15. Artist statement.
“Every writer has only one story to tell, and he has to find a way of telling it until the meaning becomes clearer and clearer, until the story becomes at once more narrow and larger, more and more precise, more and more reverberating.” -James Baldwin
Today marks the 15th issue of Home + the World. I’ve been writing and posting here weekly (with a couple of exceptions) since January 1st: four months, a third of the year; a season and a half. When I began this project, I knew I had something to say about estrangement, addiction, and healing, but I worried (still do) that what I had to say was a finite set of stories and that, once I got these stories out on the page, I would have used them up and they would be done.
But a strange thing is happening. I’m finding that the more I write, the more there is to write: as Dillard said, the words are filling “from behind, from beneath, like well water.” I find myself returning to the same themes, writing and re-writing the stories I wrote three years ago, or ten. I worry about repeating myself, treading the same ground, afraid of becoming stuck in a rut, but isn’t repetition of notes what defines music? Doesn’t a painter return to paint the same landscape again and again, noticing different details, using different tones? I’m giving myself permission to start fresh each week, a blank canvas: process, not product; progress, not perfection. I’m giving myself a mandate to, to the best of my ability, post even my most unstable efforts here weekly, an offering to the gods of butt-in-chair, or, more simply put: in order to be a writer, one actually has to write, in the midst of their life, whatever that looks like.
Home + the World was catalyzed last year when my son asked me if I had any regrets in my past. I told him the truth, which is: I’ve made lots of mistakes, but I don’t regret anything because I don’t really believe that there is such a thing as a wrong path or wrong choice in life, there is only infinitely branching choices and circumstances and realities, and each of these can be a starting point for a different reality or future; that, as his father reassured me in my early 20’s in the woods in Vermont as I agonized over “the right way to live”: there is no right way to live, there are simply many different ways to live. I told my son that I was satisfied by and grateful for where I am in life now, and therefore wouldn’t change any of the things that it took to get me here. But, as I reflected on the question a little more, I shared with him that one thing I would regret is if I looked back on my life and couldn’t legitimately call myself a writer, if writing was not a way of living, a primary way of being in the world for me, that I would see that as a kind of failure. I told him that I hoped to begin a writing practice again in earnest in the new year. A few weeks later, for Christmas, he gave me a gift: a weighty, refillable ink pen “as a symbol of your writing practice” and I don’t think I have to explain to you what that meant to me.
So today, in celebration of four months of Sundays, here is a small statement of purpose about this project:
Though the act of publishing a piece of writing presumes the existence of a reader, I am writing Home + the World first and foremost for myself: to generate a meaningful cognitive narrative, to make meaning of my own life as I have experienced it. I’m writing because creativity is generative and life affirming and healing and creating beauty from our life experiences is the very essence of magic and alchemy. I’m writing to build a discipline, to hone a craft, to develop skill, to articulate a way of being in the world. I’m writing to build a body of work and to build a foundation from which to write more, to write books; this project is prelude and prologue. I’m writing in service and love to the human family: as others’ stories have illuminated the path for my own understanding of my life, I wish to live and write in a way that will bear witness to the truth of other people’s lives.
I would like to take a moment here to shout out having a day job: while making a living as a writer is certainly a dream, it can be a very precarious one. What’s working for me is working a nine-to-five that takes care of the taxes and the bills and the health insurance, so I can attend to my life when I’m not at work. This is still a novel approach for me, and I feel wildly grateful for the access to a professional job and the simplicity of this arrangement. Also, while the discipline of writing every Sunday, with few exceptions, is so gratifying to me, I’m trying to hold it lightly; though I’m these days mostly agnostic about socializing, a little sociality is blooming at the edges of my days, and it’s probably healthy to make space for that too.
The cherry on top: the paradox of trying to write from a place of detachment to outcome, to try to just produce something consistently and not be too precious about it, is that every kind word, every connection or reconnection to a real, warm-blooded human in the world who reaches out to me and says “amen” or “thank you” or “this one hits,” every time a reader tells me they feel seen, understood, or comforted by something I wrote, it’s an absolutely unexpected gift, a joy. It is the highest hope I could harbor and I thank you for the opportunity.
Home
Though food and cooking has always been a central aspect of my identity, creativity, and way of connecting with the world, it became ever more so in my early sobriety (which coincided with the first pandemic years). Reasoning that I could never spend as much money on food as I once did on booze and/or travel, and with pandemic restrictions making it feel like walking and cooking was all we had left, I grocery shopped with wild abandon, and Jasper and I made elaborate meals every day.
The recovery program that I participated in to get sober was not a 12-step program but a holistic treatment program based in therapy, harm reduction, neurobiology, and trauma healing, and I took the mandate of “extreme self-care” as a form of nervous system healing very seriously. I lavished myself in nourishment: delicious meals, fancy sodas, teas, and treats and I still do. However, as financial well-being is also a big part of my recovery journey (and with inflation AND a voracious 17-year-old in the house), I can’t justify an unlimited grocery budget, and so I’ve entered my bargain shopper era: I spend Saturday mornings in my Saturday clothes (muumuus, obviously) slowly wandering the aisles of H-Mart in a pleasant fugue state, sniffing mangos and marveling at the freezers full of dumplings and gyoza. It’s a little bit of a drive, but the produce is fresh, bountiful, and affordable, and I can get my bargain tofu and soy milk before heading over to Aldi to round out the list. I made a bonkers amount of food yesterday, and served this meal to our dinner guests, and I’m so grateful for the bounty and the beauty.
The World
Astrologically, this weekend we are coming off the Full Moon Scorpio eclipse which means, in short: endings, death, letting go, shedding, shedding, shedding. This energy is best exemplified by the major arcana Death, which teaches us about letting go, letting the past selves die, composting old identities and egos and situations and ways of being. For me, I’m actively shedding my attachment to other people’s projections, and the narrative that having clear expectations, parameters, and boundaries regarding the quality of my relationships and interactions makes me a bad friend/co-worker/person. It’s a time to consider what in your life needs pruning and composting, to make way for the new growth bursting forth from the good earth.
Home + The World is an occasional newsletter from Jodi Rhoden featuring personal essay, recipes, links and recommendations exploring the ways we become exiled: through trauma, addiction, oppression, grief, loss, and family estrangement; and the ways we create belonging: through food and cooking, through community care and recovery and harm reduction, through therapy and witchcraft and making art and telling stories and taking pictures and houseplants and unconditional love and nervous system co-regulation and cake. Thank you for being here and thank you for being you.
⚔️❤️ Jodi
good morning, Jody!
I'm so grateful you still had my email address so you could include me in this new adventure of yours! reading and writing like air and water, eating and trying (always trying harder!) like fire...I look forward to thinking about everything a little bit more, sometimes even from a different angle, thanks to your musings. I started a substack encouraged by your eloquence, but haven't written anything yet-will let you know when I do. and/or-dm your address if you'd like a postcard! I'm glad we crossed paths, & hope to again someday.~*