Prompt 324. American Dreamer

Jon Batiste on transcendent art

This week’s message from the universe

Hi friend,

About a month ago, I hit a real low point. After several rounds of chemo, the cumulative effects had beaten me down, and I was having fewer and fewer good days between cycles, to the point that before this latest round, I really didn’t recover at all. Anyone who has been through treatment like this knows that without those few days of relief from the brutal side effects—days where you’re reminded of the things that make it all worthwhile, of the things you get to do and make, of the people you get to spend time with—you can struggle to recall why you’re putting yourself through this. Another way to say it: I was struggling to recall what it feels like to be me.

At the nadir of that low, a very special invitation arose. My husband Jon had agreed to play the anthem at the Super Bowl, and his creative team wanted me to paint his piano. Just six months ago, I would have said yes without a second’s hesitation. This is the kind of opportunity that usually is irresistible for me—something unexpected, that I’ve never done before, that feels both a little daunting and like a fun creative challenge. And of course, it was the kind of thing that wouldn’t come around again. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

But as much as I wanted to want to do it, I had nothing in me. Saying yes wasn’t an option. I told Jon, “I’m so tired. I have to say no”—and I was devastated by my own no and what that meant, which was that I was no longer well enough to take on unexpected, hare-brained projects.

Jon and his team didn’t give up easily. The following week, Jon asked me again, and I said no again. The week after, he asked me a third time: “Are you sure?” I told him, “I just can’t.” It was really disconcerting, honestly. I thought to myself, I’ve lost my ambition. I’ve entered my era of decline.

Soon after, I met with my medical team and got really honest about how much I was struggling to find some semblance of a quality of life. They listened and decided to give me more time between rounds of chemo to allow my body to recover. That immediately felt like a huge relief, which only increased as the week went on. With those extra days of recovery, I felt my energy return and my brain start to stir and awaken. It was like stumbling onto a path while lost in a dense forest. For the first time in months, I could see a way forward.

By the end of that week, I was awash in complete regret that I’d turned down this extraordinary invitation, and I told Jon as much. Though the deadline had passed, we got on a call with his team. I asked if it was too late for me to change my “no” to “yes.” Their answer was, “It’s not—if you can do it in thirty-six hours.”

I was so happy to hear this that I immediately agreed. Then we ended the call, and I suddenly realized, “Holy shit—I have thirty-six hours!” I had a day and a half to go from ideation to experimentation to creation to completion. The task would have been seriously difficult for anyone, but I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in six months. I certainly have never painted a grand piano. I’ve written before about the voices of doubt and fear that emerge when you embark on a new or ambitious creative endeavor—and that chorus chimed in noisily. Who are you to do this? You really think you can pull this off? It’s going to be a disaster. What were you thinking?

On top of the time crunch and how rusty I felt with a paint brush was the question of what to paint. I know nothing about the Super Bowl—or football for that matter. I’ve never attended a football game in my life; to be honest, I’ve never ever watched one on television. I started looking up photos of football fields, trying to determine the hue of the grass, trying to suss out all the aesthetic considerations, feeling mounting panic. I had barely begun and already worked myself into such a tizzy that I almost said, “Sorry, guys—I can’t pull this off.”

Leaning on my emotional support legume

But then I remembered this practice we share, and I reached for my journal. I began to freewrite—without thinking of an audience or an outcome—about the many ways this occasion feels meaningful to me. I wrote about Jon coming back to his hometown—about the kid from Kenner starting the piano at eleven years old, about how unexpected and extraordinary it is, what he has achieved. I wrote about the American Dream and his embodiment of it and about the American Dream in a broader sense—how this country is as divided as it’s ever been, how half the country feels that the American Dream is in peril while the other feels like it’s being rescued from peril, how in this moment, we must believe it’s possible for those fractures to heal. I wrote about Jon and me, about the winding path that led us here, about meeting at band camp in our teens, falling in love in our twenties, then getting married (three years ago this week!) on the eve of being admitted to the hospital for my second bone marrow transplant. It was a moment where we felt we were in the chrysalis, hoping for metamorphosis—and since then we’ve reentered that chrysalis and emerged transformed again and again.

