Prompt 307. Slow Living
& Rachel Schwartzmann on how light moves us
Hi friend,
These last few weeks, I’ve been wrapping up a big project, one that’s been in the works for a couple of years (and that I’m really excited to share more about soon!). At the same time, “The Alchemy of Blood,” my joint art exhibit with my mom, just came down. Suddenly the mental space that’s been occupied by these creative projects is free, as is the time they took up in my schedule. I find myself worrying that a postpartum emptiness will creep in, and that I’ll get the blues.
But I’m trying to remind myself that there is value in lying fallow. A few years ago, I interviewed the brilliant poet and my dear friend Marie Howe for a Studio Visit. At one point, I asked her about something interesting I’d heard her say—that sometimes she goes a whole year without writing a poem.
“After I publish a book, I’m completely empty and silent for a long time,” Marie said. “In many ways, you have to wait to become a different person with different concerns.”
There are so many romantic and idealized notions of the writer’s life, but we rarely talk about the quiet spells. Right now, I’m trying to keep that in mind, and to remind myself that I’m in transition in more ways than just artistically, and that I shouldn’t force these things—because you can’t force these things. That can be a struggle, because I have no idea how long it will take for me to become a different person with different concerns, and I have a hard time granting myself permission for that to unfold without imposing pressure to make it a productive unfolding. I have to let go of the illusion of control and to sit with and accept the uncertainty.
So I am trying to honor this fallow moment by making a ritual of it. Instead of feeling anxiety because I don’t know my next steps, I want this in-between to be a cozy and comfortable place to rest. Jon and I recently moved to a farm, and we’ve been working on repairing the old farmhouse and doing renovation projects. This week, I’ve been focusing on converting the garage into a painting studio and workspace. The walls are freshly painted, and it has new doors with big windows to let the light in. Maybe what I’ll do in the coming weeks is only nap in this new workspace. Maybe I’ll read and journal. Maybe I’ll play with the set of alcohol inks that my friend Nafissa gave me, or the printmaking supplies from my friend Lindsay. Maybe I’ll do breathwork, guided by my friend Taylor. Maybe I’ll do nothing at all.
The world feels really hard right now, between global conflicts and environmental upheaval and an impending election. The other day I read an article about the “October Theory,” which is the idea that this month is energetically and temporally a great time for a reset, perhaps even more so than the New Year, which is something I’ve always felt myself. Maybe we could all use this moment—this exact moment, wherever you are in space and time—to slow down, to listen to your nervous system, to honor it by giving it what it needs, whether it’s pausing to admire the changing leaves, or taking a walk through a crisp autumn day, or watching the sunlight grow slant as the afternoon wanes.
And with that, I’ll turn to today’s guest essay and prompt—called “Golden Hour” by the writer Rachel Schwartzmann. It’s an excerpt from her new book Slowing, where she writes about discovering wonder, beauty, and creativity through “slow living”—her philosophy of stepping back from our hyper-driven, digitally frenetic modern lifestyle and toward balance and calm. In the essay, she meditates on the quality and power of light and asks us to consider both how it moves and how it moves us.
Sending love,
Suleika
Some items of note—
In case you want to dive deeper into the themes I touched on today, I wanted to highlight some offerings from the archive of paid subscriber benefits.
From my advice column Dear Susu, there’s “Goodbye to All That,” where I wrote about leaving the city, real estate, and big dreams.
From our Studio Visits archive, there’s my conversation with Marie Howe, “On Matters of Life and Death,” where we talked about fallow periods, tips for getting unstuck, and listening to the wild things.
And from the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers, there’s “The Work of Happiness,” where managing editor Carmen Radley meditated on the interior life and the role of patience in making a home.
Speaking of the Hatch: Mark your calendar! We’ve scheduled our next gathering for Sunday, October 20 from 1-2 pm ET. Our community manager will be hosting, reflecting on the many ways we can be in conversation with the world.
