“I don’t easily express my feelings, nor do I even know what they are 99.9% of the time, but in these Candlelight Chats, something always hits me so deeply that I feel it practically in every bone in my body, and that makes it easier for me to express my feelings.” - a Quiet Life member.

I always feel a little nervous about hosting these Candlelight Chats, because by nature the role of “host” is not my forte.

And yet. And yet. These Chats are one of the most meaningful things we do at The Quiet Life (TQL).

And so I appreciated the above feedback from a TQL member; and so I look forward to hosting our next one.

This next Chat will be on Sunday, July 26, from 1-2 pm Eastern time, on Zoom, and it will be “Just Us” - i.e., no guest speakers. It will be a chance for us to talk to each other, and listen, and be together as we think - write - experience quietly. As always, there will be no pressure for you to come onscreen and speak, though you’ll be welcome to, if you’d like. You can also participate via commenting in the chat box, or simply by watching and listening.

Log-in info will be distributed to Quiet Life members the day before the Chat. If you haven’t yet subscribed, you can do that here:

Subscribe now

One thing we’ll talk about for sure is the Wendell Berry poem, “The Peace of Wild Things,” which I find myself continually recommending to individual TQL members - so much so that I think we should discuss it (and find solace and inspiration in it) together, as well.

Here’s the poem, which you can start contemplating now:

As always, I’d love to hear from you:

*How do you feel generally about our Candlelight Chats? Who has been your favorite Candlelight Chat guest (or topic) so far?

*Do you have a dream guest you’d like me to interview in future?

*Do you prefer “Just Us” Chats?

*Is there a question or topic that you’d like to discuss at the upcoming “Just Us” Chat?

All of us at The Quiet Life are so honored, and thrilled, that you’re here.

Leave a comment

“We can choose to dispose our attention in a certain way, and depending on how we dispose it, we find a different world.” — Iain McGilchrist

This weekend I’ve been immersed in the work of the great author and psychiatrist Iain McGilchrist, including the profound insight above.

But it’s not actually his work I’m sharing with you today; today, I just want to share this reflection of his, on his own shyness.

This is for you if you’re shy too, or if you have imposter syndrome, or if you’re a writer or researcher who tends to feel that you’ve never learned quite enough and that there’s still one more study you really should read, one more point you really should make, to ensure that your argument is airtight and able to withstand the slings and arrows of the most formidable imaginary PhD examiner.

I don’t know why we love so much to know that we’re not alone in our idiosyncrasies, but we do.

So here’s Iain:

“I cannot account for it: my parents did not in any way undermine me, they rather supported me, and would have given me confidence. And at school, I certainly wasn’t told I was not good enough, or anything like that. But I’ve always gone through life with the, you know, what they call the ‘imposter syndrome’. I am aware of how little I know. And so you feel like you’re skating on thin ice all the time. And you can never have enough knowledge of an area. So when I’m writing, I’m drilling down and gathering in and trying to make sure that what I’m saying is grounded on something that is very hard to refute. I’m a shy person, but I’ve developed a persona as many shy people do for performing. And it’s interesting to me as a psychiatrist that some of the people who have what’s now diagnosed as social phobia (in the past, they would just have been said to be rather a shy, retiring person), often take jobs that involve them being on stage. Or being a DJ is another famous one. You’d think you’d have to have a lot of confidence to do these things. But actually it’s a kind of way of performing which is not too threatening.” - Iain McGilchrist

Share

“We imagine the full impact of what might go wrong, but don’t imagine our own resilience.” -

It’s not so often that I read an essay that gives me multiple new ways of understanding something as familiar as anxiety. But this one did!

Today I’m so happy to share with you this piece by Substacker , on the evolutionary roots of anxiety. Hertz’s essay is chockfull of useful insights (some of which I’ve bolded and annotated for you — see below). Even if you’re already familiar with the idea that the humans who survived and passed their genes on to us are the ones who reacted with greater alertness to real and imagined threats, I guarantee you’ll find other important gems - including insights that will help you outwit unwarranted anxiety.

Read on!

Read more

Today, we’re discussing the pull between going out into the world to help, vs. the desire to stay home and lead a quiet life.

This past week, I received a fantastic e-mail from a new member of The Quiet Life (Welcome, Dan!). It was fantastic, not just because of its honesty but also because it asked a question that many of us wonder about but don’t say out loud.

Rather than answer Dan privately, I asked if I could share his query and my response with you, here. He graciously agreed.

Here’s Dan’s question:

“I am a 62 year old man, partly retired, with very strong introversion tendencies. I now have the time to be helping out or contributing, physically, in the world. But due to my introverted tendencies, I really don't want to be doing that.

I have no guilt or bad feelings about being an introvert, this is what I am and I love being this way. Staying home reflecting, thinking, writing, etc, gives me tremendous pleasure, and I feel no guilt at all about not socializing more than I do. But I do feel guilt about not helping, and the nagging thought persists in my brain that these introverted days benefit no one but me and that feels bad.

I give money to the causes I care about but I don't give of myself - my time or energy. And I really don't want to do that, not deep down in the most honest part of my soul. But not doing that and quietly staying home feels like I am not doing my part.

Perhaps this question has already been answered or addressed earlier before I joined, but I am very interested to know if any other introverted people feel this way, or what I can do about it.

