A love note
…but it’s not what you think…
Yesterday, after almost 2 years of writing this newsletter, I hit 200 subscribers (and it’s actually 201 today – thank you, Larry!).
By the growth metrics that seem to permeate Substack, this is a very slow growth.
But that’s not my metric.
My metric is the incredible sense of joy and wonder that I feel in knowing that 201 people – increasingly people who I don’t know “in real life” – actually choose to receive and (hopefully) read my words. We live in the age of information overwhelm. There’s no one I know whose inbox is not overflowing. So the fact that you let me be in yours and that you engage with my words honestly feels like a precious gift.
And so…this is a love note to YOU, who is here reading this. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I so appreciate you.
But truth be told – this is also a love note to something else.
This love has been in motion for almost two years, and it’s gotten particularly acute in the recent weeks and months.
I say ‘love’ because this is what love feels like for me. It feels like vulnerability. It feels like self-discovery. It feels like beauty. It feels like connection. And perhaps most strikingly – it feels like unfolding, naturally and deliciously. Like freedom, in fact.
So…who is it, you may be wondering. And that’s the interesting thing. It’s not a who but a what. It’s the simple (ha!) act of writing – as a practice – that’s the other recipient of this little love note.
So please…indulge me a bit here…
I’ve shared about how the writing bug bit me. It has manifested itself in different ways over the course of my life. What I share here at 44 Revolutions is, in some ways, just the latest incarnation.
But in truth, it’s not just anything.
Even if “all” I’ve been putting out consistently into the universe are the monthly bulletins that form the backbone of this newsletter, the practice of writing has been a sustained part of my life for almost two years now. And as of late, I’ve been thinking more about the actual craft. What it means to string words together.
Let’s start with some real talk…
In my everyday, it can be hard for me to be open or vulnerable about how I’m feeling – particularly when I’m struggling or not doing well. And in recent years, I’ve been thinking a lot about why this is. In doing so, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s a mix of things.
On the one hand, growing up as an immigrant kid in the U.S. (my family migrated from India when I was two years old) – and the experience of being a brown girl in spaces where not too many looked like me - conditioned me to largely keep my head down, contain my emotions and not show weakness.
I know that I’m not alone in this department. I’m currently reading Sahaj Kaur Kohli’s But What Will People Say?: Navigating Mental Health, Identity, Love, and Family Between Cultures, and let me tell you – I feel seen! And newly aware that there are many of us who are navigating this history. Maybe you are too?
But being a proverbial “tough cookie” has also been a more individual survival strategy for me too. I’ve experienced various personal challenges over the years, as I suspect that most of us have. And on more than one occasion, I’ve had to tap into reserves of fortitude that I didn’t know I had, keeping it moving and in many cases being strong for others too. So yeah, all of that requires a certain amount of “toughness.”
But the truth, though?
Deep down, I’m about as soft and sentimental as they come. My visibly still waters betray a deep well of big, BIG feelings. At any given moment, all it takes is a photo, a song, a smell or a taste to take me back in the recesses of memory and the sentiments that reside there.
And what I’m learning is that for whatever reason, it’s on the blank page that this sensitivity and softness seem to find a home.
Simply put, it’s through the written word that I feel best equipped to express and process my emotions. When my brother passed away last year, poetry was my therapy. During the moments in which I grapple with the highs and lows of motherhood, not to mention personhood in general, it’s in writing about them that I find peace and something that feels like resolution. And in seasons of love and joy, those emotions in combination with what my senses encounter also find their expression in the written word.
So yes, writing feels like vulnerability to me.
“I don’t know what I think until I write about it.” – Joan Didion
In the last couple of years, it’s also been amazing to see the ways in which writing has served as an instrument for me to process my experiences and emotions, leading to better understanding of myself.
Anyone who journals or has done so in the past can tell you that this isn’t exactly rocket science.
But I’ve never been one of these people, until I consistently started writing morning pages last month. And in so doing…wow…the revelations have been something else!
