Janice MacLeod's Blog

Photo: Thorley Illustration

If I were to coach someone on STARTING a creative practice, it would be this 5 step process:

STOP
You need to quiet yourself. Stop jamming so much in your day. Create pockets of time to make quiet spaces to hear your intuition speak to you. Your intuition is shy and polite. It holds back when you’re running the roads. We fill our days. That’s what we do. Take some of that off the agenda to fill it up with a practice.

ASK
Now that you’ve opened up space, ask yourself “What is my intention?” Want to strengthen your inner conversation with that voice through art? Inspired by other artists and want to create art like they do? Want to make something so you can sell it because what you really want is more money to travel and see the world? Having a clear intention gets the ball rolling and builds energy.

TRY
Find your own art. A practice that works for you. Try all the things. Paint, write, draw, recite poetry, act out dramatic scenes, make collage from sea glass… you get the idea. Doodle poodles. Restore vintage paint-by-numbers. Try things based on a) what is easily accessible b) what feels good (example… I’m not going to take on carving stone in Italy or pottery because one is too far away and the other doesn’t feel good in my hands).

LEARN
Evaluate the experiences. Many things will bore you. Some things will intensify your curiosity. At some point you’ll land on something that is better than you expected and you’ll feel like you’re making it WITH someone. Even then sometimes it’s boring but you don’t mind this particular flavour of boredom. I still get bored when I’m painting. I’ve learned to get faster at painting. I have to outpace the boredom that will seep in if I spend too long on one piece. Plus, all that futzing about usually ruins it.

REPEAT
If you found something that makes you come alive, repeat it. If you’ve found something so very boring, repeat step 3. If you run out of energy to even try, repeat step 2 and ask yourself again what your intention is. You might have to fine tune your WHY to reenergize yourself.

I did not expect to find a creative stream of consciousness through typing on an old manual typewriter. It was through trying it out (step 3) where I discovered it. Typing on a typewriter is an interesting ghostly communion while typing on a computer is not. I can’t explain it. Oh wait, yes I can.

Photos: Thorley Illustration (who also designed the piece)

The author of the Breathe Magazine article, Alice Elgie, sums it up nicely:

“No email facility, no news or social media feed, no online search function – a lack of distraction is one reason for choosing to compose first drafts on a typewriter. More than that, however, is the momentum, the rhythm, the sound of ideas moving from mind to hands to page.”

About using a typewriter to get in the creative mode:

“Janice MacLeod, creator of letter-writing subscription project, Cottage Letters, and author of Paris Letters, fell in love with typewriters when she was gifted an old manual model. ‘It reminded me of the joys of typing on a typewriter when I was a kid, back before correction tape and screens, when mistakes happened and that was just fine.’ Janice harnesses this sense of liberation in Cottage Letters:

‘My one goal each month is to exquisitely describe the month as best I can, and for that I use my secret weapon: the typewriter.’”

The August Cottage Letter in the Etsy Shop

The magic behind using a typewriter:

‘Typing taps into the same source I feel when meditating and I also feel my chest sort of vibrate when I type,’ she says. ‘I believe the body holds memory, and whatever memories are inside are jostled when typing. If you think about it, the chest is face to face with the keyboard, like the chest is doing the writing.’

Perhaps the most important point:

‘I never, ever have something interesting to say before I sit down at the typewriter. Not a clue. I sit down, put the paper in and… wait. The typing itself gets me into the mindset to create, I don’t get into a [creative] mindset first.’

How it feels to write with a typewriter:

‘It feels like a ride I’m on, but a slow ride, like an olden-day kids’ train. For me, the lack of distraction is at play, especially since the typewriter has its own noise.’

Photo: Thorley Illustration

There is more in the article. And you don’t need a typewriter, but it sure is fun to have one.

Janice

PS Thanks for all the help in the previous post when I asked if I should include my own art in the Cottage Letters. The answer is a resounding YES. August includes an art card featuring blueberries. More to come…

A quiet day. Light rain. A good day for a mini artist date. But what to do? Where to go? A mini-road trip around home.

I know the roads where I grew up and I know the roads where I now live, but the 30 minute drive in between is a bit vague.