Thank you so much.

Dan Haverstock (name shared with permission)”

And here’s my answer:

Read more

Have you ever come across the term — and concept — of SIMIs (the Seemingly Insignificant Minor Interactions of Everyday Life)?

If you’re an introvert, especially, you might not be inclined to pay much attention to these interactions. You might (as I am) be inclined to focus mostly on your deeper relationships. And I do believe that going deep, relationally, is a deeply satisfying way to live.

But I like the concept of SIMIs too - the constellation of minor interactions that round out our days. To recommend paying attention to SIMIs is not to urge us to be more social than we actually want to be; it’s more akin to stopping to notice a flower or cloud formation.

Subscribe now

I came across the concept of SIMI’s from a new book by internationally bestselling author Dr. Amir Levine, called Secure: The Revolutionary Guide to Creating a Secure Life. Dr. Levine is an Associate Professor of Clinical Psychiatry at Columbia University Medical Center whose patented findings hold potential for innovative treatments for psychiatric disorders in adolescents and adults. And I’m so happy to have the chance to bring an exclusive excerpt of the book to you, right here.

Here’s Dr. Levine:

“One August morning, Ava’s husband collapsed on the floor. All attempts to resuscitate him, first by her and then by the Emergency Medical Service that quickly arrived at the scene, failed, and he was pronounced dead from what appeared to be a massive heart attack. For a long time, Ava couldn’t comprehend it. One moment they were having breakfast, sipping coffee, and talking about the news, and the next, he was gone. Sometimes she would wake up and instinctively look over to her husband’s side of the bed expecting to see him. Other times she thought she heard him coming up the driveway or walking softly about in the next room, only to remember that he was gone and sink into despair. She was full of sadness and anger and often just felt numb, disconnected from the world she had always known. Days went by without her doing much of anything. It didn’t help that they lived in a small town where everyone knew them as a couple.

One day, Ava decided that she needed to change her environment if she was ever going to overcome her grief; she simply couldn’t stay in their home anymore. She packed up and moved across the country to a quiet neighborhood lush with gardens and greenery. Each morning, she woke to the sound of birds chirping in the backyard and would lie in bed watching rays of sunlight peek through the trees.

After a few weeks, Ava decided to visit the nearby community center. A yoga class was about to start, and she surprised herself by joining. As she moved through the asanas with the others in the class, she found herself breathing into the challenge as the yoga teacher instructed. And it helped her feel a little better. At the end of the class, a group of women greeted her. No one knew her history; they didn’t even ask. They were just nice for the sake of being nice, not because they felt sorry for her. It was a breath of fresh air.

They told her about other gym classes at the center that were worth attending and invited her to join them for lunch. She felt so welcomed and included. And that was just the beginning. Over the next few weeks, as she ventured out of her home more and more, Ava discovered the strangest thing. Everyone, literally everyone, she passed by waved hello and smiled at her. And it wasn’t just pedestrians; people passing in their cars all waved hello, too. The first few times she was thrown off. She even looked behind her to see if they were waving at someone else. But she soon realized this was the norm here. Even complete strangers greeted you in this community. A little time went by, and then one morning she woke up and was struck by an unexpected feeling — a spontaneous sensation of unexplained well-being and joy.

Unbeknownst to her, Ava had created an enriched environment for herself that helped her overcome her grief and heal. If you pay close attention to Ava’s story, you will see that her enriched environment consisted of many small interactions that on a day-to-day basis changed her life for the better. I’ve come to call these small interactions the seemingly insignificant minor interactions of everyday life, or SIMIs for short. What most people don’t realize is that our SIMIs, the ones that often escape our attention because we believe they are of little consequence, are actually of huge importance in the process of changing your brain and your life toward greater security.

THE SEEMINGLY INSIGNIFICANT MINOR INTERACTIONS OF EVERYDAY LIFE (SIMIS)

Oftentimes when people seek professional help to overcome emotional and social difficulties, they think of sifting through their early childhood experiences with a therapist as the main vehicle for healing and change. Seldom do people pay much attention to the minutiae of their day-to-day social interactions. But from the point of view of the brain, the minor interactions we have with people not in the past but in our present, everyday lives — whether close allies, significant others, friends and family, or even just colleagues, acquaintances, or passersby on the street — can be a powerful avenue to achieving radical transformation. Change can, in fact, come from taking command of the SIMIs of everyday life.

Neuroscience studies reveal that SIMIs have the potential to shape and reshape our brains countless times. They can either strengthen existing neurocircuitry or overwrite it to create new pathways. Positive SIMIs can provide us with the opportunity to heal past adversity as new experiences overwrite the old. But negative SIMIs can further solidify past relational experiences that did not serve us then and will not serve us now or in the future. Each positive SIMI is an opportunity for neuroplastic shift, which means that the right SIMIs have the potential to alter the brain on the most fundamental molecular level — helping you attain a richer, more satisfying life.

While most animals, driven primarily by instinct, have very limited control over whom they will interact with and how, human beings have a greater degree of freedom. In our society today, we don’t have to stay at a certain company or in a certain job, nor do we have to stay in relationships — whether romantic, familial, or platonic — that are harmful to our brain. We can remove ourselves from one social milieu and try our luck in another. And we can try to change a certain dynamic within an already existing social context; this, if successful, can result in dramatic improvements in well-being and happiness.”

