The Sky is Not Falling
field notes from book tour
Some affirmations from The Wild Why that I have been relying on as I make my way across the country on book tour:
· Life doesn’t stand still, but you can stand still in it.
· You are special, just as everyone is special. Know that.
· Look at what you’ve created and take a bow!
There have been times in my life when I feel like Chicken Little. Like the sky is falling.
The sky is falling, and I’m running around trying to hold it up or escape from it or hide from it. Unlike Chicken Little though, who told all of his feathered friends that the sky was falling, and they believed him, and followed him, and ended up getting eaten by a fox who promised a safe refuge…I tend to go it alone. Running all over doing everything I can to hold up “the sky” where it’s threatening to come undone and crash to the ground…and telling myself that I actually can pull it off if I just outsmart it, or go faster than it, or get stronger than it. I seem to do a decent (and delusional) job at keeping it in place. But still I’m worried. Still I keep a constant eye on “the sky” because there it goes again…trying to fall.
And finally, when I find myself panting and sweating and falling to the ground, the ground that could fall too, especially if the sky fell on it…I stop and wonder: just who do I think I am that I can keep the sky from falling, much less the ground? What would happen if I stopped trying to hold everything in place?
And that’s when I know I need to heed my own advice: Life doesn’t stand still, but you can stand still in it.
I have been on book tour for the last month in honor of my new release: The Wild Why: Stories and Teachings to Uncover Your Wonder. That exact quote is in it, toward the end when I’m learning how to find my wonder again after the triage of post-divorce reinvention and the guttingly counter-intuitive pain (for me) of empty nest. Life doesn’t stand still, but you can stand still in it. And sometimes, that’s the most important thing we can do for your own well-being.
Easier when you live in Montana and wander around in the woods and sit on tree stumps and look into an endless sky that promises that it won’t fall because that’s the mountain’s job. Maybe not so easy when you’re running to catch planes, trains, and automobiles with a suitcase full of dirty clothes and clean books just in case the events run out.
So I suspect that when I took a fall, on day two of book tour in New York City, it was my own message that took me down, never mind the sky.
Because that’s how it felt. Like it literally tripped me. Broad daylight. No one near me at all. Smooth sidewalk. In good, sturdy boots that I’d deliberately broken in to avoid blisters. Low heel. The boots I planned to wear to every single event along the way. The day I reserved to bum around in this city that I love, nowhere to go, a few bookstores and cafes and galleries I wanted to visit, a few friends to see, not over-planned. Just a gorgeous spring day…of walking…pondering my book and its message…excited to be its messenger now that it was in the world…fruit trees a-bloom…sun on my face…to ground myself for …BAM. Literally…the ground. Left ankle rolled, and down I went, blew a knee-hole in one of the two pairs of black pants I’d packed and planned on rationing, which meant that now there was blood dripping off that knee. And I sat on the sidewalk for a beat like a little girl, as if the playground monitor was going to come over and dust me off. But then realized: Must get up immediately. Shake it off. Walk it out. So I went to my good knee, and then to my feet. And came up lame.
A young woman was walking toward me, talking on her phone. I was embarrassed. Maybe she hadn’t seen me bite it. But part of me hoped she had, and would stop and offer some help, so that I could have proof that as a collective, we are still good. She removed her ear buds and said, “Oh my God, are you okay???” So there is goodness in the world. “I’m fine,” I lied. “But thank you. May someone be kind to you today.” She smiled and went on her way.
But after that, no bookstores, cafes, and galleries in my future. Now a month-long book tour with a limp in my future instead. Sprained ankle. Back to hotel. Ice bucket. A date with a view of a brick wall. Not happy.
But here’s what that sprained ankle has given to me every waking moment along the way and I’m only halfway through: Again, as if my book’s message itself tripped me to ensure I could be a proper messenger, it’s forced me to go slowly. It’s forced me to ask for help. It’s forced me to breathe past my claustrophobia and take the dread elevator instead of climbing flights of stairs. It’s forced me not to overbook my down time. It’s let me sleep in and take baths and look out windows instead of racing around trying to soak up cities that I love, especially given where I live. But it’s also gotten to me. Physical pain gets to you. Especially when you need to be independent, capable, in a leadership position, and on the go far from home.
So a few nights in, I called someone I love and trust with my whole heart and I asked: “Do you have time for a long download? I need to process what it takes to be on the road if I’m going to stay healthy for a whole cross-country, month-long trek, and keep it real. I sprained my ankle and it’s breaking me down emotionally a bit. And I can’t have that.”
(I’m going to switch to the present tense because, the book is about…well…being present.)
“Yes,” he says. He’s the best listener I know.
