sleeping beneath the pomegranate tree

writing a life of luxury

It’s not lost on me, that I’m sleeping, each night, under the branches of a pomegranate tree.

It’s not lost on me, that the life I am living right now is the height of luxury.

It may not seem luxurious to some.

My bed is a couch in a tiny room where I work, sleep, exercise, write, rest and meditate. I have a wooden ladder to hang a few pieces of clothing on. I prop the window open with a small wooden pole. At night, I brush my teeth outside, crouching down to wash my face with water from the tap in an overgrown flowerbed.

I’m sleeping under a pomegranate tree.

How can it be anything other than luxury?

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Do you ever think about how old earth actually is?

I never used to, but I have recently, and it makes all my problems feel very tiny.

Why did nobody ever tell me about positive affect of awe and wonder on anxiety?

Take a moment to pause and breathe. Imagine the movement of dinosaurs and ancient flowers underneath the very place you rest your feet.

Imagine everything the moon has seen. Imagine the stories of a 2000 year old tree.

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It’s luxury, when my mother calls me from the balcony to make sure I didn’t miss the stars.

You finally got a clear night, she says, telling me the Milky Way has shifted, just over the last month or so, and so has the position of the moon.

After we discuss the Milky Way, the mosquitos descend. I walk the five steps back to my room and drop a few jasmine dragon pearls into a large handmade mug and fill it with warm water, watching them unfurl.

I light sweet frangipani incense and write by candlelight. When I first arrived at my parents home, exactly a week ago, the skies were dense, layered with cloud from the impending cyclone up north. The moon was not yet close to full and it was so dark I fell asleep earlier than I thought I would. For a few days after I arrived, all I wanted to do was cocoon directly into the eye of the storm. I tried to search, mentally, for a reason why, but I couldn’t find anything. I did it anyway. I rested until the desire for it slipped away.

Luxury.

Tonight, the cloudless skies and the light of the full moon have illuminated the backyard brilliantly. I keep the blinds open and by the light of a beeswax candle write late into the night.

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Do you ever think about how men exist in the world, their hormones fluctuating daily instead of monthly?

How would it be to inhabit a body with ongoing, daily consistency?

Have you ever wondered how insane it is for the rest of us to even attempt to work, exercise, create, eat or move in the same way?

The next time a man in your life can’t quite grasp your need and desire to frolic, to dream, to sleep in, to take a day off for no reason at all: remind yourself they are blissfully and deeply unaware of an inner, moon-based rhythm, and do the thing anyway, with no apology.

For your sake mostly, but theirs too, of course.

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The world is a crazy place and seems to be crazier with each passing heartbeat, but for now, for this single moment, I am immersed in luxury. Like a flower petal floating in a vat of oil. Like a dream written in thick ink. Like a plume of fragrant smoke.

It’s luxury, when my boyfriend texts me from his office in Tokyo: it’s pouring, by the way for no reason other than he knows how much I love the rain, even though he absolutely does not feel the same way.

It’s a luxury to have a relationship with my mother in which we bring each other offerings. She gifts me a magnolia for my desk when I have a full day of teaching ahead, even though it’s her favourite flower, even though there’s only one on the tree. There’s something sexy about a magnolia, all fleshy white petals and narcotic scent, little tendrils falling like a florian rain.

Luxury.

I bring her pink frangipanis from my nightly walk even though they cover my hands in sap and the most abundant and generous tree to gather them from is toward the beginning of my evening pilgrimage.

I pick them for her, but I pick them for me too.

I bury my nose in the centre of them and breathe in as I walk through a tiny slice of forest, across a football field, past the beach.

Luxury.

Luxury is friends fighting to pay the bill at a wine bar and deciding the only possible solution is to set another date to meet again soon, and keeping that date, even when you’re so busy you all but forget to breathe.

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It's because I write

I talk often about writing my business into existence.

I’m an overly cerebral person, like most of us. One of my biggest problems is that I think too much. Straight up thinking, for me, is rarely productive. It mostly just makes me anxious, blowing out the proportions of the simplest things.

When I write, it all makes sense.

When I take action, when I move in the direction of, when I take the tiniest baby step, I remember it is all going to be okay and if not now, eventually, in the end.

Writing is often that first motion, the first flicker of action.

Writing is an important, marketable skill, both for business and for pleasure.

It is also a healing, therapeutic modality through which you can altar your perspective of many things.

When that writing is shared, it stretches beyond the edges of your experience, and catches others in her tide.

It’s a truly powerful thing.

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I never saw my life as luxurious before.

In fact, I was much more inclined to notice the opposite.

Writing has changed, and continues to change the way I see the world.

Writing helps me to remember the things that are so easy to forget.

Gratitude lists are a beautiful place to start. Morning journaling, scribbling down your ideas and dreams.

But storytelling, little pockets of poetry, there’s something ancient about it. Like telling time by the sun, or cupping your palms to drink water from a natural, flowing source.

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Earlier this week, when a teenage girl exclaims omg dolphins on a busy morning train, she changes the mood of the entire day.

The sharing of her excitement alters me, and all the other passengers who twist and turn in their seat. I decide to listen to dolphin frequencies as we reach the escarpment. It is raining and misty and abundantly green and it takes my breath away.

Viewing life through the lens of poetry and storytelling, is not about always being happy.

when I talk about beauty

It’s training yourself to see.

It teaches you the patterns of living.

The growth in every heartbreak.

The cyclical way of all things.

If you are here, I am probably speaking to the long converted, but I really do encourage you to take the time to write, not just here and there, but often, most days, archiving the smallest stories of your mundanity, if it’s something that strikes even the quietest chord within you. Especially if you’ve forgotten how luxurious life can actually be.

My manifestation practice is writing.

My marketing plan is writing.

My therapy is writing.

It’s not everything, but it’s many things.

It’s because I’m a writer, that I notice the poetry of sleeping every night under a pomegranate tree.

It’s because you’re a reader, that I don’t have to explain in great detail what that means.

It’s because I’m a writer, one who turns my very average life into stories regularly, that I’m able to really see.

I cannot begin to think of a greater luxury.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

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My friend

sierra mcdaniel

and I are hosting a substack workshop on March 25th (with a replay, of course) All About Substack where we share all we know about this platform, inviting you to fall in love with writing, social media and creative expression again.

Talking Menu:

꩜ Why Substack is a beautiful, supportive and useful platform even if you don’t consider yourself to be a writer

꩜ How Substack can help us to disconnect from the dopamine addiction associated with faster-paced social media platforms while still building a community and connecting us with ideal customers

꩜ Substack vs a ‘regular’ email newsletter. Whats the difference, should I have both?

꩜ How to create a thriving Substack even if you have limited time to dedicate to it, by drawing inspiration from work you already have in your toolbox

꩜ The poetry of Substack notes and their quiet power in connecting us with the right people

꩜ Do I need a niche, what to write about and how often to post

꩜ Monetising substack and the case both for and against it

꩜ Time for Q&A

I’m as passionate about teaching and sitting in circles with women as I am about writing. I really do hope to see you there :)

And for the romantic and mystical among us, I’m hosting a short course / workshop series all about poetic writing (and therefore, poetic living) all the details and dates to be announced soon. Sign up to be the first to know here.

𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

With love,

Emmie