The best way to imprint the map of an unknown place is to explore those roads without worry of getting lost. In fact, getting lost helps you stitch it all back together in your head. So I dropped the daughter off at the day camp and wound my way home as the crow flies, as the saying goes. Or took the milk route. Wandered off the beaten path. Took the scenic route. Took the long way around as well as the long way home. Aghm…

I digress.

I stopped in at dad’s first. One of us has a green bean situation in our garden, the other has a cucumber situation. Either not enough or too many. After the swap, I headed toward home, but this time I took the side roads, the lesser concessions, the roads I knew the start of but wasn’t sure where they would end up.

I drove through tiny hamlets called Fishers Glen and St. Williams, Forestville and Port Ryerse. I drove by the winery I knew from concerts attended, but this time I approached it from a different angle. I spotted the restaurant overlooking the marsh they say is good but I was always unsure of the location. Came across my uncle’s driveway, too, but from the other way. Normandale, the beach they talk about. Low and behold. There it is. All these places I pretended to know when people spoke of them. Here they were all along. Waiting for me.

I drove by the house of an old sweetheart. His parents still live there. They had us over this past spring for the maple syrup run. He had flown home from far away, hence the visit. He and his wife. Me and my husband. All of us gathered in the sugar shack, either catching up or getting to know each other through the sweet steam.

Apologies for the euphemism.

That day in spring, we went out to the barn to look at the truck. THE truck. The truck we drove around in before we headed our separate ways at the end of our summer romance. The truck was stored under a tarp for 30 years. “Wouldn’t take much to start ‘er up again,” he said.

You got that right. (Not apologizing this time.)

That visit helped. I didn’t know it at the time, or even that help was wanted, needed or required, but it was there all the same and it was welcome.

I slowed down as I went by the house again. Would have stopped in if anyone were outside. Would have grabbed the cucumbers off the passenger seat, explained the glut, used it as an excuse to stand on the same driveway of way back when.

But no one was outside and it was raining anyhow so I drove on.

I drove by the churches where I first learned hymns. Someone is still looking after those old timeworn halls. No weeds but no flowers either. I still recall the smell of those old hymnals and can hardly make it through a rendition of Old Rugged Cross without wanting to sneeze. Oh those Sunday school mornings. He and I sitting next to each other making friendship bracelets. Tying binds.

Soon, I arrived back on familiar ground—the roads of errand running, adulting, the 60 zones where I push the limit, the four-way stops I might roll through. But this time I took my time. Even went through a glen called Sleepy Hollow, popular with cyclists and curiositists. Stopped at a pioneer cemetery, too. Found original settlers here with their last names being as familiar as a roll call when I was in school.

Walked around another cemetery where I knew some people from school. Not too many, but a few. A few who would probably love take this little road trip down unfamiliar yet familiar roads. And that got me feeling grateful that I had the time and inkling to give myself a little road trip before I was swept back into regularly scheduled life.

Janice

PS The August Cottage Letter is going out this week. This time it features some original art. I think I might make adding original art a regular thing (see angsty request for guidance below). Sign up over at the Etsy shop and I’ll put you on the August list. Use code SUMMERROMANCE10 to get 10% off any letter subscription. Or use this link: https://janicemacleodstudio.etsy.com?coupon=SUMMERROMANCE10

Offer ends when August ends. Just like a perfect summer romance.

Angsty request for guidance:

I waver on adding original art into the packs. I like them, of course. But the priority has always been the literary, juicy letter itself. That was the original plan anyway. Yet I feel compelled to add bits and pieces. Now I wonder if it’s ART with a letter included or a LETTER with art included. Or am I overthinking it? Please advise.

Permalink

The summer reading extravaganza hath begun in earnest… partly because I was just in London for a wedding and partly because when I was there I spent so much money on books, so it’s a book-laden staycation for this cool cat.

London bookshops have restored my faith in a humanity who loves print material, who loves reading books, who loves the analog life.

For me, reading a physical book stretches my attention span, while reading on a screen shortens my attention span. It’s just better for my mental health. Plus, less noise. Plus, pretty!

The bookshops were swarming with enthusiastic readers. It made me glad to be among my people.

Impossible things before breakfast by Rebecca Front is a collection of true stories about surprising turns of events, bizarre misunderstandings, and improbably life lessons. Sounds good, but in this case, David Sedaris “was completely captivated” and the cover was summery. That’s enough for me.

