March Newsletter

Impermanence, Tiny Beautiful Things, & The End of Grandiose Demanding

Hi friends,

This month’s newsletter is the result of a deep transformation that has been taking place since we last spoke, end of February, as I began the grieve my friend who died on February 28th.

A week ago, I began to read Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things, which is this month’s pick at my book club. I have always loved her writing, peripherally participated in The Rumpus, where the advice column “Dear Sugar” was published, and even connected with her on Twitter, over ten years ago. She has always been kind, generous, and available.

In her introduction to the book, Cheryl writes that her goal, as a writer, has always been to make people feel less alone.

Every month, I ask myself why I keep writing this newsletter. It has never gone viral, it doesn’t have thousands of readers, it’s free, and it requires time to write, as well as reflection, dedication, research.

Cheryl also shares how Tiny Beautiful Things was born out of Dear Sugar, which she wrote for years, without compensation, on The Rumpus. I stressed the words without compensation, because I still struggle with considering myself a “real” writer, never having gotten much compensation for my work. Even with a quite successful book on the shelves, I tell myself it wasn’t really a success because it was published with a small publisher and no agent, and even though it received great reviews and did make some money, it didn’t make enough to cover up the expenses.

“I know better,” I think. And yet, do I?

One of the most successful professional projects in Cheryl’s life was born out of genuine intention, generosity, passion, friendship, willingness, humility.  

What an inspiration! What a lesson I had to learn.

There is a story – an answer to a letter, that is, in which she talks about writing and humility. Write Like a Motherfucker, that story, that answer, grounded me like nothing else had done before, even if I had heard several versions of the same narrative over the years, especially in the world of recovery, where humility is the foundation for a happier life.

I believe I was supposed to read it that day. On March 27^th, in fact, I had made myself open to hear it, to receive the message, to admit to myself the work that still had to be done, work within, work on the page.

It hurt so much that I started crying, on the plane to Honolulu, with my beautiful daughter next to me watching Trolls.

I believe that I was supposed to read Cheryl’s book exactly when I did, twelve years after it was published. I was only getting sober, in 2012.

When my friend died, a month ago, she opened a door for me; she cracked a piece of ancient armor that I still carried, an armor of self-pity, fear of death, envy, hunger. And through that crack, a raw part of me, open to true listening, was made available. I think this book wouldn’t have had the same impact on me a month ago. I would have been moved, appreciated her sublime writing, maybe found some gratitude, but I wasn’t in a place of deep listening, before my friend died.

I don’t know if my work will ever be or get where I hope it be or get. But I know that I want to be the most humble version of myself as a guide for my daughter. I also know that when I am the most humble and genuine version of myself, I am free.

Every month, I ask myself why I keep writing this newsletter. It has never gone viral, it doesn’t have thousands of readers, it’s free, and it requires time to write, as well as reflection, dedication, research.

It’s because I love doing it. It’s because I would incredibly miss not doing it. The most authentic writing of mine has always been this newsletter, since the first one in 2013, early sober and with a wobbly English, when I wasn’t even aware of Tiny Beautiful Things.

On that flight to Honolulu, on March 27th, I was free, I was successful.

Thank you, Sugar.

On February 29th I wrote this, which you may remember:

A few weeks ago, as I drove on the freeway, a couple of days before my parents left Los Angeles, I cried. The river water was still high, after the heavy storms, the sky flat and grey, blasting a bright reflection against the asphalt; that’s why I had my sunglasses on.

I was on my way to pick up Catherine from school, “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol played on the radio, and I just let the tears out, freely.

I cried because I felt a sense of guilt, of wrongness: thinking about my parents’ departure, in fact, I experienced at once a sense of sadness and relief, the latter driven by the prospect of finally having the house all for myself, after months of hosting, after months of Ben being sick, not working, always at home.

On March 9th, Ben, Catherine and I drove to Gjusta Grocer, in Venice, where I hosted a pop up for The Italian Cookie. As we slowly moved along a busy I-10 West, the same song came on the radio.

