​Click here to read this on the web, or to have a link to share on social media

NB: Resent, because I missed not one, but two links! I was in a rush this morning, and it shows. Thanks for all the folks who let me know. - HH

Hi y’all,

Thanks to the folks who wrote and checked in when your inbox didn’t have a note from me in it for two weeks in a row.

Over Easter weekend, our cat Felix ended up in the hospital and we spent a few days thinking we were going to have to put him down (we didn’t, he’s still with us, thousands of dollars later) and I was a mess.

And then last week, my Monday was going OK until I got derailed by the eclipse, but I intended to send it Tuesday, but then we had storms all week and our power went out (the suburbs were hit with tornadoes, and a tree fell on a neighbor’s house).

But anyway. This week is super busy at my day job, but I just wanted to let you know that I’m OK, I haven’t gone anywhere, and that during times of overwhelm, the building of practices into your day (like searching for beauty) are all the more important.

Which is why last Monday around 1:30, I went outside. It was cloudy and a bit dark, like the beginning of sunset. The clouds came and went, allowing the sun to peak through at various points. As we approached the peak, the birds began singing more, like they do at the end of the day. Unrelated to the eclipse, but spooky nonetheless, the wind picked up.

I went to the wildlife pond I built a few springs ago in our backyard, and watched the minnows that live there darting around in the open water, something they normally only do on the edges of the day. In a fit of inspiration, I managed to get the picture you see at the top, where I caught the reflection of the partially eclipsed sun in the water when the clouds momentarily parted.

Then, the clouds rolled in and it just felt like another cloudy day. Except it wasn’t. The time, the attention I had paid to the event somehow made it holy, or sacred. On one hand, it was a natural event - as natural as the daily sunrise or water flowing down a stream. On the other, it had a sort of magic because of the attention and expectations I had brought to it.

For the next half hour, I sat on the edge of my pond, watching the fish dart about, the reflections of the clouds scroll by, and the pickerel weed dancing in the breeze. It was, in its own way, as magical as the eclipse itself had been.

That magic I felt - that we all felt - was real. But it was also helped by the things we brought to it. If the sun was eclipsed by the moon every day - like the way sunrise happens - we would hardly notice it. My point is not that the eclipse wasn’t magical - it is that the sunrise is magical, too. The water in the creek is also magical. The birdsong in the hours before darkness at the end of the day, the barred rock owl that sings in the grove behind my house at night, the racoon that plays in my pond - all magical.

We live in a world animated by magic. But last Monday we were looking for it.

Five Beautiful Things

It gets shared on social media all the time, but I still love the poem Small Kindnesses, by Danusha Laméris. (Hear Helena Bonham Carter read it masterfully here).

I originally shared this in the early days of this newsletter, but recently came across it again, and it’s still magical, so go watch Wintergatan playing their Marble Machine.

In Eastern Orthodox Christianity, a common practice is the recitation of the Jesus Prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Some recite it over and over, as a sort of mantra or meditation. Regardless of your religion (or lack of it) this hour long loop of monks singing it over and over is mesmerizing.

​An incredibly cool website that uses the photographs of artist Ed Ruscha to track the history of Sunset Boulevard over 40 years.

Just some bears playing in a peddle boat shaped like a swan. Move along, nothing to see here.

Thank you!

This week is a beast, so I have to dash. Ways to support this project include buying me a cup of coffee, share the web version of this letter (see the link at the top of the page) on social media, send cash via a half-dozen ways, send a postcard to the address at the bottom of the page, or just forward this email to your friends. But however you do it, I'm grateful beyond words for your support over the years.

Take care of yourself, and each other.

HH

PS: I love to get email (or snail mail!) from readers, so if something this week struck your fancy, I'd love to hear about it. I read it all, even if I get overwhelmed at times and can't always respond.