OK, this is Susan writing again. I hope you enjoyed this piece as much as I did, and am very curious to know:

*Had you heard before of the concept of SIMIs?

*Do you take kindly to the idea, or does it feel to you like more urging to be more extroverted than you prefer?

*Note that Dr. Levine also recommends taking charge of which SIMIs constitute our days — and making changes to our daily lives so that we actually enjoy the people we meet. Have you ever made such a change?

Please do leave a comment—and join the conversation!

Leave a comment

Do you generally notice that you have an inner voice that’s speaking to you all day long?

Many of us don’t. Or we notice The Voice some of the time, but the rest of the time, it speaks and speaks and speaks, shaping our moods, shaping our days.

The Voice tells us stories. And we don’t even know it. We just think we’re experiencing reality.

Today’s Kindred Letter is about becoming aware of The Voice, and taking control of the stories it tells.

We’re going to do this courtesy of an excerpt from Eric Zimmer’s new book, How a Little Becomes a Lot: The Art of Small Changes for a More Meaningful Life. We were lucky to host Eric recently as a Candlelight Chat guest; he’s an author, teacher, speaker, and the creator of The One You Feed podcast — an award-winning show with more than 75 million downloads. Most of all, he’s a treasure trove of hard-earned wisdom, which he loves to share generously — including here in the Kindred Letters. Here’s Eric:

“As I sit here and write this my back hurts. I’ve had the good fortune to be traveling for a bit and have been walking . . . a lot. So I woke up, as is often the case, with a sore lower back and shoulders.

And what my brain says to me is “My back is killing me.” If I am in a less than fully aware state, this is what I wander around saying to myself. If I stop and actually check in with the signals my back is sending, however, the reality is much more like “my lower back is kind of tight right now.” Which of those two messages do you think is more useful for my state of mind?

Extreme language produces extreme emotions. Even if something like “it’s killing me” is obviously hyperbole, to use that script internally is to reinforce that what’s happening is fairly dire. To disrupt this, I use the basic perspective exercise from the last chapter, asking myself, What am I making this mean? and then What else could it mean? Then, following George Kelly’s personal construct theory, I ask myself a third question: What meaning is most useful to me right now?

This is where middle-way thinking comes in. This morning I realized that the best way to move forward with my day was to scale back how I was describing the pain to myself. (Internally, the whole conversation went more like “*eyeroll emoji*—I feel your pain, Eric, but a tight lumbar is unlikely to be your cause of death.”)

Take another situation all too common for some of us. Your two-year-old has another tantrum and you say, “I can’t stand it!” It’s a throwaway line, but it’s also emotional code for “This is relentless. I’m completely overwhelmed. And if this is what parenting is, I might not be cut out for it.”

Now imagine saying to yourself something more like: “Raising a toddler is an exercise in absurdist theater, where one finds oneself negotiating with a tiny tyrant over the existential importance of wearing pants. It will pass.” Not an easy thing to remember in the moment, I know. But parents—tell me that’s not the truth.

“I can’t believe they did that!!” Think about that statement. You mean you genuinely, as an intelligent human being, have an inability to believe that someone’s done something that you didn’t want them to do? Now let’s come back to the truth. You can believe it; you just would have chosen for that person to act differently. Try rephrasing to “I wish they hadn’t done that.” If you’re auditioning for The Real Housewives you may want to stick with the original, but assuming you want a calmer existence, the reframe is the right way to go.

Again: Extreme language produces extreme emotions. Whether we’re talking to ourselves or anyone else, more measured language creates space for a more balanced, middle-way perspective. Even our most basic linguistic tics can reveal deeply ingrained tendencies—so prepare to get dramatic with the grammatic. (Sorry.)

Adjectives, Adverbs, and Pronouns

I never thought I’d be treating the lessons of third-grade English like a red-string conspiracy board, but here we are. Adjectives (which modify nouns), pronouns (which replace nouns), and adverbs (which modify verbs and adjectives) can, if we’re not careful, become little bombs of extremity in our descriptions of reality.

An example of an adjective to watch out for is horrible. This one is a favorite of my mom’s (sorry, Mom), although it’s pronounced more “haaaarrible” when she says it. Describing things that are unpleasant or tedious as “haaaarrible” can tip our negative feelings over into despair or hopelessness. Similarly dangerous words include disastrous, unbearable, awful, and disgusting. Less common, but among my favorites to say (no one said drama-queen words weren’t fun): flabbergasted, flummoxed, catastrophic, astronomic, and preposterous.

Among adverbs, suspects worth questioning are always and never. Want to turn a discussion into a fight? Just accuse the other person of always or never doing something. It works like a charm. Why? Because when looking at our own behavior we know that it’s a patchwork, not an on-off switch. I have not forgotten to do the dishes every day, which is what the statement “You never do the dishes” would cause me to rebut. Or I don’t always get grumpy after work. Adverbs like these provoke defensiveness and shut down the productive, nuanced conversations that should happen about not only the dishes but why the dishes have been causing resentment in the first place.

