I always thought of myself as a person of constant motion. I disliked feeling contained. I liked a window to be open, even during winter. If it’s a brainstorm with somebody, I preferred to walk and talk, or pace around a room. And yes: long hikes, long drives, long flights. The first time I read Middlemarch, I did it on foot, carrying the book in front of me in two hands.
These are not bad things, necessarily, they’re maybe good ways a bad inclination chose to dress. Because there have been worse appearances. Discomfort might lead to disappearance; over time, I got good at checking out of dinner parties. Expressing myself through absence, I almost saw it as an expression of prestige? Or, if I got into an argument, and things reached a tense moment, my body wanted to scram and take a walk, to cool down—to mull things over, I told myself, but it wasn’t that.
Being on the move is a way to be the shadow, not the body that casts it.
The first week of April marks a year of working with a therapist—finally, the right therapist—and it’s been profound. One consequence is I’ve gotten better at sitting in discomfort. To be incredibly uncomfortable and still sit, and hopefully reach a point of curiosity about it.
Wildly, a year ago, I would’ve told you I was capable of such a thing, but I was not.
Right now, Los Angeles, the weather is fine. On a walk after lunch this week, I thought about how I’ve probably also long considered myself to be a very open person—open to new ideas, the laments of gulls, moments of awe. But motion also helped me stay untouched, out of touch, touch-less—leaning into the wind, against the wind, rather than letting it pass through me.
And by “the wind” I mean all sorts of windy things: meh-ness, sadness, anger. Loneliness, helplessness, burn out.
Another thing I’ve learned: things I tell myself that I believe to be true only reveal themselves to be false when I, myself, unfold them.
A couple nights ago, I had drinks with a source for a big GQ article I’m reporting. The story’s about a world of illegal activity, let’s say, and after an hour, the conversation slipped from illegal things done to why they were done. And in a gap of conversation, I shared some points about the therapy, about the particular approach my therapist uses, to the degree I understand it, a marriage of contemporary psychoanalysis and Buddhist psychology. And the source was curious, he wanted to hear more. He shared he’d always been frightened of therapy—as a kid, he’d been compelled into counseling and it went badly. If today he admitted to certain deeds or thoughts, was a counselor required to inform the police? But then he went deeper, regarding his insecurities, his apprehension. We left the bar and he said he’d be in touch about the illegal stuff, but also the therapy stuff.
Phones ping. Pots clatter. Every day has its heartbeats and hydraulics, and so do I. But to sit with them, feel them in my chest and know them better—a feeling of freedom grips me.
I’ve never felt so tapped-in and alive.
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Meditations in an Emergency is a weekly mini-essay from Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with 3+ ideas of things to love, plus a monthly dispatch from the road, for some inbox wanderlust ⛰️
Rosecrans is the bestselling 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 small commission. For more—books, articles, etc—check out rosecransbaldwin.com
YIKES! I had no idea which way this journey was going to go - still don't! (what I love about your writing amongst other things). "Tapped-in and alive" eh? Hope to see what's next.
"Being on the move is a way to be the shadow, not the body that casts it."
Such an great and interesting quote.