Prompt 289. A Contagion of Blessings

& Mavis Staples on counting them

Hi friend,

Four years ago, I was holed up in the attic of my parents’ house in upstate New York, deep in the last round of copy edits for my memoir, Between Two Kingdoms. My friend Carmen had come up from Texas a few weeks earlier for a self-styled writing retreat that quickly turned into a three-month Covid quarantine. One afternoon as we were taking a break, stretching our aching shoulders in parallel downward dogs, I said, “I have an idea.” I then began daydreaming out loud about a daily journaling project delivered in newsletter form that might help people navigate the fear and uncertainty of lockdown. Carmen replied, “Go write that down now—before you forget it.”

Early days of the Isolation Journals: at the desk & with Carmen on one of our daily constitutionals

The idea of a newsletter was so appealing, so fresh and succinct (compared to slogging through a 400-page manuscript)—it was doing the dance of the seven veils, as our pal Liz Gilbert would say. Had I told my editor what I had in mind, likely he would have said, “Maybe just focus on finishing your book?” But deep down, I knew it was more than the seductiveness of a new idea. I had learned from experience that a creative practice was a powerful tool for navigating grief, loss, and other types of upheaval, and I felt compelled to share that with others.

When I’m visited by such an idea, the only way I know to bring it to life it is to back myself into a corner. So the next day, I fired off messages to people I admired—including Liz, whom I did not know at the time—asking if they wanted to contribute an essay and journaling prompt to this new project. When (to my great surprise) they all said yes, I felt a little panicked. “Oh shit,” I thought, “I actually have to figure out how to do this!” And that’s been the project for the last four years—figuring out how to create and reinvent and sustain this wondrous call and response that we call the Isolation Journals.

A sampling of work from our first 100-day project (April-July 2020)

When I sent out that first journaling prompt on April 1, 2020, I never could have imagined that we’d be here. I couldn’t have imagined the Isolation Journals would take off in the way it did, and that Carmen would end up quitting her job to work full-time with me on this growing this project. I couldn’t have imagined this newsletter would provide such solace, that it would create such powerful connections, that it would be a lifeline—and not only for you but for me too. When I learned I had relapsed in the winter of 2021, the Isolation Journals became an anchor and a buoy. Keeping up with the newsletter when I was at my sickest was challenging, especially after the early adrenaline phase of treatment wore off, along with the steroids I’d been prescribed. There were weeks and weeks where I was struggling with complications from my bone marrow transplant (which I wrote about in this photo essay) and could barely get out of bed. I thought, What interesting things do I possibly have to say?

But I never run out of things to write about—and not because I have an endless supply of great stories and important insights, but because of the reverberation effect. I’m inspired by the guest contributors’ essays and prompts, by the comments you leave, the stories you tell, the bonds you forge, and the meaning you make of your own interruptions. So often when we think of life online, it’s of people jumping down each other’s throats and nit-picking every word—which is to say, things that make me want to perform a complete retreat. But this community is the exact opposite of that. Each week, I’m astonished by how you comfort each other, how you cheer each other on, how you check in on one another, how you hold space for people you have never met. 

Like last week in the Facebook group, a community member posted about a particularly painful loss that had left her deep in grief and unable to participate for a few months. Over seventy people responded, saying they had noticed her absence and had worried about her, offering poignant words of comfort. These moments feel like a blessing that ripples out in a kind of blessing contagion.

Maybe the place I see this most is in our chorus of collective gratitude, where each Friday we share a small joy from the week we want to hold onto. These joys run the gamut, from tender to funny to bittersweet. A sampling of some favorites from the last couple of weeks: the community member whose grandson texted her from college to say he missed her; another whose joy was “Hearing my four-year-old grandson tell me I’m not smart 😂.” A community member wrote about renewing a relationship with a college boyfriend: “He’s 91 and I’m 88,” she said. Someone else wrote about how she’s the caregiver for her mother, who has had five strokes, and how she made a little joke that made her mother laugh so hard they had to go get her walker because her mother “thought she was going to pee herself.”

Then there was a great joy from our beloved friend Alexa Wilding, about her son Lou. (You may remember Lou—he’s a two-time pediatric brain cancer survivor and the author of our forever favorite prompt, “Inside Seeing.”) Last week Alexa wrote, “My small joy is that my son, Lou, who has struggled to read due to continued side effects even years after cancer treatment, is reading. Yesterday I asked him to pass me my phone in the car, as my mom had texted, and I needed to know where we were meeting her. Instead, he said, ‘She says to meet at the cookie place.’ I almost had to pull over!”

The sweet replies came pouring in, cheering for Lou and also offering words of support and understanding for Alexa. Another mother of a child with medical complexities wrote, “I know the focus is on him and it needs to be. But know that you are seen and that the burden and joys you carry are real. Hugs and strength to both of you.”

Lou in treatment, Lou and Alexa today

Like I said, these moments feel like a blessing contagion. Almost every week, I see someone saying they had a really hard week, with no joy they wanted to hold onto—until they read our chorus, and the community’s joy became their joy.

Over these last four years since the Isolation Journals came into being, so much has transpired. Some of you have fallen in love, some have lost loved ones. Some have gotten sick, some have healed. Some of you have become parents and grandparents, some have experienced unimaginable heartbreak. You have shared these experiences with each other—in the comments section of the newsletter, in the Hatch, during each daily challenge—and held space for each other, and now you greet each other as old friends. Some of you have even met up in person, including with me! I’ve had the privilege of meeting you in coffee shops and on sidewalks, in Prospect Park, at museums, at Jon’s shows, even in hospital waiting rooms.

