Occasionally I need a zero day. (Written about here previously.) A day to unwind, relax, be quiet. I associate the notion with this period in late December, when so many of us, if we’re lucky enough, get a chance to slow down.
At the same time, I resist it. I already find it tough to take zero days—I compose another to-do list, I clean the kitchen. Doing nothing has a lot of grace, and I still find it hard to do.
Partly because the writing life doesn’t exactly include days off. Not just for a need to money-hustle, which is real, but I mean the novelist life, attempting to write books, which seems to work best, at least for me, if I put in time each day such that a story I’m working on stays present in mind. Where I can buy groceries and listen to the person in front of me, see the way they fumble for their wallet, and notice how it all resembles what a character of mine might say or do.
But is all of this just something I tell myself? We tell ourselves stories in order to live, Joan Didion said, but what if we tell ourselves stories in order not to die? That’s where thinking about nothingness takes me, and it’s a different thing.
This is a curious period to possess so little “nothing,” to have so much noise. Humans have never before in history heard and seen so much from people who don’t live within a few miles of their homes. I mean, only a hundred years ago, newspapers would dispatch artists to accompany soldiers on campaigns, and their images would lag behind events by weeks. Now, I wake up and watch people report from war zones on Instagram—scenes from just hours or minutes earlier that wrench my heart.
To take a step back, maybe me and nothingness are intrinsically opposed—and maybe that’s a problem? But nothing lacks urgency. Nothing has no zap. Nothing is not hope, not despair; it’s not loving people, it’s not hurting people, it has no life at all—and both physicists and philosophers aren’t even sure if “nothing” exists! When all space is filled with atoms, and all lives are made of matter.
I read the following in a poem this week, “Song of the Blue Ridge Mountains” by Susan Nguyen, and I didn’t really know what it meant, but I felt instant connection:
it’s easy to fall in love here drunk on the hills: trespassing: the years feel boundless so we fill them up: drop a stone & wait for beauty: tongues & two-story beer bongs & new piercings
I mean, not the beer-bong bit—sounds pretty scary! But the rest. Me and nothingness just aren’t friends. So, maybe 2024 will be the year I get something pierced. Probably not, but you get the idea.
In the spirit of doing less, I’m going to include tomorrow’s supplement below (the typical Sunday grouping of things you may love) and go dark for a week. See you again on January 6—and thank you so much for reading these meditations this year.
Many, many wishes of peace and contentment to everybody.—Rosecrans
Three-plus things I discovered recently that you may love, too
What I’m listening to, if you like heavy guitars and female vocalists: Squirrel Flower
What I’m listening to, if you like quiet pianos in the style of, say, Nils Fraham: Federico Albanese
What I’m reading, if you like military fiction (of a kind) written stylishly with heart: A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam.
What I think about frequently, if for some reason you’re curious about the books that probably meant the most to me this year (as a writer, as a human; with thanks to D. for sharing them with me): Ali Smith’s “Seasonal Quartet,” starting with Autumn.
I looked at this week online, if you enjoy the solstice season: some photographs of regional eggnogs, some photographs of a Nordic winter, some vintage Christmas cards that include animals behaving oddly. (Also, why are there “12 days of Christmas?” Apparently, blame the Moon.)
What the what
Meditations in an Emergency is a weekly mini-essay from writer Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with 3+ things to love, plus a monthly dispatch from the road, for some inbox wanderlust ⛰️
Rosecrans is the author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. His most recent novel, The Last Kid Left, was one of NPR’s Best Books of the Year. Titles mentioned in this newsletter are stored on a Bookshop list, which pays a tiny commission for books sold