These wonder twins of adverbs don’t just mess up our communication with others, they skew our internal monologues. I’ve seen this with countless coaching clients: “I never finish anything I start” . . .which, of course, is not true, but certainly keeps us feeling like failures. Or “I always mess up” . . . which is the reverse of the above but contains the same seeds of an anxiety spiral. We can add constantly, completely, absolutely, utterly, and totally to our mix.

Pronouns (she, he, they) seem innocent enough at first glance, until you add everyone and no one to the mix. “No one loves me” is a classic of the genre. “Everyone thinks I’m stupid,” you say after a presentation to five people goes a little less well than you had hoped.

When you notice yourself using any of these red-flag words, experiment with substitutions that reflect the nuance of reality. We could replace my mom’s old standby, horrible, with something like “That doctor visit was unpleasant.” We could say “I’m having a hard time right now” instead of “Everything is terrible” (two red-flag words for the price of one in that sentence). Describing a family visit that didn’t go well, try replacing “He astronomically miscalculated the impact of teaching his parrot swear words” with “Grandma did not like the colorful avian commentary.” And if your first thought is “You never listen to what I say,” try instead “Sometimes I think you don’t give me your full attention.”

Note that our goal here is not to gloss over things that are difficult or make us unhappy. It is to remind ourselves that reality is rarely black and white, and that there are a lot of benefits to seeing in full color.”

OK, this is Susan writing again. I hope you enjoyed Eric’s ideas as much as I did, and would love to know:

*When reading Eric’s words, did you suddenly realize that you actually do use overly extreme internal language?

*Do you generally NOTICE that you have an internal voice speaking to you, or do you identify your thoughts and inner monologue as reality?

*If you do notice your inner voice - what does it generally sound like? Is it friendly? Is it critical? Is it thoughtful? Other?

Please, share your thoughts!

Leave a comment

Last week, I took a car service to the airport. Traffic was heavy, and the drive was unusually long. When we arrived, I offered the driver a cash tip.

He shook his head and said: “The gratuity is already included” (something no driver has ever said before; I greatly appreciated his honesty).

I said, “I know, but that’s OK,” and added: “The trip to the airport was so long” — meaning, he deserved the extra tip. He nodded, and put the money in his pocket.

And then he said “I’m sorry”.

I didn’t know why he was apologizing. It was only after I walked away that I realized that he took my remark about the length of the trip as an accusation, rather than what I’d meant it to be: a nod to the terrible traffic, and a reassurance that he deserved the extra money.

This was in keeping with his behavior throughout the ride, which had been accommodating to a fault. He’d even told me that I should think of the car as belonging not to him but to me.

And what had happened to him to make him so quick to apologize, to feel so undeserving?

And if YOU are overly quick to apologize, if you instinctively accommodate, or worry that you’ve burdened someone — why is that?

I don’t know the driver’s story, and I don’t know yours; but if you apologize a lot, it’s likely NOT because you’re constantly in the wrong.

Here’s what’s probably happening, and how to change it.

Do you remember the incredible Candlelight Chat we did, where our guests were the hosts of This Jungian Life (which has since become one of my favorite podcasts)? In one episode, Lisa Marchiano, Deborah Stewart, and Joseph Lee explore the reasons that some humans over-apologize:

Read more

Fear

It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.

-Kahlil Gibran

Subscribe now

”Nobody can go back. To go back is impossible in existence”:

This sounds, at first, like such a forbidding statement. It speaks of closed doors, and finality.

But I find this idea so comforting, because without it, we feel that we should at least try to go back to all the good people and situations that lived and happened in the past. We experience a kind of magical thinking: if only I protest loudly or compellingly enough about this change, about this farewell, if only I make the right call, if only I travel to the right destination, if only I perform the correct ablutions: then things can be as they once were. We know rationally that we can’t go back, but we feel as if, if only we worked at it hard enough, we could.

And all this trying, and the futility of it, is so much more painful than the letting go itself.

It also stops us from becoming the ocean.

What do you think? What has your life experience been?

Leave a comment

Share

Following our last “Just Us” Candlelight Chat, I received this note from one of our Quiet Life members:

“Thank you so much for hosting this lovely gathering. It’s always such a treat to connect with fellow kindred spirits :)

I have a question: how to best respond when people say “you’re so quiet”? I’ve never really understood why people feel compelled to point it out. It seems less about making me aware of it and more about their discomfort with my communication style.

It’s not exactly an insult, but it’s not really a compliment either, especially given the way it’s often said, usually with a bit of a grimace. I once had a leader walk by my office and say, “You’re so quiet it drives me crazy!” 🤷‍♀️

What I also find interesting is that I’ve never heard the same kind of comment directed at someone for being “so loud.” 🤔”

I was about to launch in and give an answer but it occurred to me that so many of you have asked a variation of this question over the years. So I’m sharing my response with all of you: five ways to respond to the “why are you so quiet” question — and even more important, what tone to take, as you respond:

Read more

I’m very excited to share with you all that today is publication day for our new children’s book, Lucky and Norman - and the reviews are wonderful!

This children’s book, which I wrote together with three generations of the Cain family, tells the true story of a friendship between our kids and two donkeys they met on vacation - and how learning to say goodbye to Lucky and Norman taught our children about love, sorrow, and resilience. This children’s book was also inspired by my grown-up book, Bittersweet.

You can order the book here!

