The Restful Writer: Letter #3 A Slow Flowing River

The Restful Writer series is designed for creative napping; a collection of fictional letters written by a woman fulfilling her dream of being an artist. Each nap-length recording lulls you into a state of deep relaxation, perfect for a creative reset. Letter 3 is about moving slowly and noticing. There is a musical intro, then vocals only until the music begins again, bringing you back to the present moment alert and refreshed. Royalty-free music by Fesliyan Studios.

Transcript

Welcome to the Restful Writer Series,

A collection of thoughtful,

Slightly rambling letters,

Written by an ordinary woman who moves to a small coastal town to fulfill her dream of being an artist.

I am that woman,

And these are my letters.

I've rented a cottage in the woods,

Within walking distance of the sea.

I spend a lot of time collecting things to make art,

But mostly I find myself just living.

Each day,

I write a letter home,

A simple record of my day,

Shared with someone I love.

I write about life at the cottage,

Wandering the woods and along the beach,

Walking into town to shop or have coffee at the cafe.

I write about making art,

Or at least trying to make art.

And letter by letter,

I am beginning to understand that just living is its own kind of art.

If it's alright,

I thought I'd just read my letter aloud as I write it,

Savoring the simple pleasures and comfort of a day well lived.

Thank you for listening.

May you find comfort here with me.

Maybe just taking a deep breath and listening to the sound of my voice comforts and soothes,

And your body can relax,

Your mind can quiet.

Maybe closing your eyes feels good,

Letting your eyelids be heavy and soft.

It's perfectly fine if you find yourself drifting.

Today's letter is about moving slowly and noticing,

My love,

I'm laughing at how easily I forget my own good advice.

How many times have I told myself,

I will slow down,

Be more present in each moment,

And then found myself so busy that the day was a blur,

Slowing down,

Finding balance.

It is a practice.

When I first moved into the cottage,

It was a busy time of unpacking,

Setting up the studio,

Ordering the supplies I hadn't brought with me,

And just trying to find a rhythm to my work.

Yesterday it occurred to me that too much busyness,

Even the good kind,

Keeps me from the rest that is such an important part of creative expression.

I think that's true for most everything in life,

Whether it's art,

Gardening,

Parenting,

Growing a business or career,

Or any other life experience.

Creative energy needs room to breathe,

It needs room to stretch,

And time to just meander.

We hear so many stories about what the creative muse is and how it shows up that I think we miss the point.

Experiencing the muse,

Those beautiful sparks of insight,

Ideas,

And moments of pure creative flow show up differently for each of us.

Every single one of us is creative,

Is meant to create,

But we must learn how the muse shows up for us,

How creative energy wants to express through us in our own unique way.

Sometimes I forget that the muse,

For me,

Is a co-creative process,

A balance between discipline and letting go.

When I find myself struggling,

When the work isn't working,

It's usually a sign that I need to relax,

Rest,

And let go of trying to control the process.

So this morning,

I laid in bed and took a deep breath,

Consciously slowing everything down,

Breathing in slow and deep,

Exhaling even slower,

Completely emptying my lungs,

Letting the bed support me as my body responded to this intentional,

Luxurious pause.

It was wonderful to let my mind shift into a slower gear,

The spinning wheels of my thoughts slowing,

Winding down slower and slower until there was only a quiet stillness,

Any random thoughts,

Hazy,

Passing by easily.

These few moments set the pace for my entire day.

I consciously move through the day like a slow flowing river,

Lazily winding its way to the sea.

As I wandered to the kitchen and leisurely made tea and toast,

I realized that this is the magic of slowing down.

You notice things,

Simple,

Ordinary pleasures that you miss when you rush.

This morning as I made toast,

That first crunchy bite made me think of summer mornings as a child,

Making my own breakfast before running outside to play.

For the first time as an adult,

Toast reminded me of all the effortless pleasures of childhood.

Who knew that toast could be comforting nostalgia?

I ate my toast standing at the kitchen sink,

Looking out the window to the garden.

The small wooden plant markers and new sprouts still snuggled in the morning mist.

The grass still shimmered more silver than green.

Some days just feel quiet and slow.

The light diffused as if even the sun wants to live the day a little more gently.