With my parents, I keep marveling at the fact that even though my second bone marrow transplant was far scarier than my first, I’m doing so much better. And when I compare the two experiences, I realize that it’s because I was so deeply isolated the first time I went through this, and this time, I’m deeply not—thanks largely to this community and to the beloved friends I get to work with, like Carmen and Holly, and to my own practices of creative solitude. Even when I’m alone, I don’t feel lonely.

I know I’m a little more long-winded today than normal—but on the eve of our four-year anniversary, I want to celebrate the goodness I see here and to acknowledge how transformative this work is. Because of the Isolation Journals, I think and read and write differently—but more than that, I live my life differently. Because of you, no experience—good or bad—ever feels wasted. You help me follow Mary Oliver’s instructions for living a life: “Pay attention./ Be Astonished./ Tell about it.”

As for today’s prompt, I’m resharing a favorite from the archive. It was first published on Easter Sunday in 2020. It’s called “Blessings” by the legendary singer and civil rights icon, Mavis Staples. May it be a blessing to you.

Sending love,

Suleika

Some items of note—

• If you missed Friday’s small joy, it had some of our greatest hits—weird wolfpacks, moonrises and wildflowers, and some Isolation Journalers meeting in the wild. To be buoyed by the chorus and to add yours too, click here!

• We’re on top of things this month, and we’ve already scheduled our next meeting of the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers. It’s happening on Sunday, April 21 from 1-2 pm ET. This time Carmen will be hosting, sharing a poem and prompt inspired by the idea of loving someone you don’t know. I hope you can join us!

• If you’d like to mark the anniversary of the Isolation Journals with one of our custom journals or tote bags, we have limited stock left. You can get yours here!

Georgia O’Keeffe, Sunrise (1916)

Prompt 289. Blessings by Mavis Staples

Many times in my life, I’ve come across someone who won’t smile, who won’t speak to me. I’ll get on an elevator and say “good morning,” and that person won’t say anything in return. My sister Yvonne—she’s different from me. When people are rude or unfriendly, Yvonne’ll tell them, “I didn’t do anything to you! Whatever is on your mind, don’t take it out on me.” But I’m wired differently. I keep a smile on my face, and I say to myself, “All right. I’ll say a little prayer for you.”

And I’ll say a prayer that whatever they’re struggling with, they’ll get through. That whatever is heavy, whatever is burdening them, they’ll find a way to lighten that load. That they’ll realize, even in the middle of great struggle, there are things to be thankful for.

This is especially true in hard times like these. When things are difficult, when troubles seem overwhelming, it’s helpful to look back and consider all you’ve gotten through and how far you’ve come. It’s important to remember your blessings, starting with the fact that you woke up this morning. The sun rose again, and you did too—and here you are, breathing, above the concrete.

And just acknowledging that simple fact as a blessing—that can make you feel better. That’s what I’m hoping for when people come to hear me sing. When they leave a concert, I want people to feel better, to feel good—because I feel good. I’m singing for myself too.

Your prompt for the week:

Write about your blessings. About what it was like to wake up today, about the people you love, about the songs that have lifted your spirits. Write about the wind in the trees, or rebirth in spring, or of freedom. Write about whatever gives you life, which—especially in troubled times, we remember—is so precious.

If you’d like, you can post your response to today’s prompt in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals. As a reminder, we love seeing your work inspired by the Isolation Journals, but to preserve this as a community space, we request no promotion of outside projects.

Today’s Contributor—

Hailed by NPR as “one of America’s defining voices of freedom and peace,” Mavis Staples is a once-in-a-generation artist whose impact on music and culture would be difficult to overstate. She’s a Blues and a Rock and Roll Hall of Famer; a civil rights icon; a Grammy Award-winner; a National Arts Awards Lifetime Achievement recipient; and a Kennedy Center honoree. She marched with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., performed at John F. Kennedy’s inauguration, and sang in Barack Obama’s White House. She’s collaborated with everyone from Prince and Bob Dylan to Arcade Fire and Hozier, blown away festival-goers from Newport Folk to Glastonbury and Lollapalooza, and graced the airwaves on Colbert, Austin City Limits, the Grammys, and more. You can find her on Instagram and Facebook and her music on Spotify.

If you’re new here—hi, I’m Suleika!

I’m the author of the memoir Between Two Kingdoms and the founder of the Isolation Journals, where we turn life’s interruptions into creative grist. Each Sunday, I send out this newsletter with an essay and journaling prompt from a guest contributor.

This weekly newsletter is free, with no ads or algorithms, just the support of this beloved community. If you upgrade to a paid subscription, you’ll receive other valuable benefits, like:

• creative courses and daily journaling challenges, like our New Year’s series On Rumi & Paradox

• transformative workshops, like Letters from Love with Elizabeth Gilbert and On Joy, Sorrow, and Creative Alchemy with Susan Cain

• the Hatch, our virtual creative hour where we gather for inspiration, connection, and accountability

• my advice column, Dear Susu, where I answer your questions about writing and life and everything in between

• our archive of sixteen Studio Visits with brilliant artists like the iconic poet Marie Howe and the astonishing multi-hyphenate Lena Dunham

• additional writing from me, like My Year of Love photo essay, where I reflected on what I thought was the worst year of my life but in fact was so much more

• most importantly: a way for people who find meaning in this work to support & sustain the Isolation Journals. If you have the means, I’d be grateful for your support!