Subscribe now

And here are some of the reviews:

“The emotional core of the book is handled with grace. Lim’s watercolor, pencil, and digital illustrations couldn’t be lovelier. Soft greens and golden fields are bathed in changing light, from bright blue days to dusky blue-violet evenings. Her donkeys are the stars of the book: Their enormous, soulful eyes and reactive bodies register wariness, delight, and heartbreak with astonishing expressiveness. Lim varies her spreads and includes intimate vignettes and sweeping pastoral panoramas that give the book visual rhythm. Rooted in real experiences, the story carries the warmth of something genuinely lived.” —Kirkus

“When spring arrives, a family drives to the country, where they stay for a week on Mr. Santiago’s farm. While the parents enjoy the peaceful setting, their sons explore the farm. Their host, Mr. Santiago, introduces them to the two donkeys, Lucky and Norman. Though the boys are initially awkward around them, they yearn to play with Norman and Lucky, and they follow the farmer’s advice to earn the donkeys’ trust by feeding them apples and carrots, a practice that helps them eventually befriend the animals. When the animals are finally friendly, the boys spend each day running to the field and romping with the donkeys until it’s time to go home. Their awesome week turns bittersweet when they realize how much they will miss their new friends. Created using watercolor and pencil as well as digital elements, the illustrations sensitively depict the donkeys as well as the people in this quiet yet engaging family story, which was written as a collaboration involving three generations of family members fondly recalling their week in the country with Lucky and Norman.” —Booklist

We hope you love reading Lucky and Norman to the little ones in your lives, as much as we enjoyed creating (and living) it.

xo Susan, Ken, Grandma Bobbi, Grandpa Al, Sam and Eli

A few weekends ago, our son attended Admitted Students Weekend at a West Coast university, and our whole family came along. The weekend was jam-packed with people and activities, pride and excitement. We went to sample lectures and new restaurants, we toured the campus and town, we chatted with other expectant parents (I chose the word “expectant” purposely - it’s usually used for birth, and this stage of life is a new kind of birth, even if it feels like a leave-taking.) There wasn’t much time to think.

But then Sunday morning came. I had to continue on to a speaking engagement in Ohio, while Ken and the boys flew home to New York. The way our flights worked out, they left town a few hours before I did. We said goodbye and I wandered around our now-empty Airbnb, fully aware that this was a precursor to the bigger goodbye that looms in our future, the one that’s coming this September.

And that’s when it set in: the Pain of Separation. The exact same one I wrote about in Bittersweet and now Lucky and Norman (our new children’s book teaching kids how to say goodbye with resilience).

Luckily, I recognize this particular pain so well by now - if you’ve lived this long (I’m 58) you’ve been through it many times. You’ve also learned that it will likely subside. I knew that, as soon as I was in motion myself — heading for the airport, en route to Ohio — I’d feel much better.

All of this made me ask myself what else I know, by now, about how to deal with the Pain of Separation. And the answer, I think, is quite a lot.

Here are seven of my tried-and-true strategies for saying goodbye to your beloveds: whether due to an empty nest, a breakup or any of life’s vagaries (and you can ask me, this September, how well I’m implementing these strategies!):

Read more

I’m so excited to share a new children’s book that three generations of my family wrote together! It’s called Lucky & Norman, and it was written by my husband Ken and me, our sons Sam and Eli, and beloved grandparents Bobbi and Al Cain. It’s a story for kids and families, and it touches on some of the same themes as Bittersweet. The book also has adorable illustrations by the magnificently gifted Stella Lim.

The book tells the story of Sam and Eli’s friendship with two donkeys they befriended on a family vacation - and the sweet sorrow of parting from those donkeys. It teaches little ones (and adults) about impermanence, bittersweetness and resilience - and how to say goodbye to something or someone you love.

Subscribe now

Lucky & Norman arrives in stores on June 2 -- but you can preorder your copy now!

In the meantime, I thought I’d share with you a little photo montage of the making of Lucky and Norman:

One of our Quiet Life community’s favorite Candlelight Chat guests was Alexandra (Lexi) Hudson, author of the important book, The Soul of Civility and the excellent Civic Renaissance Substack. Lexi is an advocate for deep civility over superficial politeness, and today she’s back, having graciously offered to share with us her essay, “The Wonderless Age”. I wanted to bring you this piece because it focuses on a topic that affects us all: the end of awe, the rise of cynicism, and how to reclaim your own understanding that the world actually IS a magical place.

Subscribe now

Here’s Lexi:

“Gracious reader,

While attending Redefining Classics this past weekend, a conference dedicated to celebrating overlooked voices and experiences in The Great Conversation, I met Junius Johnson, a Yale Ph.D.- turned independent scholar who teaches fascinating courses directly to incurably curious lifelong learners.

He shared that he’d written a book on why fantasy literature is so good for children. It’s called On Teaching Fairy Stories: A Guide to Cultivating Wonder in Students through Great Literature, and I can’t wait to read it.

“Why do you want to teach kids that the world is a magical place?” I asked him.

“Because the world is a magical place,” he replied, wonder in his eyes.

And he meant it—not in a sentimental or escapist sense, but in the deepest, most reality-rooted way. He offered an example: scientists have discovered only about 15% of the animal life on Earth. The rest remains a mystery—hidden in ocean trenches, forest canopies, forgotten caves, mountain peaks, and unknown valleys. We truly have no idea what might be out there. For all we know, creatures we think of as myths—dragon-like beasts, glowing birds, transparent frogs—may exist. The planet remains mysterious, brimming with life, possibility, and awe.