Map of another town by M.F.K. Fisher is a story of a food writer who moves to Aix-en-Provence after the Second World War. Sounds good. Also the cover is lovely.

Remainders of the Day by Shaun Bythell is the diaries of a bookshop in Scotland. I liked the cat on the cover.

Notice the water bottle. It was a freebie from the hotel. They give all the guests refillable water bottles. Nice souvenir! I’ll be well-hydrated as I read.

The Covent Garden Murder by Mike Hollow is about… well, the title really says it all. Plus I was near Covent Garden when I bought it.

84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff is a collection of letters between Helene and the bookseller of a used bookstore at 84 Charing Cross Road. The address is now a McDonald’s. Bummer, but progress happens.

Notice how these Nora Ephron books look so great side by side.

Then it was off to the wedding where I met up with my Paris buddies. Hats were required for the ladies.

This was a truly bilingual wedding. You spoke in French or English and everyone had to understand. It was a relief to know I haven’t lost too much French. But just to be sure, afterward I picked up this little treasure:

I picked up Julian Green’s Paris because…

French on one side. English on the other. My attention span stretches even further with books like these. Speaking of stretching. I picked up this thinking it was a set of notecards, but NOPE:

It’s a long accordion of fantastic birds and flowers. A fun surprise.

Kingfisher with Lotus Flower is a collection of birds of Japan by Hokusai Hiroshige and other masters of the woodblock print.

I also zipped into The National Gallery, London which has one of the best museum gift shops in the world. I opened a book of saints and landed on this page:

Aw, the same name as my husband. I took it as a permission slip to add this to my book haul.

So now I’m at home and planning on sticking close to my garden and porch with my new books. The July Cottage Letter is out the door and the August letter is in the hopper.

She is curious about everything. I thought about my Cottage Letters and realized that I’d love for it to keep going and growing. I’m a letter writer, it seems, and the Cottage Letters are a natural sequel to the Paris Letters. I care deeply about sending these little beauties in the mail… taking care to be neat and tidy, include fun ephemera. I just love it. So thanks if you’ve already subscribed. It makes me so happy!

If you want a Cottage Letters subscription, sign up at the Etsy shop. Use code LETTERLUV10 for 10% off everything in the shop.

This month I included pretty cards from Katie Daisy, on whom I have a massive art crush. So bright! So bold! So many!

That’s all for now. If you need me, I’ll be in a book somewhere.

Janice

It’s June. A hint of warm weather is on the horizon, enough to get us out on the porch but still in sweaters and under lap blankets.

For one, the elderly have lived long enough to know a good thing. A warm set of legs keeps the whole body feeling cozy out there on the cool patio. A lap blanket extends our stay, away from those blaring screens inside.

Must we really continue to fool ourselves? We start each day with an exuberant feeling that the day will be full of accomplishments, big and small. Then we fritter away countless hours hypnotized by the screens.

As long as you leave your phone inside, you’re free out there on the patio. Away without even being away. Free to hear the wind rustling through the new leaves on the maple out front. Free to hear a full thought waltz its way around your noggin to completion. Free to allow thoughts to get carried away.

To get carried away… a pleasant preoccupation when a thought gets carried away… one thought rolling toward another as the eyes rest on the maple out front and its bright green newness. Seeing it but also not really.

My daughter is learning about rap music. I’m not sure where she’s learning it, but that’s not the point right now. She’s out here on the porch with me and has asked me to make up a rap song.

Always the entertainer. Always keen to impress my little audience of one, I furrow my brow as if deep in thought, nod as if I’ve got it, then clear my throat before I begin:

“Now this is a story all about how
My life got flipped turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel-Air…”

I go through the whole theme song. She’s impressed but skeptical. “Did you really just make that up?” I laugh and confess.

It is sad to think of all the fun songs that will never be known to these kids. They’ll never really understand the scope of the Michael Jackson arc. They’ll never see Madonna the way we see her. Bruce Springsteen will just be some old guy their parents like. They won’t sing Bob Seger’s “Like a Rock” when they see a stunning new GMC truck on the road. And when they check into a hotel in California, the Eagles will not come to mind.

Bummer. I was recently driving and singing along to “Here I go again” by Whitesnake.

