Joy’s Writing
“Just” being kind
No, we’re not just being kind about your writing—but would it be the worst thing if we were?
What makes a space safe?
In Soul Writing, it seems, there’s simply nowhere for judgment to find purchase.
Selfish: mildly uncomfortable experiments with boundaries
Ironically, finding alignment can feel like getting thrown off balance at first.
Grief & guilt aren’t the same thing
The day before we started walking, I got the news that my dear uncle had died.
Divine meaninglessness
I don’t want every experience I have to have to become a soundbite, forcibly siphoning from it the gold it’s not yet ready to offer up.
Where the real juice is
How deeply unnecessary our protector parts become once the fruit of ourselves is in the light.
The scariest thing about this is…
The scariest thing about this (the first! Prompt! In the book!) is having my work, my words, my life, my honesty, in the hands of more people who have ever had it before, and entirely out of mine.
Not the whole story
It’s a story containing many truths, many of which conflict with each other. It’s one I nonetheless feel ready to tell.
How I learned love
I call myself lucky a lot. And it’s true, I am. I’ve been spared and saved and buoyed more than any flawed human deserves. But I don’t know that it’s random luck so much as it is love.
A story I don’t want to tell anymore
Some stories need to be written simply because they’re a pain in the ass to keep telling out loud.
Tea with the critic
The inner critic is arguably the number one obstacle in any creative life. In any spiritual life. In any life lived fully. How to transform our relationship with it?
Letting it through
In terms of being human, I’ve always thought of a conduit as a bridge between the unseen and the seen. Bringing into form what waits, unformed, in the mystery. It feels like the point of being alive, and it’s what we do in Soul Writing all the time.
Inside this simple flesh / Watching things grow
The surreal and stunning red of the sweet gum leaves on our block … how can that be decay? Be death? And if it’s true, if it is, how does that inevitable transformation bring only sadness?