I keep a basket and clippers in the trunk of my car. I should have a bumper sticker: I brake for Queen Anne’s lace. Easements, ditches, office parks, this is where I get the good stuff—hydrangeas, wild honeysuckle, holly. Around these parts, the loveliest holly grows behind City Hall. In December, you can find me back there, pruning away, though with one eye on the cop cars parked nearby.
Hey, if they come for me, I’m going down with a basket of berries in hand.
Substack friends, will you forage with me? Preferably in the woods, not on municipal property. You bring the walking sticks; I’ll bring the binoculars—or magnifying glass. Or ideally, both. We’ll search for the one true thing: Love. That’s the lens we’ll use.
What will we talk about along the way? Friendship and untangled faith and oddball dinner parties and who knows what else. We’ll step lightly, not taking ourselves too seriously. We’ll aim to make things interesting. Or funny. Or, ideally, both.
So let’s link arms, even if we’re nowhere near a forest. A suburban sidewalk will do. At the day’s end, I suspect that’s why we’re here: to walk each other home. If you’re tired, I’ll carry your books. (Though, if I like them, I might not give them back.)
Why Substack, why now?
Writing is how I process, lament, worship. The gatekeepers—editors and agents—have offered me a few crumbs, but I want a meal. I want to write when I feel like it. On a whim. In a funk. Whenever.
The outcome will be what it is. I plan to play, whether or not the cool kids join in.
Welcome, uncool kids.
I live in weird, liminal spaces, too square in some circles and too edgy for the evangelicals. For the last ten years, I’ve been doing the big, beautiful work of embracing a bigger, better Story. That’s meant shedding old wineskins. I don’t know quite where I fit in, and I’m okay with that.
If you’re not sure where you fit in, then I like you already. Here, we’ll eschew labels and embrace the whole inhabited world.