Why is that still in there? Kicking around in my memory bank?

How did it even get in there?

Why is it fused so tight decades later?

Worst of all, the song makes more sense to me now than it did when I slow-danced to it with Mr. Wintermint Certs.

“No I don't know where I'm going
But, I sure know where I've been
Hanging on the promises
In songs of yesterday
And I've made up my mind
I ain't wasting no more time…”

Wowza, Whitesnake. Truth! Who knew the “songs of yesterday” would be this actual song? Mind-blowing.

Anyway, this is how my thoughts got carried away today sitting there on the porch with my lap blanket, considering the watercolour shade of that tree. Sap green I think.

By autumn, it will be bright fire red, and I’ll be back here on the porch. Back with the lap blanket…

“In the cold November rain.”

November Rain was released 33 years ago. Oh my gawwwwddddd.

The June Cottage Letter just went out for subscribers. If you want in, head over to the Etsy shop. This week’s theme involves the wisdom of cats. Also the new notecards… oh yeah!

"If humans were as content as cats, there would be no wars. Only gardens."
-Kurt Vonnegut

Here at the ol’ cottage, the dandelions and forget-me-nots are blooming but nary is there a lilac in bloom.

Spring has taken its time getting here, unless you’re at a mall. Then it’s summer dresses galore.

I recently wistfully beheld the beauty of my summer dresses all lined up in the closet just waiting for a sunny day.

This is where my love of dresses began… at Hadrian's Wall in Rome.

He’s cute but not much of a talker.

I bought this dress on the Isle of Capri with the lovely Áine back in 2010, so you know providence of the dress was already off to a good start. I wore that dress out. Seriously. Remember when I lived out of my suitcase for a year, then stretched it to four? Yeah, that dress was part of all that. And holy goodness gracious it held up so nicely until the fabric wore out.

Though I had to toss the dress eventually, I’ve been buying versions of it ever since.

And to really dive deep into the obsession while I await warmer weather, I started painting gingham dresses.

Then I added a few more dresses, uploaded the scans, performed some magical digital jiggery pokery, and voila!

Get these in the Etsy shop.

What I love love LOVE about designing these notecards is that I finally found a decent printer who prints fantastic hues on the INSIDE of the card. Technology has finally caught up to my artistic desires. Here is one of the insides, but they are all matchy matchy different with the outside of the cards. Good times!

I also created a set of gingham dress notecards that went out with the Cottage Letters this month:

I SOLD OUT of the cards pictured here with the four dresses. Amazingly enough. I’m so flipping happy that people are liking the Cottage Letters. The rest of the letters in May will include one of the bigger, bolder gingham dress notecards, so if you want to try out the letters, now might be a good time to score a fun extra notecard so you can send your own letter.

Just look at all these Cottage Letters in the basket, ready to head out to the post office.

It’s like the philatelic equivalent of a gingham sundress.

Anyway, I’ve been redesigning the old notecards now that I have a printer I actually like. I’ve been posting a slew of the familiar Paris scenes in the shop as well as some new art that comes along…

It’s amazing what gets done when one is waiting on the weather.

Janice

A shift is unfolding, a quiet rebellion against the pixelated world. We’re craving something real again. Something we can hold in our hands.

This thought started with letters. I should have known.

This is the April Cottage Letter. I put it together this rainy weekend. A three pager, a wildflower card, and a sticker. So hefty and feels good on the fingers. Also in a luscious lavender envelope. Get yours at the Etsy shop. They go out this week! As I packaged up the first letter, I noticed…

A real letter. Envelope, stamp, ink on paper, words that had taken their time getting written, then passed from one hand to the next from my mailbox to yours. Real human hands connecting us, culminating in a quiet moment to sit down and read it.

The digital age had reached its tipping point.

I think we all have PTSD with the news. Constant BREAKING NEWS is breaking us. We don’t want to watch it but we have to see… just in case something happened. Then we get sucked in and our minds shrink, our days collapse, and at the end of the day we don’t think of our highlights so much as the headlines.

It’s got to stop.

Let’s return to physical experiences. It’s not just about nostalgia. It’s about presence.

