> CD #118: The facts of my life

I was SO COLD when I was in Vancouver last month, even though the temps were in the high single digits (Celsius). A lifelong prairie girl, I just could not get over that kind of wet cold where you feel it in your bones. I had packed a light down bomber to layer under my new trench, but it wasn’t enough, so I on my first evening there, I caved and bought a sweater to wear over my t-shirt under the bomber under the trench. Yes, I agree: I am ridiculous.

I hardly took it off all weekend and, as a result, it showed up frequently in my Instagram posts, where—to my surprise—people kept sending me DMs about the colour. Apparently I look good in red and should wear it more often.

My mother, who dressed me almost exclusively in red for the first five years of my life, is vindicated.

It’s just that red is so showy, and Chinese, and obvious, and somewhat political.

I logged it as a life fact: I should wear red.

Also: It feels good to receive compliments.

I’ve been reading a strange little book called A Life of One’s Own, written by Marion Milner, a British psychoanalyst and artist who, nearly a century ago, made a project of finding out precisely what made her happy by recording her life in detail:

When I set out to keep a diary of what I wanted and of what made me happy I had the idea that it would be a kind of preliminary mental account-keeping. It was in December, 1926, and I expected that after a few weeks or months I would be able to say: ‘These are the facts of my life, now I’m going to take it in hand for myself and do something about it.’

I began on a Sunday.

What follows is a fascinating and clear-eyed investigation into the everyday moments that make her life feel meaningful, from “my new frock and red shoes” to “a rush of enthusiasm at the thought of being a loyal friend.”

I wasn’t sure I’d like the book at first, but Milner’s commitment to giving an honest account is quite charming. And when she begins to draw some preliminary conclusions, they resonate:

Feb. 23rd. […] ‘They’ assume that what happens is what matters, where you go, what you do, things that happen, the good time that you have. But often I believe it’s none of these things, it’s the times between, the long days when nothing happens, the odd moments, perhaps when you open a letter, or sit alone in a restaurant, or exchange the time of day with a stranger…

And then last night I got to this passage on p. 27:

Writing down my experiences then seemed to be a creative act which continually lit up new possibilities in what I had seen. Of course I could not at that time have put this discovery into words: I merely felt that it was useless to go over these records as I had originally planned in order to balance up the happiness and make decisions how to act in future. Instead I felt an urge to go on and on writing, with my interest gradually shifting from what to do with my life to how to look at it.

Tbh, I did not feel like writing a dispatch this week, and often I am tempted to stop writing these posts altogether. I am smart enough to understand that the world does not need another Substack (although I am so grateful to you, my subscribers—or at least the 61% of you who actually open the emails, lol).

The value of doing this, though, is not in being read. For me, it’s in looking at life closely—maybe a little too closely sometimes—and then figuring out what it means to me. It’s about the investigation, the discovery, and the pure joy in scrounging up a little meaning on a regular basis and sharing it with others, especially when the world is on fire.

Fact: I feel happy when I write.

That’s as good a reason as any to continue.

:) Teresa

ps. If you are in Canada, check out the Solidarity for Strength Facebook auction in support of aid organizations in Gaza, Lebanon and Sudan. My donation is a 45-minute online consult on all things publishing (e.g., how to get an agent, submit to indie publishers). Currently, I have fewer bids than the pasture-raised turkey, which delights me to no end.

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