I wasn’t supposed to write this book.
I wasn’t supposed to rip my heart out and write about all the losses (large and little) that I’ve endured since I was a little girl . . . up until right here, right now.
I was content with Let There Be Art, with letting the world in (and letting words out) only just so.
And then came time to write book number two, and I told my editor all these lofty ideas I had about content and covers, ideas about telling my black-and-white side of the story as a mixed woman, ideas about belonging, yes, of course, because surely every person wants to read a book about belonging. Surely every person is a seeker, looking for stories to help them on their way toward finding their place in the world, in all things.
And then my editor told me the secret of seeking, the real thing that every real person is looking and longing for right here, right now. So I shelved that book about belonging, perhaps another story for another time, and instead I stepped into the long, dark rabbit hole of grief.
On December 29, 2022, I sat in front of my cheval mirror, lost and lonely eyes staring back at me, sage burning in the background. And, I know, it sounds crazy and completely wild but, I promise you, I traveled through time that day. Went back some decades. Saw scenes play out like cut strips of film, my whole life panning in and out and right before me.
I wonder if you know the secret of time travel like I do. Like I can sit here, unbudging on a bare rug, looking strained into a framed sheet of silver-backed glass and going back years, some decades back, to that one cruel moment when life deeply broke me.
A swell of ocean pools in my eyes. I lean in close to the mirror and my memory takes me there, to that room with a casket and one hundred gawking, teary eyes. Someone, I can’t remember who, motions for me to come. They want to cradle me from crumbling, want to hold me as I hold my breath. I am nine years old and crying because I do not yet know how to share air with a lifeless body unbreathing before me.
The Matter of Little Losses, p. 23
How naive I was, when I first began writing The Matter of Little Losses.
I thought I’d simply tell stories, write poems, make a book so beautiful, so bound to be beloved by all.
And then the sage kept burning, kept expiring that hazy, twisted smoke of a dance. And then memories kept flashing, and words kept pouring, and tears kept forming, and stories, well, they were no longer just stories.
Stories became portals of pain
through which I could see and sense
the grief of others.
I stumbled upon this sacred secret, this one thing that will always be true, so long as we live and love and walk on the earth. That is, every one of us, every person, is looking and longing for a way through loss.
Yes, of course, we want to read books about belonging. But deeply? Truly? We want to be touched in the places that hurt and hide within. Deeply, truly—and perhaps even secretly—we want and wish and wait for someone to tell us what it is that we greatly fear and know we need to face. That is,
We fear love,
because we fear loss. And,
We fear loss,
because we fear losing what we love.
We cradle grief because we care.
The Matter of Little Losses, p. 40
I do suppose I wrote a beautiful book. The floral cover is as lovely as the commissioned illustrations inside; the spine as lovely as every line of poetry and prose.
But, deeply, truly—and perhaps even secretly—I rather think I wrote a brave book.
A book that dares to unearth both personal and universal narratives of grief, dares to process pain in real time, right there on the page, through poetry and illustration—both the artful and rhetorical kind.
I wrote about things I’ve only ever seen others dance around about: survivor’s guilt, divorce and loss of love, loss of friendship, loss of home and land, loss of health, loss of innocence, suicide, the loss of children, the changes and losses that come with having children, the loss of faith, the fear of death, and death itself.
In this book, I don’t just let the world in (or let words out) only just so. I’ve written to tell all and I’ve written, hopefully, to touch all, too.
I’ve written to explore and I’ve written to expound. I’ve written about wonder and I’ve written about wounds. I’ve written about love and I’ve written about loss.
Because, that is what writers do.
Writers write about beauty
and what breaks us,
all in the same breath.
And readers? Well, that’s what they really want. Especially right now, on the sixth of the first month of this new year. I really do think, there is a whole world of us wanting to read about beauty and what breaks us. Wanting to brave grief, and wanting to become because of it.
If that’s you, then this book is for you.
With trembling, with trepidation, and with tenacious hope in the truth about grief and God and all that is irrevocably good in the world, I am thrilled to announce that The Matter of Little Losses is officially available for preorder.
This beautiful, brave book releases on February 6, 2024—exactly one month from today. I hope it is the one book I hope you read this year. I hope to add it to your Goodreads TBR right here, right now.
I hope, and humbly ask, that you share about this book—on your socials, in your sacred circles of friends and family. You can re-share this Substack, and you can use any of these photos, so long as you credit me as the photographer.
Preorders, as you may or may not know, prove to publishers (and places like Amazon) that a book really is needed and really does matter. So, please—preorder, preorder, preorder.
Let’s show the world that The Matter of Little Losses really does matter.Can’t wait for you all to hold this beautiful book.
As I started reading this book, I instantly felt the need to dive in deeply. I wanted to close myself off from the world, perhaps tuck myself into a B&B, with a constant supply of hot tea, to read straight through and let myself feel all the feels. That is my goal, prior to the release of the book in February. To be continued... In the meantime, thank you, Rachel, for this Brave Book. ❤️🩹
It warms my heart to know that this book warms your heart. To think, these little old words make you want to curl up and tuck in with tea and all that comforts. Honored, Judy, that you would read and support this book. Eager to hear the continuation. Much much love.