Photo: Beechmore Books @beechmorebooks

Journals, postcards, and stationery. There’s something about writing on actual paper that slows the mind. You have time to grab two thoughts at once and merge them into something greater than their individual parts.

Psychology Today says “printed books lead to better comprehension and information retention, with the physical act of turning pages, creating an ‘index’ in the brain that aids memory.”

Let print books stack up on nightstands once again! We’ve grown tired of scrolling ourselves to sleep.

I’ll be heading to the mall to return or exchange a pair of pants I bought online. I should have just went to the mall in the first place. I’ll be trying on, thumbing through, and seeing new hues and patterns. An immersive experience like in the olden days. The feel of fabric is one of the missing pieces of online shopping (I’m looking at you Shein).

Stopped by the local independent bookstore the other day. Had a nice chat with the proprietor. She had me thinking big thoughts days later. Thoughts about printing notecards and art again. Gawd how I loathe print-on-demand. Tried it and loathed it. It’s what made me pull back from selling products in my Etsy shop. Crappy paper. Horrible inks. Plasticky feel. Yucks. The stationery equivalent of buying the aforementioned pants online.

Though you’ll have to buy the notecards online when I figure them out. That’s the rub.

I know. I know. We need an online life. I’m just suggesting we pull back a bit to find balance. Tactile stuff. My kid has been running around with her instant camera and having a great time with the photos that pop out instantly. SOMETHING to show for the creative efforts.

Art without the compulsion to document it for an audience.

This shift isn’t about rejecting technology. It’s about remembering what it feels like to touch, smell, and hold the world around us. To not get hypnotized by screens.

Grannies are masters of the tactile experience: clotheslines, baking from scratch, letter writing, moments that don’t need to be Instagrammable. It turns out, the greatest trend of 2025 isn’t a product or a platform. It’s a movement back to something we’ve always known:

Herrmann Stamm @herrmannstamm

PS April is Letter Writing Month. Get on it!

PPS If you don’t know what to write, get a gift subscription of letters in my shop.

PPS Mother’s Day is coming up in many countries. A letter subscription makes for a great gift.

PPPS If you’re already this far, leave a comment.

The birds are back. When I first moved to this cottage, I noticed the sound of birds. In Paris, you don’t hear birds. Maybe the squawk of the odd pigeon but even they are a quiet bunch.

I took this photo on my second day in Paris. Little did I know it was the SAME DAY I would spot the lovely Christophe. That was a good day.

Anyway…

The birds are back: The geese are squawking, the robins are nesting, and the human snowbirds from Florida are back… for one reason or another. Aghrm.

All this birdsong got me thinking of Mary Oliver’s poem Wild Geese. I came across it 100 years ago. I thought it would be nice to make a collage of it.

Also pah-lease follow me there if you haven’t yet… it’s where I do most of my video-ing. In the video, Mary Oliver is narrating, which is nice to hear now that she’s gone.

If you’d rather not have a live action video, or want to look at the pages in detail… voila:

How nice is that poem?

In other news, the March Cottage Letter is about the birds coming back and the art of giving yourself permission to have a little fun, which I suppose is where this poem collage came from. Just trying to have a little fun.

If you want the March letter, subscribe at the shop. In a few days, we move on to the April letter and March is gone forever. Ho hum. The March letter includes a bird postcard:

PS Thanks for all the kind words about the previous blog post about the election. WOWZA so many people had nice things to say. Love!

Photo: Lina Bob@anbb

Beautiful people everywhere.

We had local elections this week. I’ve worked at these elections before and it is one of my favourite jobs ever.

First, a cross section of humanity.

All kinds of bodies and styles. The human form in all its creased and crinkled glory. We all have scars. The lady with the eye patch. Her exposed eye was huge, yellow with red lines, looking like a constant state of alarm. The skin cancer guy with half his nose gone. Old flirty men with the bluest eyes. Hands with such thin skin that they would bruise if you looked too hard.

Second, the unguarded faces.

People show up with their political views written all over their faces. The fury, the enthusiasm, the annoyance… it’s all there for me to observe. It’s like an actor’s masterclass. They don’t see me. I’m invisible. Just a role behind desk. But I see them.

Third, life is happening.