“What a difference, a few weeks make”,

I thought, as I begrudgingly looked at Ben, pretending I was checking the right mirror for cars moving or passing.

I was angry with him for how he had handled a situation with Catherine, earlier, when I was frustrated with her for something I don’t even remember now.

Not even two weeks before, listening to that same song, I had felt sad, confused, very raw in my emotions toward my parents, and it all seemed permanent, which is likely why I hurt so deeply. It’s terrifying to think pain and discomfort might last forever.

Now, a few weeks later, not only that emotion toward my parents seemed far, but it had also evolved, transformed, become something completely different, something quite beautiful, that had helped improve my relationship with them.

Sadness and confusion about my parents had been replaced with anger, frustration, disappointment, helplessness toward my husband and child.

What I am describing, especially if you are a parent, is neither revelatory nor surprising. But it consumed me, that morning. It took most of my attention until the song played. Because of it, I was able to pause and recall the last time I had heard it: in tears along the freeway, a couple of days before my parents left Los Angeles.

Because of it, I was able to notice how transient what I believed permanent had been.

When I remembered that my anger would eventually go away to become something else, anger loosened its grip on me.

On February 21st, I had gone to Gjusta Grocer to deliver my first batch of cookie mixes. After dropping Catherine off to school, I had driven to Venice Beach, excited, proud, very grateful I was being given such a chance¹.

It had been raining for days. I had hit a deep depression, for which I had started taking medications again.

After delivering the cookie mixes, I drove along Ocean Way, heading east for the freeway, but constantly trying to get a glimpse of the ocean to my left.

Why don’t you go to stop, Alice?

I said to myself.

So I parked the car and walked to the beach. The sky and the water showed the deepest, clearest blue, the day after a big storm. I was depressed, anxious, fearful, confused.

A few weeks later, because the cookie mixes sold out earlier than expected, I went back to Gjusta Grocer to deliver a whole new batch of freshly prepared ones. On the way back, I stopped at the beach again, and sat on the same bench. It was foggy, this time, humid, and grey.

I felt strangely calm, however, quite content, and hungry for a change I didn’t know the shape of, but fully understood.

I write these newsletters every month because of you.

I know enough of you by now, to know your stories, your struggles, your achievements, your worries; some of you are grieving, some of you are celebrating, some have love in their lives, some feel lonely, some have a good job, some have retired or are looking for a new one, some are financially secure, some are not. But all of you are tirelessly walking the path, head up high, sometimes gracefully, sometimes not.

We may have different zip codes, different upbringing, income, or political belief, but we all go through life: we all grieve, succeed, fail, try again, give up, ask for help, try and make it on our own, feel loved and lonely, scared, and fearless.

I am no longer interested in these newsletter going viral. If its goal was to reach just one of you that could relate, I am okay with that.

And I wasn’t okay with that until I heard Write Like a Motherfucker, a story I had heard many times before, with different characters and different settings, but that on my flight to Honolulu brought me to my knees.

There is a time for everything.

I am 42, I have a beautiful life. There is a lot I don’t have and that I want, and there is a lot that I have and that I never dreamed possible, for someone like me. My time for grandiose demanding is up.

May this be my time for finding true humility, and for finally being free.

I know this intention is going to change, tempted by the allure of everything I don’t have, but I will soak it in until it does, so that it can evolve, and become something that cyclically happens, maybe taking the place of anger and frustration.

See you next month,

Alice

Oh, I forgot, if you have the time, please consider signing this petition

https://www.change.org/p/urge-gov-newsom-ca-lawmakers-to-keep-35m-for-market-match?signed=true

to ask California Governor Gavin Newsom to keep 35M for Market Match, which guarantees non-profits like Food Access LA to ensure everyone has a right to healthy food and access to farmers markets for free. You can do it from any state; thank you in advance.

1. For those not familiar with Gjusta and the Gjelina group, here some more info.

https://gjelinagroup.com