SOMETHING SUPER IMPORTANT AT THE END OF THIS EMAIL
But in case you can’t wait that long, here’s the gist:
If you decide to become a paid subscriber between now and February 14 (because that’s Valentine’s Day and it seems like a good way to say I looooooooooooove you), I am going to send you a signed copy of my new poetry chapbook, The Shape I Take. So now would be a real good time to say, “WHY THE HECK NOT, LET’S DO THIS THING!”
But this is not my first dry spell. I’ve eaten crusts to stay alive before, and I did not die. Eventually, I came upon a bowl of warm salty broth to dunk the crusts in, and just like that, the spell was over. A certain richness returned. I ate warm, chewy sourdough again. My belly felt round and satisfied.
Our Daily Bread
Deidre Braley
Give us this day our daily bread though today may be the hardened crust, let it be dipped in a little broth to rebound delicious what was formerly just barely fit for the birds and if it's the tang of sourdough, supple between our teeth, let us eat our fill so that we remember the feel of round heavy bellies like phantom limbs that whisper of bounty when the bread goes dry again.
I had a creative dry spell this week.
If you’ve never experienced this particular form of agony, this is how I would explain it: Do you remember being in middle school and wanting to be one of the popular kids? Except the more you tried to be popular (i.e. wearing skateboard shoes even though you didn’t skateboard, or slaving over MSN messenger to score that dance party invite), the less popular you felt?
Well, reaching for profound thoughts during a dry spell is kind of like that. The more you want them, the more elusive they are. Your muse becomes kind of like that boy you always wanted to dance with: he’s pressed up against an eighth grader while you’re circling around Stairway to Heaven with the boy who picks his nose on the bus.
What’s worse, it feels like everyone else is positively blossoming around you. It’s like being in the locker room before gym class and noticing all the other girls got real bras. Meanwhile, you’re still in a woefully flat cami from Aeropostale. [And it doesn’t even have lace because your mother said that’s “too grown up.”]
The point is, when you’re in a dry spell, it’s easy to backslide all the way back to seventh grade, where it feels like you’re missing something essential while everyone else enjoys the heck out of it.
Everyone else’s successes feel amplified; yours feel puny and sad.
I have to imagine that we all, at some point, get caught in a dry spell—whether it’s creatively, spiritually, or otherwise. One of the worst parts of these spells is that when you’re in the middle of them, it’s really easy to believe that you’ll be stuck there forever. And I can attest that this shift happens fast: last week I was staying up late writing poems and feeling giddy, and this week I was staring into the abyss and wondering if I’d ever write anything worth reading again.
So what do we do, when we find ourselves frantically asking things like:
“Will I ever have a creative thought again?”
“Will I ever sense God’s presence again?”
“Will I ever feel joy again?”
“Will I ever have reason to buy a real bra??” [Sorry, couldn’t help myself.]1
We ask for our daily bread, and trust that even crusts will keep us alive.
Jesus teaches us to ask for our daily bread. This prayer has an implicit “just-enough-ness” to it. Most of us hate this, of course—we are plagued with an eternal orphan mindset, and want to hoard and ingest all that we can, for as long as we can, because we don’t know when the resources will run dry.
I know that’s always my inclination when the gettin’ is good. When I’m feeling creatively hot, I want to sit in my chair and stockpile those ideas, because they could evaporate at any moment, and then where will I be?
I want to slow dance with my muse into the wee hours of the morning, because, by golly, this might be my only chance to hold him close before the DJ plays a fast song and he wanders off for some punch.
But this is not my first dry spell. I’ve eaten crusts to stay alive before, and I did not die. Eventually, I came upon a bowl of warm salty broth to dunk the crusts in, and just like that, the spell was over. A certain richness returned. I ate warm, chewy sourdough again. My belly felt round and satisfied.
So I know that this too will end. My dry spell, and yours. I know that we’d both rather be eating the sourdough right now. I know that it is hard to see others, whose bellies are being contented with thick, warm slices, but we can’t see the hunger they’ve felt in the past, and we can’t predict the grumblings they’ll feel in the future.
The truth is, we’re all just coming in and out of lean seasons. Comparing our bread to others’ is an exhausting practice—and about as fruitful as being in seventh grade, wishing for a bigger bra size. And if we’re going to be surviving on crusts for a while, we’ll need to preserve our energies.
Here are some tips I have for surviving a dry spell:
Pray about it.
[Don’t roll your eyes at me!] Like it or not, God often uses dry spells to teach us something. And when Jesus told his disciples, “I have food to eat that you know nothing about” (John 4:32), he was talking about sustenance from his Father. God can make crusty old bread go an awful long way.
Get off social media.
Do not, do not, do not sign yourself up for this kind of self-induced torture. You’ll see everyone eating their sourdough with thick swathes of butter and you’ll end up feeling like a shadow of your despondent, seventh-grade self. Better to stick to the physical world for a while.
Nourish yourself.
My friend
wrote an awesomely cozy & encouraging article on the topic of wintering and slowing down this week, and it reminded me that dry spells like these are the perfect opportunity to point our faces in the direction of rest. So what we’re trying to do isn’t getting much traction? Well, what a lovely excuse to set it aside for a while and drink some tea, read some fiction, or make some jam squares. There—while we nourish ourselves with the happy art of not trying—may be exactly the place we find a bowl of hot broth waiting, ready to saturate our crusts and end our dry spells, once again.
Hang in there. Middle school ended, and so will this dry spell.
I shared a couple of weeks ago that, starting in February, you will need to have a paid subscription to read most of the posts on The Second Cup. There will still be some tidbits of loveliness for free subscribers, of course, but the majority of the meaty stuff will be for subscribers who are on either a monthly or yearly plan.
I would really appreciate your coming along for that ride. A monthly subscription is $5, and a yearly subscription is $50, and either option would really help support this work happening here at The Second Cup, and our little family, too. It will allow me to continue reserving one day each week to craft this letter and share it with you—in a silent home!
If you DO decide to become a paid subscriber between now and February 14 (because that’s Valentine’s Day and it seems like a good way to say I looooooooooooove you), I am going to send you a signed copy of my new poetry chapbook, The Shape I Take. So now would be a real good time to say, “WHY THE HECK NOT, LET’S DO THIS THING!”
If you love being here but that cost is not feasible, say no more. I get it. Just email me and say, “Can you help with my subscription?” and I will hook you up. I want you here.
If you are someone who wants to donate a subscription for someone else, that would be a super cool way to bless them and me, too. You can do that here:
Did you miss last week’s post? Read it here!
But the answer is yes—and then you’ll regret wishing all those braless years away.
More truth and wisdom. I love it! 🩷
And sometimes the flat-chested season protects from unwanted attention! Haha.