“Well I might have forgotten how to do this book tour thing, alignment-wise. My first ones were baptism-by-fire and I jumped right into the flames. I was so hungry to finally be a published author and I had endless energy for it, even though I had to answer a lot of hard questions and for a long time. Six years because it rolled out in eight countries.” Rolled out makes me think of my ankle and I adjust it in the ice bucket. I feel a fist in my throat and swallow past it. I can’t afford to cry. I have an early morning live radio gig.
“That book helped a lot of people. But it was a bear to promote because the entry point was a marital crisis of great rejection. And while the book ends with the marriage up for air, I eventually needed to end it. Memoir takes beyond-guts to write, and even more guts to have in the world. But this book, The Wild Why…this isn’t a memoir. It has a strong, story-forward structure, but it’s a teaching book. To help people find their true self-expression and heal their wounds around it. I’ve been so excited to share it with people on the road. And I’m trying not to act like I’m in physical pain. But I also am trying not to act at all. I just want to stay real, and open, and full of wonder. I’m so bummed that I screwed up my ankle! It’s making it really hard.”
Now I start feeling grief and though I fight it, the tears come. “And then the last book tour got killed halfway through, thanks to COVID. And it was my ultimate and longest lived dream: to publish a novel. I love that novel. Willa’s Grove. I loved not being the main character in it. I miss Willa and her women. I feel like she didn’t get a fair shake.”
“It still became a best-seller, Laura.”
“Yeah. I guess. But I really wanted to take her cross-country and for a long time. That book took me years to write. Those characters are my soul sisters. I keep picturing them in the audience at my readings. It helps. Even though Willa would tell me to ask for a chair on the stage to elevate my foot. No way. Gotta stay professional. Especially because in all of these events it’s critical that I expose my oldest inner wound. I don’t need to show up with an outer wound on top of it.”
He knows what that inner wound is. And he’s not the type to judge me for it. He waits for it.
“I think this tour is triggering my oldest self-sabotaging story: I talk too much. I’m too loud. I’m too sensitive. I’m too dramatic. That old racket.
Somehow I guess being in this physical pain, and it’s pretty extreme…is a blessing of sorts. Because it’s keeping me very vulnerable. I mean, it’s obvious that I’m injured. I’m limping. I have to shove my foot into that boot every day. It actually protects it. And I’m working it into my intro at each event. I always say, The writer’s ego never gets to explode. And just when it’s about to…bam. Life lifes. It gets a laugh at least. I mean…vulnerability in self-expression is a big part of my book’s message. So I might as well model it. Sorry. I’m venting.”
“Keep talking. It’s not too much. Not for me. I like hearing you vent. I’m happy that you feel so safe with me. This is your big tour and you’ve worked so hard on this book and this is your victory lap. And you’re in pain. It’s all totally understandable.”
May we all have someone who listens with their heart, not just their ears.
“Thank you. I have worked hard. Really hard. I guess it’s just that: This is the most vulnerable I have ever been on the page. The book goes straight into my deepest and oldest wounds around self-expression. And the whole book, while wonder is the entry point and the reason for writing it, is really about how to find your true self-expression. So all of those people out there on the road—I want to help them with this book, especially if they have wounds in the way they express or don’t express themselves. I mean most every event has been packed so far…and it's not like a wedding when you know who’s going to be there. It’s like a parade of your life. Like This is Your Life. Family. Friends of family. Friends. Friends of friends. Readers. Friends of readers. Book clubs. Fans. Bookstore people. Alums of my writing retreats and their friends and family. If I can keep it together on this tour, my book stands the chance of helping a lot of people! I’m weirdly afraid of falling again, truth be told. I’d be so heartbroken if I had to end another book tour before it’s even really begun.”
The tears come faster now, which, in this case, means I’m in my truth. They are truth moving through me.
And I need to speak my truth. The book calls for us to share our truth in stories but with the right people. This is the right person.
“It’s been such an honor that people are coming out to hear me read and buy books, especially in this worried world. But I mean…it’s a lot. I hear a lot of sad and scared stories. I might be too sensitive for it. Especially with an injury. I know I can do it. But I’m…a bit scared.” The tears choke again and I try to breathe past them because I need to get this out if I’m going to make it for another month on the road.
“What are you scared of? You’re doing a great job! You’re getting great reviews!”
“I just want to stay open, you know? Playful. Loving. Kind. In a place of wonder. Not guarded. But there’s so much to feel out there. Not just at the readings. Those are actually my comfort zone for the most part. It’s in the airports and hotels and city streets. There’s so much out there that I don’t have to feel or process living in the woods of Montana. And I’m afraid that I’ll shut down entirely and go rote to protect myself. Because then what’s the point? The book is about recovering your wonder. And I don’t mean to complain, but my ankle is making it a real challenge to maneuver it all. I couldn’t even get my suitcase on the train from Connecticut to Boston this morning. I had to ask for help.”