I decided to let the day unfold on its own and see where it took me.

I finished my toast,

The morning air in the cottage still chilly,

And I let my mug of tea warm my hands as I wandered into the living room.

I paused there,

Trying to see the details in the room,

As if the cottage and I were getting to know each other better.

Now that my things are in place,

Now that I've taken a moment to come fully into this experience,

To just be here,

No agenda or expectations.

The sun hadn't quite reached the front of the house,

And the living room was bathed in a soft blue-gray light.

The little tree outside the bay window,

Purple in the shadow of the cottage,

Just the very tips of its branches,

Beginning to lavender with sunlight.

I sat on the overstuffed sofa,

Wrapping a soft blanket around my shoulders,

Propped my slippered feet on the coffee table,

And stared into the dancing flames of the fireplace,

Grateful for the ambience and a bit of warmth.

With just the flip of a switch,

I felt so relaxed,

As if I wasn't quite fully awake,

And briefly wondered if I'd turn over and find myself back in the city,

Still dreaming of this moment.

A slow smile spreads across my face,

To be living the very thing I'd dreamed of for so long.

Dreams do come true.

My eyes wandered the shelves on either side of the fireplace.

I want to really see the things I thought important enough to bring with me.

All of them placed tidily on the shelves.

The candle that smells like rain in the desert,

And the crocheted bunny I made as a teenager,

A third patch of stitches across its soft,

Round belly.

Holding the weave in place.

That messy patch of yarn is evidence of so much love,

And years of traveling with me through so many life adventures.

I brought books,

Of course,

Probably more than I needed,

But being surrounded by books makes any place feel like home.

For this adventure,

I brought mostly art books,

Portfolio style,

And memoir,

For inspiration.

There are also a few of the old,

Tattered books,

Rescued from used bookstores over the years.

Poets Emerson,

Sarton,

And Browning,

Both Elizabeth Barrett and Robert.

I brought Rilke and Janssen,

Two of my favorite letter writers.

Their letters,

Filled with both profound and ordinary moments,

Are wonderful examples of the beautiful,

Glorious mess that is life.

Looking at the books' ragged spines tempts me to go to them,

To savor the feel of their thin,

Delicate pages.

Slipping through my fingers like silk,

Their eloquent words rise from the pages,

Swirling softly around me like a haunting piece of music.

Who was it that said,

Poetry,

Its own kind of music,

Only lives when it is spoken aloud.

Remembered bits and pieces from my favorite poems echo through my mind,

A subtle orchestra of rhythm and words,

Bathing the room like the warm sunrise coming through the window.

Reading Rilke is when I first began to consider that art is a way of living,

That I can trust my own right way to be in the world,

That just being me is enough.

Each of us,

Our own unique,

Creative expression in the world.

I wandered to the window as the sun swept in,

Closing my eyes and letting the sun wash over me,

Warming my face.

Just having these few precious things around me soothes my soul.

We are so often taught that things are just stuff and should be eliminated as much as possible.

But there are some things that are precious,

Meaningful,

That hold an energy one needs to see and touch.

I suppose that's why my art is made up of found things.

I like to think that I can sense when a found thing is special because it was once important to someone.

I give found things new life,

Another chance to give pleasure and enjoyment.

Being reminded of that passion and mission had me in the studio for the rest of the day,

Blissfully creating,

Flowing along in that slow,

Tranquil river.

It has made me all the more grateful for this life of creative flow.

May you be well,

My love.

As I lay down my pen,

My gaze wanders to the window.

I watch the trees sway in the wind,

A breath of fresh air moves through the cottage.

I tuck my pen and paper away in the desk and welcome you back to this moment with me,

Perhaps stretching your arms above your head,

Flexing your feet,

Wiggling your fingers and toes,

Coming fully present,

Relaxed,

And at peace.

Reviews

I love all your letters...there so full of memories and meaning... living life's delicate moments with you... thank you!
Donald James Dodge

Awesome ⚘️

So enjoying these x

I love these letters to happily go to sleep.

Beautiful! I felt so relaxed and right there in the cottage with you. Thank you for sharing your gift with us 🌻❤️

Very inspiring! I also appreciate the volume; it's easy to hear.