Worcester, England, in a hospital that’s long since been demolished. I lived all around the city growing up, in 10 different homes across just as many neighborhoods.

It’s called the “City” of Worcester, but it feels much more like a town. In England, there’s such a thing as a Cathedral City, and Worcester is one of them (that is, you were a city so long as you had a cathedral). That cathedral played a curiously big role in my life.

The town is exactly what you might expect when you think of England. Cobbled streets, Victorian buildings, surrounded by rolling hills and farmland. It’s got a rich history of royalty, battle and trade. You can almost hear the stories that it holds as you walk the old streets.

In all, it was a wonderful place to grow up. It’s full of artists and craftspeople and—most importantly—kind people. I remember the people from my town as creative, gentle and down to earth.

I live in California now, and when people ask where I’m from and I’m invariably faced with a blank stare, I say “it’s where the sauce comes from—Worcestershire Sauce.” If I’ve got the right audience, I might add “the place that Donkey can’t pronounce in Shrek Forever After.”

After leaving my hometown, I was contractually obligated to hate it just a little bit (as you might be of your hometown, and anyone else of theirs). With some distance and time though, I can view it through a more neutral lens. To me, now, I remember it with some fondness.

I learned to ride my bike in Gheluvelt Park and would spend summers splashing around in the pool there. I made fierce friends after my initial shyness, several of whom I’m still connected with and love today. I climbed the nearby Malvern Hills over and over, frequented the cathedral for non-religious reasons, and walked beside or boated along the River Severn more times than I can count.

Worcester is where I had my first romances and break-ups. It’s where I learned all of my early lessons. It’s where I learned to be brave and resilient, and where I failed to be either of those things so many times. Some of the lessons I cling to today, others I try hard to unlearn.

I could write forever about my hometown, simply because I experienced so much of my life there. I’m sure that I will write more about it someday, but for now I simply wanted Worcester to have a small post alongside London and Brooklyn. I wanted to start writing something that I’ll likely never stop writing. To revisit just a few memories.

I’ll end though, for now, by saying that I’m glad I grew up in that place. I’m glad that I was surrounded by art and by artists. I’m glad that I was surrounded by history and artifacts. I’m glad to have experienced beauty and slowness and kindness so frequently.

I might have left, and I’m almost certain to never permanently return, but I’m glad that it’s where this funny little life started.

A few weeks ago on a public holiday, I drove 2 hours from my home in Oakland to Point Reyes Lighthouse. I was going there to record the sound of the ocean. I needed to record the ocean here specifically, as close to the lighthouse as possible, on a perfect California summer’s day.

You can’t access the coast from the lighthouse, and you can’t record the ocean from way up high. You’d lose all of the detail and capture all of the wind—and oh boy is there wind. The kind of wind that chills your bones. The kind of wind that makes it difficult to breathe.

Instead, I had to drive to the South Beach car park and walk to the lighthouse along the beach. The walk takes (or took me) a good couple of hours. Why wouldn’t I just record the sound of the ocean from near the car park, you might wonder. I wondered the same, briefly.

The sand was difficult to walk on, even close to the water. The strong gusts of wind battered me just as the strong sun beat down on me. When the dunes dropped away the wind picked up, pelting my skin with sand. Too hot already, I pulled on a sweater to stop the pain.

Aside from a few folks near the car park taking quick snaps before jumping back in their car, I didn’t see another living soul the entire time. The long grass moved with the wind, the Pacific crashed with a force, and my body slumped and stumbled across the loose sand.

The end of the beach—underneath the lighthouse—felt as though it wasn’t getting any closer until suddenly it was right in front of me. I let out an involuntary laugh, and maybe a little whoop. My legs trembled slightly from the uneven ground, but I’d made it.

After drinking some of the water that I should have drank more of along the way, I climbed across the rocks until I found a space that looked comfortable enough to spend a while, and was sheltered enough from the coastal winds to make for a good recording.

When I found my spot, I got comfortable (or, as comfortable as you can get on a jagged rock), popped the binaural microphones into my ears, hit record, and closed my eyes. I stayed like this for 45 minutes, not daring to move in case the mics picked it up.

I heard the ocean like I’d never heard it before. I really heard it. In some ways it felt like the same song repeated hundreds of times. In other ways it felt like listening to an entire album, with no 2 waves sounding the exact same way. It was beautiful. Meditative.

When I opened my eyes, the world felt different to me. I felt different. I felt more connected to the earth and to the ocean and—more than anything—to myself. I’d gone there to capture the sound of the ocean, but I’d received much more than I’d bargained for.

This small adventure is part of my love letter to California. A slow, multi-year project that will weave together sounds, scenes and observations about this beautiful place. I’m starting with Point Reyes Lighthouse because it makes me feel things.

This place, where the land meets the sea, is like paradise to me. It fills me up with the feelings I want more of and rids me, for a moment, of the feelings I’d be happy to let go of. It’s the quality of light, the landscape, and the sound of that wonderful ocean.

A love letter—and indeed, love—requires effort. That’s why I didn’t record the sound of any old ocean. That’s why I didn’t record near the car park. That’s why I walked the ~5 hour out-and-back to sit here, on a rock by the ocean, right underneath the lighthouse.

If you’d like to hear what I heard that day, you can do so in Apple Podcasts and most other popular players. You can also listen on the web. It’s best listened to through headphones and—in my humble opinion—best enjoyed sitting quietly, with your eyes closed, in the sun.

In my morning pages recently, I started questioning some of the things I’ve been doing (as in, genuinely questioning, not necessarily doubting). The phrase I repeated over and over was “…to what end.”

I’m making art every day, but to what end.