And yet, despite this possibility for wonder, many of us have forgotten how to see it.

Children Are Born With Wonder

Children enter the world as natural philosophers. Curiosity is their native tongue—an instinctive drive to wonder, question, and explore. Yet all too often, we stifle it—unwittingly smothering their awe with our cult of utility and efficiency. Curiosity doesn’t always chart the most direct path from point A to point B—but that’s precisely its power. Left unhindered, a child’s day is a litany of astonishment, a symphony of small revelations.

• “Why is the sky blue?”

• “Where do birds go when it rains?”

• “What does the moon eat for breakfast?”

They are masters of awe, fluent in curiosity. A dandelion is a marvel. A shadow is an enigma. A cardboard box becomes a rocket ship, a pirate’s cave, or a secret treasure chest. They are constantly awed by everything.

But this awe isn’t just charming—it’s foundational. Wonder is how children learn. It’s how they love. It’s how they begin to understand the world and themselves. Wonder is the operating system of a young mind.

Cynicism: The Enemy of Wonder

The opposite of wonder is not boredom. It’s cynicism. And cynicism is not intellectual sophistication—it’s spiritual fatigue. It’s the feeling of being certain, so certain that nothing can surprise you anymore.

Cynicism is the refusal to be impressed.

It’s a shield we raise when we’ve been disappointed too many times. It’s the result of overstimulation, over information, and under-delight. It often masquerades as wisdom, but it’s more often a kind of despair: the decision that nothing new under the sun is worth our time, our joy, our reverence.

We don’t become cynical overnight. Children lose their wonder gradually, through:

• Over-scheduling: Structured, achievement-driven environments that leave little time for open-ended play and exploration.

• Screens and algorithms: Which offer instant novelty and dopamine, short-circuiting real-world curiosity and slowing attention spans.

• Education that prizes answers over questions: The goal becomes scoring well, not marveling well.

• Adult modeling: When the grown-ups around them are distracted, disenchanted, too busy to look up at the stars or down at the ants, children learn that wonder is something we outgrow.

And so awe fades.

Adult Awe

We need wonder just as much—perhaps even more—as adults.

Wonder is not a luxury. It is a vital nutrient for the soul. It softens us. It reminds us we’re part of something bigger. It awakens humility, delight, and gratitude. It calls us out of ourselves.

Adults who cultivate wonder:

• Are more resilient. Awe increases our ability to cope with stress and setbacks.

• Are more generous. Wonder has been shown to make people kinder and more collaborative.

• Are more alive. Wonder reintroduces depth, mystery, and surprise into lives flattened by routine and responsibility.

And the good news is—we can learn it again. Children can be our teachers.

Let the Children Lead Us

Children don’t need to be taught how to wonder. We do. What they need is for us to protect and preserve their sense of awe—and, whenever possible, to let it spill over into our own lives.

We can start by:

• Watching how they look at the world. Try seeing things through their eyes. A puddle is an ocean. A caterpillar is an alien. A balloon is magic.

• Following their curiosity instead of always leading it. Let them set the pace on a walk. Let their questions become the curriculum of the day.

• Limiting distractions. Phones, schedules, and stress pull us away from awe. Practice being fully present with them and the world around you.

• Asking more questions. Not to get the “right” answers, but to linger in mystery: What do you think the moon is thinking about right now?

And then: look up. Look down. Look long.

Recovering Wonder: A Beginner’s Guide

1. Look Up at the Sky

Whether day or night, the sky is a free, ever-changing masterpiece. Watch the clouds shape-shift or the stars flicker into view. Let yourself feel small in the best possible way.

2. Ask Childlike Questions

The more we ask, the more these questions will arise naturally within us. In time, we’ll begin to soften—loosening the grip of our fear of failure or of looking foolish—and gradually reclaim the childlike wonder we once knew. Instead of rushing for answers, ask a question you don’t know the answer to—Why do leaves change color? What’s inside a cloud? How old is the oldest tree in the world? Stay in the curiosity.

3. Go on a “Wonder Walk”

Take a short walk and set the intention to notice five things you’ve never observed before—textures, colors, sounds, smells. Move slowly. Let yourself be astonished.

4. Watch a Child Discover Something

If you have children in your life, join them in their play. Let them explain something to you— don’t rush them. Their delight is contagious—and instructive.

5. Read a Myth, Fairy Tale, or Fantasy Story

Step into a world of talking animals, magical quests, or enchanted forests. These stories remind us of the deep truths that reason alone can’t explain.

6. Keep a “Wonder Journal”

Every evening, write down one thing that surprised, amazed, or delighted you that day—no matter how small. Over time, you’ll train your mind to find the miraculous in the mundane.

7. Stargaze or Watch a Sunrise

These moments remind us we live on a spinning rock in a vast universe. Just five minutes of skywatching can reset your whole sense of time and place.

8. Turn Off Your Phone for an Hour

Silence the noise. Disconnect to reconnect—with your senses, your surroundings, and your own mind. Wonder requires space to breathe.