The simple act of indulging in stream of consciousness writing first thing in the morning, for the eyes of only myself, has allowed me to document dreams (a recurring theme seems to be of missing flights – hmmm!), to unearth memories (sunset caipirinhas on a balcony in Dakar, my childhood bharat natyam classes) and to set intentions (to get in a cardio workout at lunchtime, to make mushroom risotto for dinner).
This practice – as well as the broader act of writing – has also led to some eye-opening insights. Lately, it’s been on themes such as discipline and thinking of my future self. In the past, it’s been about motherhood, grief or the beauty of falling in love. And in terms of both the big questions and the daily minutia, the truth is this:
Whenever I feel stuck, it’s the blank page that shows me the way forward.
And what a discovery that has been…
The other thing is – I’ve been blessed with a rich and full existence, living and working across four continents among other things. I’ve experienced the highest of the highs and some of the lowest lows. And because I’m someone who feels called to share these things, what a blessing it is to have the gift of language as a vessel for doing so.
Because how else can I honor memories as disparate as champagne-fueled diplomatic soirées overlooking the Eiffel Tower, eating lunch on a banana leaf in my father’s village in Tamil Nadu or receiving acupuncture from a kooky Englishwoman in the jungle outside of Bangkok, hoping to spur labor when I was 9 days past my due date?
How else can I express the way that a Treasure Beach sunset paints the ocean gold? Or how the shooting stars dance across the night skies there? How else can I translate the pleasure of eating a peach in June, standing over the kitchen sink and letting the juice run down my chin? Or the way in which the earth comes back to life in the spring?
Everyone has their way, I guess. But yeah, mine is words.
And this is a uniquely human gift. In the words of writer and teacher Jeannine Ouellette:
“I know whales and dolphins have complicated communication systems, birdsong is a miracle, primates can learn sign language, my dog Frannie knows dozens of English words. But only humans write poetry. Language is the greatest gift of human existence, and our ability to use it better can change our lives.”
So yes, words are a gift. A beautiful one.
And yet, as I’ve said, sharing words in this way is a relatively new jam in my life. I only started walking down this path in August 2022.
What I’m learning – what I didn’t know before – is that the sharing is everything.
Because ultimately, writing is an act of care. Of seeing and being seen. Bearing witness. Even if our lives and worlds look nothing alike, we share the human condition and all that comes with it – joy, pain, sickness, health, love and loss. I’m discovering that whenever I write openly and honestly about these things – as well as the ways and moments in which I experience them – it almost always seems to resonate with someone. It might be just one person. Or maybe it’s 29. But that connection is everything.
And interestingly, poetry seems to be the most resonant filament. Maybe it’s the alchemy that it entails – between imagery, rhythm, meter and meaning – that makes this medium particularly open to personal interpretation and connection on the part of the reader. Whatever it is, sharing poetry – whether in writing or in the few open mics in which I’ve read (like at the 2023 Calabash Festival) – feels like connecting with the universal spirit, in a most palpable way. It literally feels like being in a forcefield!
Perhaps Diamond L. Jones, a writer who I discovered recently on Substack, said it best:
“Note to self: Keep Writing. There are people reading your content who will never tell you. There are people growing from your insights that you’ll never be privy to. There are people finding comfort and companionship in your words that you’ll never meet. Keep writing. It matters. It’s worth it.”
So yes, I’ll keep writing.
And because 200 (or 201) seems like a milestone, I feel that the time is ripe to make a new commitment.
Going forward you’ll be hearing from me more often (but not too often – don’t worry!), in formats beyond the monthly bulletins (a poetry series, occasional personal essays such as this one, mini-memoirs, interviews/short articles on all things words). The exact cadence and flavor is to be determined, but that’s half the fun of it – it’ll be a natural unfolding.
Thank you as always for being here and for receiving it all with a generous heart, sharing and engaging in whatever way feels good to you.
With so much love,
Ramya
Adorable preschool photo...keep writing ✍️!
- Ross
Congrats on 2 years of public writing, having 200 people join you in this space and for diving into vulnerability!
Like you, writing is an opportunity for me to be and be vulnerable. Public writing has been a wonderful adventure in both as well.