Prompt 307. Golden Hour by Rachel Schwartzmann
If we don’t have light, then we don’t have a story. Light marks time: However quietly, it sweeps through our rooms one day and hides from us the next. I’m writing this at a point when light will glisten for just a few hours a day. While it’s still bright outside, it feels right to tell you about what I can see: gas lamps flickering in the distance, neighbors milling in and out of brownstones and businesses, a jovial guy walking a dog on the ledge of the stone wall encircling the park entrance—the pup trotting gleefully ahead like a tightrope walker at the circus. This city is a circus these days, with lovers, drifters, and artists roaming the streets and blotting the sidewalks with their dreams. It’s a place devoid of consistency but filled with constant movement. All the while, golden hour slowly descends, adding texture and tempo to these vibrant scenes. Light marks time and people. No matter where you are when the day is nearing its end, when you no longer have the energy to reach out to people, reach out and let yourself be touched by the hazy yellow curtain that blankets the earth before the sun sets. Golden hour makes you look and makes it easier to put one foot in front of the other. I love the way it changes throughout the year. The quiet winter sky is made brighter with rivulets of orange light that give way to cotton-candy clouds. Golden hour in the summer gives a whole new meaning to warmth: Its palette swivels out, revealing streaks of citrus, hibiscus, honey, and mustard. But no matter the season, those pools of light eventually fade into dusk. The sun goes down, and so do my blinds. Then I’m cloistered in the only place that feels like home. So few places in the world give us that reassurance. So few sensations—like light—show us how much we carry. I wish we trusted ourselves and our strength more. Light marks time and space. I’m breathless now. I’ve read this aloud—I’m always so quiet—and I need to feel the words coming into being. The world doesn’t give much space for breaks, paragraphs or otherwise, but I’m learning to pause, even when it feels like a race against the clock. The light is running out, and I’m chasing after it. The words are tumbling out, and I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s the deep breaths after no breaks and fast sprints that are slow. And with each exhale, I’m creating light between the dark spaces. When the day nears its end, loved ones remind us we’ll find our way through the darkness. If we don’t have light, then we won’t see our way to the end of the tunnel. So give me golden hour, and I’ll give you my trust. Because if we don’t have trust, then we don’t stand a chance.
Your prompt for the week:
Look for light. Write about how it shifts across the tops of buildings, streets, or trees. How do the colors change as the hour passes? How has golden hour shifted your perception of time?
Excerpted from Slowing: Discover Wonder, Beauty, and Creativity through Slow Living by Rachel Schwartzmann (Chronicle Books, 2024).
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—
Rachel Schwartzmann is the author of Slowing and the writer/host of Slow Stories—a multimedia project that explores living, working, and creating more intentionally in our digital age. She also writes about books, creativity, design, and fashion, and her essays and interviews have appeared in BOMB Magazine, Coveteur, Literary Hub, TOAST Magazine, and elsewhere. You can follow her @rachelschwartzmann to see what she’s reading, writing, wearing, and sharing.
Our Isolation Journal No. 1—
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I grew up in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles, right under the flight pattern for LAX. Loud living. I spent thirty years there, and I still remember walking down the highway during my "hippie" years, and thinking, "I gotta get out of this place." I was nineteen. Now at seventy-three (how did that happen?) I live on a large patch of land overlooking a valley with the view of nothing but the Rocky Mountains in the distance. When I go out on my porch, there is silence. It almost sounds weird to me. I wake early because I go to bed early. Right now it's 4:15 am and I've been up for 1/2 hour. But the first thing I do in the morning is open my curtains, even though it's still dark. When the sun begins to rise, I get up and stop whatever I'm doing and walk to the window. Every morning the light will look different. Sometimes it makes a spectacular showing, some mornings it's more subtle. I don't want to miss a minute of it.
Oh, what beautiful and apposite words today, from both author and guest contributor!
Here in Aberystwyth, on the wild west coast of Wales (UK), the golden hour is particularly lovely...in the summer the very late sunset makes for meandering strolls along the prom, late sea-swimming, dogs and dolphins (if we are lucky). In the winter the golden hour if for a brisk walk to watch the starlings in their swoops of murmuration coming home to roost under the pier before darkness descends. And in the liminal times of year, the golden hour is the time to bring in the wind-blown sheets, fill the log-basket, and think about cooking, as the students and workers dally home...😊