9. Touch Nature

Run your fingers over bark. Smell the soil. Watch a bee at work. Nature is not just beautiful—it’s strange, intricate, and endlessly mysterious.

10. Let Yourself Be Moved

Listen to music that gives you chills. Read poetry aloud. Stand before a work of art.

The Magic in the Mundane

“Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.”

—Kafka

The extraordinary is hidden in the ordinary, for those with the eyes to see it. Embrace this invitation to pay attention.

The world is still full of dragons and dreams, hidden creatures and invisible forces, unanswered questions and unexplored paths. The world is a magical place—not in spite of its reality, but because of it.

We do not need to manufacture wonder. We simply need to learn how to see again.

And the children in our lives—if we let them—will show us the way.”

Subscribe now

OK, this is Susan again. I’m curious to know:

• When is the last time you turned your phone off for an hour? (I must say that I don’t do this nearly enough, myself.) How did you feel?

• In a typical day or week, do you experience more cynicism or wonder?

• Which of Lexi’s strategies struck you as the most achievable?

Please do share!

Leave a comment

*How should one handle pressure from a significant other to be more outgoing?

*What to do when you’re burned out from a role, and want to quit, but feel guilty about it?

*Is it possible to be open and authentic at work while also drawing …

Read more

When it comes to decision-making, are you more of a “maximizer” or a “satisficer”?

And what do these terms mean, anyway?

And why does the answer matter so much, when it comes to leading a rewarding life…and making good decisions?

If you’d like to know the answers to these questions, today’s Kindred Letter is for you. It’s a sneak-peek excerpt from my friend David Epstein’s brand-new, out-today book, “INSIDE THE BOX: How Constraints Make Us Better”. In case you missed it, earlier this month I republished David’s article: Why you choke under pressure. I hope you enjoy!

Subscribe now

Here’s David:

“If I had to choose a single thinker whose work most influenced this book, it would be Herbert Simon.

Simon was trained as a political scientist, but a handful of disciplines claim him. He won the highest award in computer science (the Turing Award), and in psychology (Outstanding Lifetime Contributions), and in economics—the Nobel Prize. When a graduate student once asked Simon to explain his mastery of multiple fields, Simon replied that he was actually just fanatically exploring a single topic: how humans make decisions.

Simon showed that decision-making departs from what he had learned in economics courses because people are always faced with imperfect information about their options and equipped with limited ability to anticipate the consequences of their choices. Rather than “maximize,” or make the best choice from all available alternatives, Simon showed that humans must “satisfice”: consider a limited menu of options and choose one that is “good enough.”

Simon applied his findings in a practical sense to himself. He was, in his own words, an “incorrigible satisficer.” True maximizing is impossible anyway, and “searching for the best can only dissipate scarce cognitive resources,” Simon wrote. Here is his eldest daughter, Katherine, recalling his lifestyle:

“He wore one brand of socks, thus, after the first purchase, never having to select the color or style of what he put on his feet each day. He mostly wore plain white dress shirts or simple pale-colored sports shirts and very dark navy blue (almost black) trousers. From my earliest childhood, I remember hearing him remark that one needed only three sets of clothing: one on one’s body, one in the wash and one in the closet ready to wear. . . . His black beret (the only kind of hat he ever wore) was made at a particular haberdashery in Belgium. He owned only one beret at a time. When it began to look worn, he’d order the next, or, when he was abroad, he’d stop by the shop to buy a new one. The same with shoes. He wore black leather Oxfords in cold weather and sandals in the summer. He owned one pair of each that he wore until they wore out; then he’d get exactly the same kind to replace them.

My father also simplified his life in terms of his daily habits, thus eliminating the need to make little decisions about everything.”

Simon always had the same breakfast (bowl of oatmeal, half grapefruit, black coffee), and lived in the same house for forty-six years. He didn’t agonize over keeping his options open. When he had to make a decision, he considered a few alternatives, sometimes solicited advice, chose, and then remained open to lessons but not to dwelling on regret. “I was never aware that he changed his mind or re-thought options after deciding on something,” Katherine wrote. “Once made, his decision stuck.” Simon knew maximizing was unrealistic, and so he eagerly satisficed, saving anxiety and cognitive bandwidth anywhere he could. “The best is enemy of the good,” Simon wrote. One might be tempted to accuse him of a lack of ambition, if not for his trophy case.

Psychologists who followed up on Simon’s work have demonstrated the formidable wisdom of his life philosophy. Maximizing may be impossible, but that doesn’t stop us from trying. Not long after Simon passed away in 2001, a team of psychologists created a maximization scale, a survey to measure how much of a maximizer or satisficer one is. As it turned out, it is usually bad to be a maximizer.

Maximizers are less satisfied with their decisions and their lives, less optimistic, less happy, more prone to regret, and more likely to endlessly compare themselves to others. It’s not that relative satisficers have low standards; they can have high standards. It’s that they have standards at all other than “best imaginable,” so they create the possibility of satisfaction with their choices. Unsurprisingly, maximizers are more likely to feel overwhelmed by choice. In the abstract, more choice is always better. In practice, not necessarily.

