Last week, I talked about writing real, tangible letters and how they play a role in my life. I heard from so many of you in response, thank you.
Yesterday morning, I wrote another letter, and it opened up something in me that I realized I had unknowingly been saying "no" to for far too long.
A day before my birthday, about two weeks ago, my childhood best friend let me know that her father had passed. I can’t even begin to express how sad I felt about this, even though I hadn’t seen her or her dad for decades.
Our bodies remember everything, including what it was like to be cared for. What is was liked to be loved.
My friend's dad was someone who opened his home to me in my teenage years when "home" was a tricky and triggering concept for me, and when I didn’t have many reliable adults in my life. Without going into all the details, I can say that some people, even if we lose touch with them, remain embedded in parts of us that come alive in their announced absence.
bell hooks once said, "But it was love's absence that let me know how much love mattered."
When something that matters to you is gone (even if it's just an essence, an idea, a feeling), I believe a reminder of its unique necessity shows up in a variety of ways. Little messages.
When working with writers, we often dive into the theme of absence and how to write it. It always delights me to watch how differently writers approach this concept. The idea is that we write from a place of indentation, footprint, shadow, lingering scent, lost oral history. How do we capture the bits that aren’t there anymore, but still matter so much to the story?
My friend's dad was a character ... vivacious, generous, loud. He mattered so much to my story, but I didn’t realize it until his absence. It wasn’t overt.
I wrote my friend a letter to share a few memories that came to mind when thinking about her and her dad. Through writing it, I realized I was writing the absence. I was writing the "in-between" moments—the things that linger in the air after someone’s walked past. I missed that.
Life gets busy, and we forget that saying "no" to things can happen subconsciously, too.
I decided I want to write the absence more. I want to get back into it. The simple act of writing a letter opened up a new writing/creative project and I don't think it's a book. I might share more about it down the line.
Fun fact, I use the "writing the absence" technique in my 2022 novel, Junie. Here's a review that I think captures this.
Messages show up in the most unexpected of ways. There are seasons for "no," and seasons where "no" isn’t what's needed.
Reflective Question: Can you think of something you’ve been saying "no" to that you now feel like you want to make space for now in this season of your life?
Reflect + Rewrite
This Week's Reflection Question: If you could hand write a letter to someone in your life, who would it be and why?
After answering the reflection question, revisit what you wrote.
Is there a single line—just one—that surprised you?
Maybe it stirred something. Maybe it made you pause.
Copy that line out. Sit with it.
As always, if you feel called, I’d love to see it. Hit reply and share it with me.
See you next week! If this letter moved you in some way, please forward it to a friend.
with love, Chelene
Founder, Breathing Space Creative
Want to explore more of my work? I offer bespoke writing mentorships, creative support calls, and free creative resources through my studio. But for now, just take what you need. I’ll be here.
