It always feels like such an honor to be invited in, to read your words. There’s so much here that I understand, deeply, and there’s also so much I don’t understand; but it doesn’t leave me feeling inadequate or not smart enough or like I’m missing something. Instead, it feels poetic and special that I get to experience your thoughts and ideas that are real even if I can’t grasp them quite yet. And maybe that’s the point, because I got the message, I felt it, and I am happy that I re-read a few lines but didn’t try to dissect every bit and piece and instead just let myself be with it.
Many strange words to say: thank you for sharing your writing (including all of the questions and contradictions) with us.
Mmm, Hanna, this is really some of the best feedback I could possibly ask for. I think the space where I feel best--most authentic?--on the page exists right at the nexus of poetry and prose, of sense-making and everything that falls *just* outside of sense. That you trust me enough to hang out in those strange spaces with me really means a lot. A lot a lot.
I love the way your essay soars and skims and skips from topic to topic in a free fall of free association but how I can follow the thread of the associations because, well, adhd brains do that way. There's something really deeply satisfying about reading writing that works this way, surprising and illuminating at every turn and yet also somehow with an undercurrent of deep inevitability, even in the apparent contradictions. Some part of me saying: of course she went there, I can see in retrospect how these things all fit together, though I never could have anticipated that leap. Kind of linguistic parkour.
Well, this comment really made my heart soar / feel seen--and I got to discover it when my partner read it out loud to me while I was making dinner. Thanks for being in my presence this evening, Melanie. And for your close, generous reading.
I just finished reading this and listening to you read it to me, and I haven't felt understood like this before.
I guess this isn't, objectively, a compliment, because I when I say "you are SO good at writing" I mean that "you write just like I *think* I write", and I am actually complimenting myself, which is, subjectively, a well intentioned, sincere, and heartfelt compliment. Right? ;)
I am glad to have met you in these varied spaces over the years, and in some ways I am glad that we are both going through parallel (?) journeys with Austism/ADHD.
I see I blathered on, and used "I" to start every paragraph, and clearly made this comment about me. What a surprise. Let me start again.
My middle-age ADHD diagnosis collided with the financial comeuppance of decades of unprofitable decisions to bury me in baggage so heavy that it will eventually kill me and I know that the only way to claw forward is to write.
You write in a way that makes me want to keep writing.
I truly think that Jeff's ADHD and Sarah's autism met online 15 years ago, and dragged Jeff and Sarah along because they knew what was what. Thank you for being a support and encouragement to me over the years without even knowing that you were being that. Our friendship is extra special and weird because we are both probably quite extra special and weird.
Enough of that. Your writing here today reminded me of two poets I discovered (and loved) this year, but sometimes my pattern-recognition superpowers are hard to decipher at first. I need to revisit them to find the thread before I mention them to an official poet and embarrass myself. If you think of this again in time and I haven't circled back to it, remind me. ;)
Good morning dear Sarah! Thank you for writing, your own blend and brand that encompasses everything. I think I've now had the utmost pleasure of knowing you for let's say 10 years, a big chunk of time to see you in life, and in work, and in one-on-one conversations. Before recent Autism revelations and after the new understandings and feelings, you seem to carry the same outstanding human qualities through the decade. Here are a few of them: You are a prolific and utterly amazing purveyor of words, thoughts, ideas, poems, and inspiring language. You are kind. You are caring. You are a friend of insects. You are fun to hike with. You have many friends like me who recognize your many gifts and are deeply grateful for your friendship. Love, Bill
I love this writing from you. It feels my body with a feeling hard to describe but good and thoughtful like a deep college class conversation. Thank you.
So much truth here, and reflective too—I felt as if I were reading my own thoughts. Thank you for inviting me into your inner landscape, the tension of opposites, the static-electricity of hyper-intelligence meeting an overly stimulating world. I love this statement so much! “I think knowing, for me, is a process, not a place.”
Thank you Sarah, for struggling with all this in shared words. As I read this beautiful stream, I copied a line that I was afraid I'd forget otherwise: "As if knowing, for some people, is a place they live in, not a process they must constantly re-process." Oof, I've struggled with (and raged at) that stark difference my whole life--or more exactly, at the way the "knowers" seem to demand that we, too, pick a hill to live and die on. For what it's worth, here's my anti-hill: it's not only OK but essential to the whole that we're not them and they're not us. Emerson's poem "Each and All" floated up, and I thought you might like it:
"it's not only OK but essential to the whole that we're not them and they're not us."
And now I'M copying down THAT line.
Also, I just had such a wonderful, cosmic full circle experience: I have this little slip of paper, sitting in a jar with some tiny shells. I have no idea where I got it; I've easily had is since I was...18? On one side of the paper are a few lines from Millay, but on the other side--the side I've had facing outward for the past 20 years, as it moved with me from house to house and shelf to shelf--contains two lines from THAT Emerson poem, which I had never read in full until this morning, just now: "I wiped away the weeds and foam, / I fetched my sea-born treasures home."
It always feels like such an honor to be invited in, to read your words. There’s so much here that I understand, deeply, and there’s also so much I don’t understand; but it doesn’t leave me feeling inadequate or not smart enough or like I’m missing something. Instead, it feels poetic and special that I get to experience your thoughts and ideas that are real even if I can’t grasp them quite yet. And maybe that’s the point, because I got the message, I felt it, and I am happy that I re-read a few lines but didn’t try to dissect every bit and piece and instead just let myself be with it.