“Maybe this is an opportunity to learn how to ask for help. Especially while you’re helping others.”
“Thank you. But I’m not so sure. The guy wasn’t exactly kind about it.”
We’re silent for a moment.
“There’s more to it though. It’s not just this stupid ankle thing. It’s that I’ve been so grounded for this tour. I’ve been taking such good care of myself in anticipation of it. But with this turn of events, I feel like I might have to put my guard up to manage it all. I don’t want to have my guard up. I don’t want to act my way through this. This book requires me to be open and accessible. I know how to shake hands or hug and read from my book and have meaningful moments with people as I sign their books. I know how to be in teacher mode when I answer questions. But this tour requires something that is different from giving a speech or teaching or leading a retreat or wandering around in the woods in Montana. It requires that I stay soft. That I stay in my wonder. And wonder feels like it needs to be soft. Maybe too soft for the road. And I didn’t prepare for that.”
Now I hold back the big tears, but they spew anyway.
“Thank you for listening to this…”
“Of course. Keep going.”
“And I think that’s because I’ve surprised myself as I see this book giving its gift to people. I love that by my definition wonder is curiosity and awe mixed together. But what I’m seeing is that people are all set with their curiosity. Hey Google and all that. But it’s awe that’s the wound. We don’t know how to stop in awe. And it’s hurting us. So I’m really trying to deliver that as the central message of the book. Which is surprising me. I like this surprise. But again…this ankle thing sucks. I literally feel like I got tripped. Maybe it was some sort of dark force that is the enemy of awe, and it doesn’t want me to deliver the medicine of this book. It just wants me to go go go instead of take pause and be in awe. Or maybe I was looking at the blooming fruit trees when I turfed it in NYC. Maybe my feet were moving too fast for my awe’s own good.”
I pause because I should leave this to my journal. He’s listened enough to me. And I’m not really a sympathetic character. I mean, I’m an author living her dream on book tour. I’m still able-bodied for the most part. I had a cake the shape of a book with its cover on the top at my launch in a beautiful brownstone in the West Village. Dear friends flew in for it. We sold every single book and we ordered 100.
“I know. I’m being ridiculous. I just rolled my ankle. That’s all. A lot worse things could have happened. At least there’s not a global pandemic this time…”
More tears. More swallowing and breathing through them. “Thank you for being such a good listener. I cannot be a puddle like this at the end of each night! I need to keep a calm, self-abiding, countenance. And a deep confidence in this book’s healing salve in this worried world. I feel like it’s easier to be confident when I feel good about myself. And I’m not so sure I feel good about myself. I mean…why on earth did I just turf it for no reason, in broad daylight?”
“You’re being pretty hard on yourself. Ankles roll. Shit happens. You’re handling it with grace. Go easy on yourself.”
Things take a turn and I start to feel like I’m going to spiral in a vortex of self vs. self sabotage.
Sabotage made out of a very old fear that I’ve thought I’ve shed. But maybe not. Because now it all spills out, words, tears, snot:
“The truth is: I feel like I’m leaving a bit of my soul with me wherever I go. I can’t go on to the next event without processing the last one. The questions. My answers. Did they help? Did I look into people’s eyes, even when I was uncomfortable. That woman that I sort of knew in college. That woman that I really knew in college and have lost touch with and feel guilty about it. That woman nodding and crying in the front row wishing she was in the back row and me worrying that she feels trapped. That I should somehow try to help her escape into the night air. And I lose my place in my reading and pretend that it’s an intended pause. And then pause the same way in the next sentence. And remember to look up even though I just want to stay safe, eyes being the windows to the soul, looking at the soul-windows of the words I have worked so hard to get just right on those pages for so long. But I know I must look up to connect. Not those fake obligatory look-ups where the speaker is really looking at no one, but a look-up that counts. Where you look at someone, really look at them, and they smile or nod or look away because they’ve felt seen and they’re not used to being seen. Maybe that’s why they came, and maybe they didn’t even know it until that moment when you looked into their eyes, your book’s heart language coming out of your mouth. So you have to look up even though you don’t want to look up because what if the person you look at is checking their watch, or their phone, or coughing or scowling or has their arms crossed in front of them. You’re sure the people with their arms crossed in front of them are going to dart out mid-reading because they loathe what you are saying so vehemently.”
I try to pause but more spills out.