I’m starting to run again, but to what end.

I’m writing every day, but to what end.

It only struck me after writing several of these that I was assuming that there needed to be an end, which is something I don’t do for the most worthwhile things in life. The most human things.

I’m showing my wife that I love her, but to what end.

I’m acting kindly towards others, but to what end.

I’m helping someone I care for, but to what end.

It sounds absurd to write those last three, but we so often ask it about the things that we do for ourselves. I like to believe that we’d ask it less if those things felt truly aligned with who we are.

For me, writing and art-making and storytelling feel that way, which is why I had such a visceral reaction to my own questions. What do you mean, to what end? Because I have air in my lungs!

There are some things that can feel as essential as breathing, and those things can be very specific to us. They don’t need an end because we don’t plan on stopping, and we don’t need a reason to start.

As soon as I recognized that, it felt as though a weight had lifted off of me. There’s no pressure to do these things that we feel drawn to. We don’t need external validation to continue doing them.

I’m going to replace the phrase I kept using with a better one. To assume that I’ll do them for as long as I’m able and interested in doing so. Not “to what end”, but “because it fulfills me.”

I’m making art every day, because it fulfills me.

I’m starting to run again, because it fulfills me.

I’m writing every day, because it fulfills me.

I’ve been to India and France and Italy and Ireland and Spain and Germany and Mexico and England and Japan and Qatar and Cyprus and Scotland and Canada and The Czech Republic and Portugal and The United States and Wales and The Netherlands and Greece and Thailand.

And I think my favorite place.

Is wherever my wife is.

Because that’s home.

One of the surprising things that comes from journaling (or whatever) every day is that you can read posts from weeks or months (sometimes days) ago and not recall writing a single word of what you’re reading.

Whenever this happens (i.e. almost every time that I read an old entry) I wonder what I must have been thinking, feeling, or doing that day to make me write what I had. I think of it as getting to know myself.

Sometimes, I’ll learn something new about myself—often because of just how much I’ve written about something. I might have written for months about something I wanted to do (and often hadn’t). It could also be something that I enjoyed, found funny, or was worried about.

It feels a little bit weird, to be honest.

It can also feel kind of cool though.

I enjoy writing morning pages for the act of writing them. The act of doing it that day specifically. Increasingly, I think about the idea that I’m writing for future me, who might be a totally different person. I’m helping to teach future me about what they might like (or not like anymore).

I hadn’t really thought about this part of journaling. In fact, I’d toyed with the idea of deleting each entry as soon as I’d written it. I still think about doing that, but the thought is a little bit harder these days.

If you haven’t already, I’d encourage you to write something down every day. It doesn’t have to be long. It could be a thought, an idea, or how you’re feeling. A few weeks from now, it might teach you something.

Something I struggle with (although less now than earlier in my life) is separating the act of making from the act of judging. This might say more about my brain than humans in general, but the act of judging work too early just kills it. It kills the work and the motivation to do the work.

These days, I try to simply enjoy the act of making for the act itself. For the process, or the movement, or the collaboration. I try to withhold judgement until after I’ve made the thing. Sometimes until days, weeks or months after I’ve made the thing. Not every time, but I try.

The result is that I can look at work I shared weeks ago and think “that isn’t to my taste at all” and just feel sort of fine about that. Less “why would I make that” and more “oh, that’s interesting”. It’s good to learn about your taste through your own work without being hard on yourself.

I can make work that isn’t to my taste and still enjoy the act of making it. I can share the work with others knowing that it’s not to my taste, because I’m not committing to anything by sharing it. There’s no value judgement attached to it. I simply like to share what I make.

It almost feels meditative to me, and I try to quiet the critical voice and turn up the volume on the curious one. If I don’t like the work, I can try to observe it and really consider why. If I like the work, I can do the same thing (and it’s helped me to study the work I like more deeply).

It’s something I’m still working on honestly, but I’m trying to do it more, and it’s helped me to build confidence in the work I’m making. To enjoy the act of making more. To loosen up, lighten up, and just feel the work come through me. Slightly more body, slightly less brain.

In conversation with Tim Ferris, Elizabeth Gilbert recalled a framing device that she learned in IFS (internal family systems):

How do you feel about yourself vs. toward yourself.

It’s such a simple reframing, but one that—if you really sit with it for a moment—can completely change the tone of your self-talk.

That’s it. That’s the whole post. It’s been a day where I needed to try it, and maybe it’s been a day where you should try it too.

Try to be as kind to yourself as you would be to others.

I recently started a daily art making practice, and when I first thought of it my mind started racing with all of the things that I could do and all of the materials that I could use. It was exciting to think about!

Oil or acrylic? Or maybe pastel? Oil stick? All of them?

I’ll start on paper. Wait no, canvas? Panel? Wood?

Big paintings make me feel things, I should go big. Or…

I’ll do portraits, or landscapes, or objects, or anything!

I could feel that familiar voice starting to creep in that reminds me (too often) that I’ll probably never start. Recalls every time that I have started, but haven’t finished. I didn’t want that to happen.

I created some simple rules for myself so that I could focus on what was important to me. Right now, that’s exploring materials and using them for long enough that I use them in different ways.

The same 5x7in Stonehenge White.

Sennelier Oil pastels in 10 colors.

Every piece framed by a circle.

Nothing that has to be observed.

No piece takes longer than 30 mins.

Reset any rule only after 30 days.

These rules have helped me to just sit down and make, every single day since starting. I simply start by making a mark to create a situation, and keep responding to the situation presented to me.

We all know constraints can help us to get started, and even to arrive at novel ideas that we might not have done otherwise. I need to remind myself constantly though, and this is my reminder to you.