The widow who cried because this was the first time in 40 years that he voted without his wife. The newlyweds, wed at 80, voting together for the first time. The guy who declared that this would be his last vote ever because he was scheduled for medically assisted dying next month. Canes, walkers, people unable to grasp a pen, and the worst… when someone would drop their ballot and attempt to pick it up. We are coached to not intervene unless requested. It’s hard not to step in, “I’ll get that for you.” Dignity. Quiet capability. That’s what these people want. And if they need help, they’ll ask for it.

Fourth, life advice.

In the downtimes, I chatted with the other poll workers. They were ladies of a certain age. They gave marital advice (keep busy), cooking advice (the best pie crusts), and even gambling advice (sworn to secrecy).

I walked away from the polls with a mind full of beautiful people. It’s easy to slip into a pool of outrage these days, especially in politics. But people… real people… they are what pull you out. Just their beingness and aliveness and walking through life armed with scars so severe that you see the heroic feat it took to show up and vote.

The guy who is getting the medically assisted dying next month… he hugged me before he left. In that hug, I wanted to pull all his aliveness back in, even though I knew it was seeping out of his mortal self. Last month he had a birthday party where he announced his plans. He’s been gleefully goodbye-ing ever since. The word: goodbye… good bye. Having a good departure. He’s gifting himself a string of good byes and leaving rapture in his wake.

We are lucky to be living.

We are fragments of sunshine. With our savage scars and ridiculous little daily ups and downs, we are still glowing in our aliveness. And it was a stroke of dumb luck that for a brief time I could see the luminescence emanating from these fine folks.

My position was at the end of the line, where you drop your ballot in the box. Naturally, these people are happy to see me because they are almost done. I spent the whole three days of the election working my material to make people laugh. Workshopping my Tight Five. By the end of the third day, I collected some laughs, hugs, and a whole load of kindness. And for that guy who is heading off next month, it was nice to be one of his last ports before departure.

Janice

PS The March Cottage Letter is out the door and it’s a beauty. Sign up today and I’ll pop your letter in the post. Check out the Instagram video:

Subscribe for one month to check it out, or 6 or 12 to indulge in sweet mail every month.

This month’s Cottage Letter includes a blank notecard and envelope along with a three page letter. Fun!

Maybe I’m late to the Galentine’s Day valentine concept… celebrating friendship love. It seemed to be a hot topic all over the place this year. Was it around all this time? Have I just not noticed? I asked Google:

“The holiday can trace its origins to a 2010 episode of "Parks and Rec," in which the main character, Leslie Knope, decides that the day before Valentine's Day should be an opportunity to celebrate the platonic love among women, ideally with booze and breakfast food.”

Yep, definitely out of the loop on this one. A friend of mine recently lost his wife of 50 years. First Valentine’s Day without her, so I would like to add Palentine’s Day to the list of Valentine’s and Galentine’s. I thought of my pal a lot on Valentine’s Day. Interestingly, the Cottage Letter this month is also about the love between friends rather than romantic love.

Over here at the household we celebrated the day as a family. A Familentine’s Day, if you will. Famlentines? My daughter and I made a heart shaped cake for daddy and he showed up at home with a bouquet of flowers for each of us.

Nailed it.

I had a lot to celebrate this year. Mostly in the form of people I have never officially met.

Since launching my new letter series COTTAGE LETTERS, I have had a whole alumni of PARIS LETTER subscribers show up.

What a treat! It felt like a reunion. Some people had subscribed to my Paris Letters for years. Then my little monthly friendlies ended when the project ended and Dear Paris, the anthology of the letters, came out. The anthology was, of course, a celebration and it was nice to be published with Simon & Schuster, but it did signal the end of an era, which would have been sad if I hadn’t ALSO had so many other things going on.

Also Covid hit, so I was locked in with needy roommate (aged 4) at the time.

Also, health-wise I had a lot going on. (I was finally discharged from the oncologist this month… after SEVEN years.)

Also I left Paris so figured I should come up with something else.

Also also also. All the alsos.

I didn’t realize that I had pushed a lot of bereft feelings down whilst all the ALSOs were going on. When people showed up again to subscribe… gosh it was like valentine after valentine after valentine.

So thanks everyone. You sure know how to make a girl feel loved. Galentines and Palentines all over the place.

Photo: Kelly Sikkema

This month’s letter includes a blank notecard to write a message to anyone who could use a little extra love.