The drive to maximize in a world of never-ending choice is the heart of a short story by one of my favorite writers, Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami. In it, a lonely young boy and girl meet on a street corner and intuitively realize that they are the “100% perfect” match for one another. It’s a miracle. They walk to a park bench, hold hands, and talk for hours. “As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?” They decide on a test. If they really are perfect for one another, they can walk away and they’ll inevitably meet again. Then they can be absolutely sure that they’re the 100 percent perfect match, and will get married then and there. The boy walks off west, and the girl east. They really were perfect for each other, but, sadly, they never meet again.

It is OK to be satisfied. In a world of enormous choice, in fact, it is critical for well-being. As Simon pointed out, if we counted the cost in time and energy of evaluating options, we would see that satisficing actually is the maximizing strategy.

Subscribe now

OK, this is Susan writing again. I hope you appreciated this piece as much as I did, and am very curious to know:

*Do you tend to have trouble making decisions, or do you make them easily?

*Do you see yourself as more of a “maximizer” or “satisficer”?

*Can too much freedom indeed be paralyzing? When have you experienced this in your own life?

*What kinds of constraints (time, budget, rules) tend to spark your best thinking?

Please, leave a comment, and share!

Leave a comment

Share

I’m really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, for our May Candlelight Chat. It’ll be “just us” – meaning, no esteemed guest this time - just a chance for us to talk to each other, and ask the questions of each other that you might be wondering about.

Here’s what to expect:

*Candlelighting Ceremony, as always.

*Questio…

Read more

Hello all,

It feels like it’s time for us to do another “Just Us” Candlelight Chat!

So: let’s do it. This Sunday, at 1 pm Eastern time. We’ll go for up to an hour, for as long as you have questions and discussion topics for me.

We’ll send out the log-in instructions tomorrow (Saturday) to all paid/scholarship members.

Subscribe now

This will be an “Ask Me (Almost) Anything.” As usual, we’re not going to get into politics. Other than that, if your question is too personal, I’ll just let you know. But you should really feel free to ask away.

Also as usual, you can feel free to participate actively, or to be a happy listener.

Please start asking questions and raising discussion topics, by commenting below! I’d love to know in advance what’s on your mind.

Leave a comment

Here’s one of the most famous insights from the famous Stanford neuroscientist, Robert Sapolsky. (I had the chance to hear Sapolsky speak last week, which reminded me how great he is, and that I should really share his work with you):

Zebras flee lions for a 30 second run, then go back to grazing. But humans can worry about imagined lions for 30 years.

And doing this has terrible impacts on our physical and psychological health. As Sapolsky explains: “If a lion is chasing you, and your blood pressure is 180 over 120, you’re not suffering from high blood pressure: you’re saving your life. On the other hand, if your blood pressure is 180 over 120 every time you’re stuck in traffic or you picked the slow line at the grocery store, you’re not saving your life: you’re suffering from stress-induced hypertension. And if you do that chronically enough, you’re going to damage your cardiovascular system. You’ll be more at risk for cardiovascular disease than if you smoke, than if you are overweight, than if you have elevated cholesterol levels.”

This “imagined lion” habit is stubborn because it feels as if you’re doing the responsible thing by worrying about lions. It feels as if vigilance equals care.

The answer is to teach your nervous system the difference between care and alarm.

Here are eight ways to do this:

Read more

Oh, the phenomenon of choking under pressure.

It happened to me when I was a nine-year-old figure skater and fell twice during my first competition. It happened again when I was starting out as a public speaker - I used to feel as if my whole personality would freeze up onstage. And it sometimes happens now, as a 58-year-old tennis player, even though there are zero stakes to the matches I play.

Mostly, I’ve written this off as anxiety, an emotion that I’m quite familiar with.

But it turns out that there’s way more to choking than simple anxiety - and that understanding the mechanics of choking gives you the tools you need to stop doing it so much.

My friend David Epstein is the wildly thoughtful (now there are two words that may never have been strung together before, not even by AI, ha) author of the #1 New York Times best seller Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World, and of the bestseller The Sports Gene. He also writes a fantastic Substack, Range Widely. And he has a new book, Inside the Box: How Constraints Make Us Better, coming out soon!

Today, David is with us, to tell us what exactly happens in your brain when you choke under pressure - and how to make it stop. I found this information to be nothing short of revelatory, and if you, or a loved one, is an athlete, performer, or test-taker who chokes under pressure, I think you will too:

Read more

Instead of starting your week with deadlines and stress, how about a lovely poem from Robert Frost, on the inevitability of loss and change:

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

This poem seems, at first, to have a hopeless tone.

But I find, again and again, that accepting the inevitability of loss and change unlocks a richer, deeper form of happiness: a savoring of the present, and a willingness to find and embrace future gains.

(This is really what my book, BITTERSWEET, was all about. And I’m considering these themes all over again now, as my husband Ken and I find ourselves months away from an “empty nest”. Right now I feel pretty calm and optimistic about this change - I’ll let you know what it’s actually like, in September!)

This is not to say that life doesn’t throw us catastrophic losses whose arrival we must mourn. But life does reconstitute itself, continually, in new forms; and the challenge is to open ourselves to these new forms - even when we don’t welcome them.

*
You know I always love to hear from you:

• What in your life feels “golden” (and perhaps fleeting) right now — and are you savoring it fully, while it’s still here?

• What “new form” might life be asking you to welcome, even if you didn’t choose it?

• What has “not stayed” in your life—and what did its passing teach you?

Please do share!

Leave a comment

Share