And with that, a symbol appeared—one that seemed to contain all the elements of the thoughts swirling around in my head: the sense of metamorphosis and transformation, of uncertainty and hope, of fragility and strength. And out came a sketch in the margins of my journal—a very abstract line drawing of a butterfly.

I want to share more about making this thing, about the surprising and even mysterious way the creative process unspools—about the starts and stops, about my creative collaborators and the way this came into being—but as this missive is already getting long, I’ll wait until next week, until after the piano is unveiled and I can dig into more of the nuances and details. So I’ll pause for now, and I’ll introduce today’s guest contributor: my brilliant partner in life and creativity, Jon Batiste. I’m resharing a prompt of his that I absolutely love—a simple, powerful prompt about the transcendent power of art.

With that, I’ll sign off from New Orleans, where later today I’ll head to the Super Bowl. If you’re planning to watch it, keep an eye out for Jon and maybe even keep an eye out for me. I’ll be the girl on the sidelines cheering wildly and a bit confusedly, shouting at the top of my lungs: “Hit a home run!”

Sending love,

Suleika

Some items of note—

• The first reviews of The Book of Alchemy are in, and I’m honored to announce it earned a starred review in Publisher’s Weekly—they called it “a stellar guide that’s sure to spark the imagination.” Pre-orders are so important for authors, so if you’re thinking about getting a copy, I’d be grateful if you’d place yours today!

• Speaking of pre-orders: On April 21, 2025, at 7pm ET, I’ll be hosting a very special virtual workshop to celebrate the publication of The Book of Alchemy. To reserve a spot, just pre-order a copy, then register at the link below!

• We’ve scheduled our next meeting of the Hatch, our monthly creative gathering for paid subscribers for Sunday, February 23 from 1-2 pm ET. Holly Huitt will be hosting this time—she’ll open with a short craft lecture, then you’ll spend the rest of the time reflecting and creating together. The experience is so powerful, generative, and connected. I hope you’ll join us!

from American Symphony (Netflix)

Prompt 324. Anthems by Jon Batiste

There was a time before music was commodified—before people sold tickets to “see” it, streamed it over the information superhighway or pasted logos of it on compact discs and t-shirts. Our ancestors used music as a way to communicate deep truths, hidden messages, collective wisdom and unspoken joy and pain. But even in the modern realm, at its best, music remains a divine source. We still get glimpses of that power from time to time from our great artists, and these moments frame our lives.

Your prompt for the week:

When was the last time you experienced art that transcended enjoyment and overwhelmed you with its power. How would you translate that magic into words?

If this hasn’t been an experience you’ve had—make it up.

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—

Jon Batiste is an Oscar, Emmy, Golden Globe, and seven-time Grammy Award–winning musician from Louisiana. He earned a BA and MFA from the Juilliard School, spent years playing music on subways and in the streets of New York City with his band Stay Human, then served as the bandleader and musical director of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert from 2015 to 2022. He has released eight studio albums, including We Are, which won Album of the Year in 2022, and most recently Beethoven Blues, which reached #1 on Billboard’s Top 100 for Contemporary Classical and Classical too.

For more paid subscriber benefits, see—

• Belief in Magic, a series of prompts from our annual New Year’s challenge—about wonder and mystery and the powerful magic of the human mind, designed to combat the temptation to descend into darkness and to remind us that our world is full of beauty and magic too

• Behind the Scenes: American Symphony, a conversation about our Oscar-nominated and Grammy-winning documentary between me, my husband Jon, director Matt Heineman, and this community, where we talked about “peak compartmentalization,” learning to say “I’m not okay,” and how Matt squirreled his way into filming at the Grammys

• Shame Shepherds & Grace for Fuck-ups, an installment of my advice column Dear Susu, where I answered a question from a man who’s been incarcerated for over half his life, wants to write his story, but is stymied by shame

Our Isolation Journal No. 1—

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