“But still you look up. It’s part of the gig. And you see that the person with the arms in front of them is wiping tears off their cheeks. And darn it if that’s not the person whose hand shoots up first during the Q&A and tells you that their heart is currently breaking and they know that they need their wonder back. Their life depends on it. And they just can’t believe that it’s at all possible. Maybe they’re a writer and they just got their tenth rejection in ten days. And you want to go to them and put your hand on their forehead like a loving mother, but that’s not likely acceptable behavior since you’ve never seen them before in your life. But then they say that they are in fact a writer and could wallpaper their office in rejection letters and you get tears in your eyes, and go over and put your hand on their knee because at least that’s something, and say Oh, writer sister. I feel you. Me too. Just keep writing. No matter what. You have to believe that your work will find its way. And you lie in the hotel room later that night staring at the light from the smoke detector because you’ve made the room as dark as possible with the plastic curtains, like that little green light is the eye of an angel. And you ask it, Did I help that woman? Do I believe what I told her? Do I believe that this book will find its way?
“And they say, as I’m signing their book, with shame in their eyes, but longing too: I know I know. I’m not special. But I’m in pain. And it’s just a phrase that’s thrown around that some motivational speaker coined and which people have believed, and it’s so wrong. Of course they’re special.”
Now I’m not crying. Now I’m hot and red-faced. But I know I’m talking too much and that’s the childhood wound so I’m all kinds of confused about where to go next. I take my foot out of the ice bucket because now it’s numb and I think of breaking into the arnica salve that I made and brought as gifts for my conversation partners across the US, but no. That’s for them.
“And so I look at those people and I draw from a line from my book which I believe deeply: You are special, just as everyone is special. Know that. Of course you are special. Don’t believe that you’re not special for one more second. No two humans, no two creatures, no two trees or flowers are the same. We are all in this life together in our unique ways. Honor your special-ness. Own it. No one is like you in the whole wide wonder-full world. It’s time to get your wonder back. This book will help.
“And I sign their book, “Stay wonder-full! Love, Laura.” Because why wouldn’t I? What’s that extra bit of love going to take from me? As long as I keep believing that there’s no end to our ability to love. Loving begets more loving.”
I sigh loudly in his ear. I might talk too much as a rule, but it’s the only way, besides writing, that I know how to get through my pain and into my truth. It’s always been that way.
He knows it and says, “You are just at the beginning of this tour. You’re going to get into a rhythm and it’s going to be full of beautiful moments like this. People need this book. You just have to believe the same thing you tell other people. It will find the people that need it. You can’t worry about the rest. And you’re going to have to ask for help with that ankle. Which I know you don’t like. But can you look at it with wonder? How am I going to get from point A to point B with this ankle? Can you look at it with playfulness?” He’s been through true hell in his life and he’s never lost his playfulness. As a coda he drives it home: “I know you can.”
A feeling of levity washes over me.
“You are so right. Wonder is the best teacher I know, especially in the way of playfulness. And the best healing salve. And maybe this bum ankle is too. Though I really want to break into that arnica.”
He laughs. He has a great laugh. It’s full of wonder. “And wonder is the way to keep it real, in the coast-to-coast-and-in-between. It’s actually not possible to leave part of your soul behind. Your soul is part of you. It goes with you no matter what. Trust it. Trust your book. Trust yourself. Maybe even trust your ankle. It needs you to go slowly. And that’s a big part of your book’s message.”
“You’re right. Thank you for being such an excellent listener. There’s a line in my book that comes from a kind inner voice. And I hope…that when I am at my last event in a month, I will be able to fully embrace these words. It took me writing the book to discover that my kind voice is wonder itself. Here are those words: Look at what you’ve created and take a bow!
“And you can do it in pain. And you can do it with a limp. And you can do it with asking for help. And you can do it all with wonder.”
May we all have a friend like this.
I hope to see you out on the road. And if you have arnica salve on you…feel free to pass it to the front row.
Yours in wonder,
Laura
Texas Book Tour
May 14, 6:00, Dallas: Interabang books
May 16, 6:00, San Antonio: Nowhere Books with Gemini Ink and the author Naomi Shihab Nye
Summer Tour to come…
Haven Writing Retreats: Now booking my fall retreats
And…the best way I know to activate your wonder and find your true self-expression is at a Haven Writing Retreat in Montana. Join me, no matter where you are along your writing path, this fall:
September 3 – 7
October 15 – 19
October 29 – November 2
You do not have to be a writer to come to Haven. Just a seeker. For more info and to set up an informational phone call with me, please email: info@lauramunson.com
I'm so glad you have a big and beautiful heart and your book is already reaching the people who need it. I'm also glad you have a wonderful listener in your life.
Dear :aura. I pre-ordered your book and cannot wait to be able to read it. (I am currently undergoing treatment to save my good eye from macular degeneration). If you have a recording at the library, I may try that first. After reading (in large font) your conversation with your friend, I find much of my barriers are old news that I still struggle with and unfortunately believe. From this day forward I shall concentrate on reminding myself that I am loved, I am creative, I am special.