To subscribe to the Cottage Letters, head on over to Etsy.

Happy (paper) Valentine’s to you.

Janice

Photo: Cynthia Magana

I was doing fine. I was checking in with friends. Who is where. But also watching it unfold rather suddenly live on TV.

… Orange popsicles from Gelson’s grocery store after a hike in Temescal Canyon.

… Temescal Canyon, my beloved hiking trail. Yes, the trail is still there, but it’s no longer flanked by tall trees and sagebrush that lead to a huge, wonderful cactus, at least ten feet tall. That’s gone, too.

… Perusing the wall of air fresheners while waiting for my car in the car wash, with tip money in one hand and a popsicle in the other.

… Meandering through the Farmer’s Market to pick up soup and oranges.

… Tucking into the bookstore where I met Tom Hanks (at an event… he didn’t meet me there for coffee.)

… Caffe Luxxe… the coffee shop where I would sneak off to get some writing onto the page. GONE.

Thoughts I was noodling, hangups, heartaches. The flashbacks of LA life in Paris Letters were all written in Pacific Palisades and Santa Monica. All these memories now layered with ash.

Photo credit: Thought Catalog

Me… invalidating my own grief, making it not count somehow because I didn’t lose a house in the fire like my friends did.

This week, I’ve walked around my life doing the usual things, mittened and layered, and in conversation with people who don’t have fires top of mind. “Oh yes, that California fire and all those celebrities who lost their homes.”

Yeah, a few celebrities lost their homes, but THOUSANDS of regular people lost their homes, and glib comments about haves and have nots are sad and mean.

And a small part of me lost a village.

So I’ve been walking around astounded at the fires, then astounded when I watch the news and some irrational and irritating political story is the headline instead of the fires. No thanks, Apple News, for your Local feature of mediocrity. It’s an odd kind of lonesomeness.

Today my kid didn’t eat all her salad. Fine. Whatever. But she didn’t eat the tomato. And this… this triggered something.

When I first moved to LA, I went to the nearest grocery store and bought a beautiful red tomato. Ah yes, I thought, THIS is why I moved to California. Local lovely tomatoes everywhere.

The tomato was as horrible as the bland tasteless tomatoes we get in the middle of winter here, shipped from California.

I felt duped by LA. I thought you were special. What is this terrible tomato doing here… in Santa Monica!

These days, I dish out bigger bucks for better greenhouse tomatoes, still shipped from California, but there have been advances in tomato tech, and they’ll do. They aren’t as good as fresh from your own garden but it’s winter so some flexibility is required.

I picked those uneaten tomatoes out of the salad and pushed the seeds out and into a strainer. I washed them to remove the outer seed coating. I found a planter and soil.

I planted the seeds.

I know they will grow. Tomatoes can’t help themselves.

I’ll watch them sprout and put them on a sunny windowsill to fret about them until April.

By then they will be weak so I’ll replant them in bigger pots and fret until the last frost of May.

I’ll plant them and fret whenever the temperature dips in June.

I will have tomatoes by July.

I’ll do all these things because somewhere deep in my DNA, I know I am suffering. I see my grief as a normal and necessary human experience that makes me feel wobbly and sensitive. This wise sage within observes addict behaviour: an inability to stop watching videos of the fire, to keep checking who has marked themselves safe and who hasn’t. Texting. Emailing. Obsessing when a call doesn’t go through.

But my inner sage knows better. She sees I’ve become unmoored and rudderless. What I need is grounding. Literally. From the ground. These tomato plants will give me a place to go, if only to the sunny window at the far corner of my house. Something to check on.

Photo credit: Theodor Sykes

I will plant these California tomatoes in my own garden far, far away from California. They will be watered with rain, they will stay on the vine until the day we eat them. They will be sweet and tangy. They will be better.

And perhaps, with time, I will feel like I’m standing on a little more solid ground.

Janice

PS I considered making this post my February Cottage Letter, but it seemed more timely and widely relevant to place it here. Plus, it’s kind of a bummer and my Cottage Letters are meant to be a delightful letter received in the mail. Thank you to all who subscribed so far. I have 35 places left for the January letter, then it will be closed to new orders until the February letter, so if you want the letter shown below subscribe now in my Etsy Shop.

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