Many strange words to say: thank you for sharing your writing (including all of the questions and contradictions) with us.
Mmm, Hanna, this is really some of the best feedback I could possibly ask for. I think the space where I feel best--most authentic?--on the page exists right at the nexus of poetry and prose, of sense-making and everything that falls *just* outside of sense. That you trust me enough to hang out in those strange spaces with me really means a lot. A lot a lot.
I love the way your essay soars and skims and skips from topic to topic in a free fall of free association but how I can follow the thread of the associations because, well, adhd brains do that way. There's something really deeply satisfying about reading writing that works this way, surprising and illuminating at every turn and yet also somehow with an undercurrent of deep inevitability, even in the apparent contradictions. Some part of me saying: of course she went there, I can see in retrospect how these things all fit together, though I never could have anticipated that leap. Kind of linguistic parkour.
Well, this comment really made my heart soar / feel seen--and I got to discover it when my partner read it out loud to me while I was making dinner. Thanks for being in my presence this evening, Melanie. And for your close, generous reading.
Making dinner while Mo reads loverly Substack comments feels like success. And the flying skeletons and beautiful pictures. Just so much to love here.
Thank you for calling it what it is, friend! Yep. Success.
I just finished reading this and listening to you read it to me, and I haven't felt understood like this before.
I guess this isn't, objectively, a compliment, because I when I say "you are SO good at writing" I mean that "you write just like I *think* I write", and I am actually complimenting myself, which is, subjectively, a well intentioned, sincere, and heartfelt compliment. Right? ;)
I am glad to have met you in these varied spaces over the years, and in some ways I am glad that we are both going through parallel (?) journeys with Austism/ADHD.
I see I blathered on, and used "I" to start every paragraph, and clearly made this comment about me. What a surprise. Let me start again.
My middle-age ADHD diagnosis collided with the financial comeuppance of decades of unprofitable decisions to bury me in baggage so heavy that it will eventually kill me and I know that the only way to claw forward is to write.
You write in a way that makes me want to keep writing.
I'M NOT CRYING, YOU'RE CRYING.
Jeff, our friendship is such an extra special, weird one. I cherish it for that reason. Let's keep clawing / writing / shooting from the hip, yeah?
And, for what it's worth, your comment made me feel really seen, too.
I truly think that Jeff's ADHD and Sarah's autism met online 15 years ago, and dragged Jeff and Sarah along because they knew what was what. Thank you for being a support and encouragement to me over the years without even knowing that you were being that. Our friendship is extra special and weird because we are both probably quite extra special and weird.
Enough of that. Your writing here today reminded me of two poets I discovered (and loved) this year, but sometimes my pattern-recognition superpowers are hard to decipher at first. I need to revisit them to find the thread before I mention them to an official poet and embarrass myself. If you think of this again in time and I haven't circled back to it, remind me. ;)
I love everything about this essay, thanks for letting us in. Also I so feel this too: "Some days, I think I’m too earnest to be self-employed."
Haha--thanks for the mutual witnessing, Ryn! It's good to not be alone in these complex feelings.
Good morning dear Sarah! Thank you for writing, your own blend and brand that encompasses everything. I think I've now had the utmost pleasure of knowing you for let's say 10 years, a big chunk of time to see you in life, and in work, and in one-on-one conversations. Before recent Autism revelations and after the new understandings and feelings, you seem to carry the same outstanding human qualities through the decade. Here are a few of them: You are a prolific and utterly amazing purveyor of words, thoughts, ideas, poems, and inspiring language. You are kind. You are caring. You are a friend of insects. You are fun to hike with. You have many friends like me who recognize your many gifts and are deeply grateful for your friendship. Love, Bill
I'm blushing. And grateful <3
I love this writing from you. It feels my body with a feeling hard to describe but good and thoughtful like a deep college class conversation. Thank you.
Oh! That makes me feel like I accomplished something...thank you, Tammy!
So much truth here, and reflective too—I felt as if I were reading my own thoughts. Thank you for inviting me into your inner landscape, the tension of opposites, the static-electricity of hyper-intelligence meeting an overly stimulating world. I love this statement so much! “I think knowing, for me, is a process, not a place.”
I'm so grateful for your readership, Kimberly!
Thank you Sarah, for struggling with all this in shared words. As I read this beautiful stream, I copied a line that I was afraid I'd forget otherwise: "As if knowing, for some people, is a place they live in, not a process they must constantly re-process." Oof, I've struggled with (and raged at) that stark difference my whole life--or more exactly, at the way the "knowers" seem to demand that we, too, pick a hill to live and die on. For what it's worth, here's my anti-hill: it's not only OK but essential to the whole that we're not them and they're not us. Emerson's poem "Each and All" floated up, and I thought you might like it:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45877/each-and-all
"it's not only OK but essential to the whole that we're not them and they're not us."
And now I'M copying down THAT line.
Also, I just had such a wonderful, cosmic full circle experience: I have this little slip of paper, sitting in a jar with some tiny shells. I have no idea where I got it; I've easily had is since I was...18? On one side of the paper are a few lines from Millay, but on the other side--the side I've had facing outward for the past 20 years, as it moved with me from house to house and shelf to shelf--contains two lines from THAT Emerson poem, which I had never read in full until this morning, just now: "I wiped away the weeds and foam, / I fetched my sea-born treasures home."
Wow. Yes, I love the poem.
I love this so much! <3