Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of my father-in-law Bill’s sudden passing. It was also my second day home from a glorious girls’ trip. I was emotionally tender and struggling to think of what to write. So naturally, I decided to ask Bill for help.
Dear Bill,
What should I write about on Substack this week?
Here’s his answer.
My dear,
Write about pleasure. Joy.
Having a dog to pet. Savoring a meal. Rooftop appetizers. Sensory bombardment on Broadway. Leaping off the bow of a boat into cool salt water. Writing in a rocking chair. Walking with your sister on the beach. Talking about life and death, religion and politics, then having smoking goblet drinks with friends. Sucking the meat out of a lobster leg while wearing a ridiculous bib. Lying in a lounge chair, doing nothing at all.
Yes, most of these are vacation things. But how can they become life things? Sure, you need to work a bit to afford this stuff. And there are days when the world is just too heavy to access the pleasure. But it’s still there. You don’t have to make it—you just have to find it.
Pleasure is like beauty. It’s inherent. You have a body. You were made to feel, and that includes feeling good. What can you do today that will make you feel good?
Your therapist reminded you this week that Google rabbit holes and endless “what-if”s are serving no one. Be in the present. Check in with your senses. You can control very little. What does it mean to be alive in this moment, watching the waving branches dust their shadows on the paper as you write?
Rest. I know there is never enough. I know you don’t associate it with the buzz of peak summer. But friend, they invented hammocks for a reason. The furry borrowed dog curled up at your feet has the right idea. To be utterly alive means to grant yourself permission to follow those pulls. To shut those lids. To leave the list undone.
What is at stake? Your writing career? It’ll happen if it happens. Large sums of money? Hardly. A clean house, an organized agenda? Those are not what make us human.
On the other hand, this path means deep engagement with the people you love. Hidden treasures. Poetry for its own sake. Flavor. Contentment.
Dear girl, are you going to trust me on this? I feel you protesting that I’m not one to talk, that I had both, that I was a model of stability.
So what?
If life ends tomorrow, which it might, you have only today. What matters? Do the thing that matters. I’m happy to help you sort it out, but I think you already know.
That’s my advice. Please do share it. And thanks for checking in. Like the pleasure and the joy, I’m always here.
—Bill
With light, life, and love,
Devon
