Daydreaming is more powerful than thought.
— Gaston Bachelard —
I am the kind who will take the car for a drive, burn a half tank of fuel, and just think, just drive and ruminate, raptured in complete rêverie. I dream dreams of moments that have yet come to pass. I reminiscence about my childhood. I build with my memories.
I take what I’ve lived and think up new worlds, new possibilities, new meanings. Build homes, build cities. Create characters, create alternate endings and new beginnings. I tell myself stories and then believe them. Believe them, so much so I have to bring them into being.
Do you ever do this? Do you ever lose yourself in memory and imagination, on purpose? Wading through worlds constructed of your own imagination, amalgamations of narratives, both real and imagined?
Imagining she were still here…
Imagining where you would be, if only…
Imagining what happened after that blank in your memory…
A few days ago, I came across a blog post that introduced me to the work and writings of French philosopher Gaston Bachelard.1 I’ve only just begun reading his work, running down the rabbit holes of his research. Still, what I’ve seen and read so far is deeply compelling and curious.
Of dwelling and dreaming, he writes to say “We need to resort to the world of the daydream where 'memory and imagination remain associated.’”2 Memories matter, and not merely for their purity or accuracy or truth to time and truth itself. And memories are matter, they are houses to our imagination—not only anchoring us in any particular place and time; but, rather enabling us to ponder beyond any place and time.3
As if to say, we return to our memories not simply to remember them, but to recreate with them. Unreservedly returning, ruminating—in dream, in rêverie.
I don’t know. I am barely at the edge, only on the cusp of this. I am philosophically rambling, and have more questions that answers.
It’s just, I wonder what to make of memories.
What do we make of rêverie, of relentlessly returning to our minds, mining for memories and making from them? What laws govern the melding of memory and imagination? What limits enlarge them?
What is to be followed, found, captured, and created?
What is to be lost if we dare not do so?
Join me, this summer . . . as I explore rêverie and ponder just this.
All,
Rachel
Music to meditate.
I’ve shared over the last few weeks that composer Büşra Kayıkçı’s music is currently my favorite. I’ve been listening to her albums everyday, and I intend to keep sharing about her music but, for now, take my advice and listen to her song “Doğum/Birth,” which fits perfectly with this summer’s theme of rêverie.
Curiosity to contemplate.
Very interesting read, and a continuation into Bachelard’s thoughts on memory, creativity, poetics, and rêverie: The Poetics of Reverie: Philosopher Gaston Bachelard on Love, Solitude, and Happiness.
Prompt to ponder.
What does daydreaming and rêverie mean to you? What does it do for you, and what does it look like for you? A car ride? Writing? Looking out a window?
Newsletter name change.
Please note: Going forward, this notes section will be brief. Today, however, I’m taking up more space than usual to share important updates.
If you haven’t noticed by now, my newsletter has undergone a few changes, including a name change. In November 2023, I made the incredibly difficult decision to bring my creative community, The Fallow House, to a pause. I needed time, space, and rest to recover from grief upon grief, and to seek out a new direction for the future of The Fallow House. In January 2024, I made the heartbreaking decision to continue running The Fallow House without my incredible, one-of-a-kind team. While I’m still seeking what is next for TFH, a few things are becoming clear—one of which is to continue its newsletter. As I pondered how I might carry The Fallow House forward, as well as my personal offerings, I wondered about bringing the two together, making them separate entities and yet still somehow synonymous. Ultimately, I decided on a merge between The Black Letter and The Fallow House.
It is with excitement, wonder, and a certain kind of certitude that I introduce you to The Fallow Letter. In the spirit of all things fallow, this weekly newsletter will bring a curation of themed inspiration and invitational prompts. Through this newsletter, I’ll speak into the seasonality of creativity and life—poetically, practically, and in my signature style of writing.
The Fallow Letter on Fridays
Along with the name change, I’m also changing the publication day and time of The Fallow Letter. I’ve long since released my letters on early Saturday mornings, slipping into your inboxes and offering contemplative readings as you head into your weekend. Saturdays are sacred, and I always wanted to be a part of helping cultivate that. Still, I want the sacredness of Saturday to remain without obligation. I’ve also been longing to not just show up in time for your weekend, but to make the showing up easy for you, too. So, going forward I’ll be sending The Fallow Letter out on Fridays at 10 a.m. ET. This will allow me to meet you just in time for the weekend, but it will also give you space and time to reply, share, and write back. Which brings me to my next point.
New desk hours.
I’ve long since had the longing to hold space with my readers through some sort of office hours. I’ve done this in the recent past with Creative Hour, as hosted by The Fallow House, and also loosely in the times I’ve tried to hang around for a while to answer emails after publishing newsletters. Sending The Fallow Letter out on Fridays at 10 a.m. ET. gives me the chance to create a window of promised presence (which, I think is a rare and precious thing in this digital day and age). Beginning today, I will be holding weekly Desk Hours on Fridays from 10-11 a.m. ET, at which time I will respond to replies and emails, and venture out to read the work of others. It is my hope that this version of “office hours” fosters conversation and community in a way that feels both homely and writerly.
I’m selling signed books.
If you don’t already know, I’m moving! Please help lighten my load and purchase a signed copy of The Matter of Little Losses. Limited quantity. Get one for yourself, and one for a friend!
DESK HOURS
Meet me in the comments.
Fridays at 10-11 a.m. ET
If you enjoy The Fallow Letter, you can support my work by becoming a paid subscriber. You can also read and review my books, Let There Be Art and The Matter of Little Losses. Please share this newsletter with a friend.
Michael McIntyre. “The pure memory has no date. It has a season.” Extravagant Creation, August 12, 1012, https://extravagantcreation.wordpress.com/2012/08/12/the-pure-memory-has-no-date-it-has-a-season/. Accessed June 4, 2024.
Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Beacon Press, 1969.
Inspired by concepts noted in this article. Helin, J., Dahl, M., & Guillet de Monthoux, P. (2021). The power of daydreaming: the aesthetic act of a new beginning. Culture and Organization, 28(1), 64–78. https://doi.org/10.1080/14759551.2021.1986505
I'm this kind, too—keeping one foot in the present while exploring and expounding on memories from the past. A long drive with the windows down, a moment in the woods surrounded by life (but not that of the human variety), looking out my bedroom window to the maple tree home the birds reside in, walking among a crowd while buildings soar above me. . . somehow they each keep me grounded while "being" somewhere else entirely in my mind. I am building and recreating in ways that feel more like choice than regret. In my own writing projects lately, I've been venturing into the honoring of this beautiful skill of day-dreaming for the sake of surviving as it moves into a more embodied sense of day-dreaming for the sake of thriving. I am very eager to learn more of Bachelard and his work. Thanks for sharing him with us.
Rachel, I look forward to exploring rêverie this summer. So interesting. I remember when I was a teen thinking I had a problem with daydreaming and thought I had to give it. I do like to daydream though abd love the concept of how it goes with our imaginations.