beauty & the beast

(i'm the beast)

While walking through a forest of tall, thin trees with gold and red leaves, I thought about what I was going to post on Instagram later. That morning, I finished reading a novel that I loved and was excited to post about because I felt like it might impress this cool bookseller that follows me. Then my years of mindfulness practice made itself useful—I noticed the thought, felt deep shame & disgust in myself, and vowed to stop thinking about Instagram while in a gorgeous autumnal locale. I looked up at the tree tops, their rust-colored dance in the cool breeze, and I thought about what a perfect Instagram story they’d make.

I noticed my thoughts and berated myself again. Why was I being such a dumb bitch?? Peter took out his camera and photographed some trees while I looked up at the colors once more. I wanted to be mindful and present. I wanted to take in the miracle of nature. And I actually sort of did. I observed and I witnessed. I inhaled and exhaled. I craned my head up and thought, “Wow, that is so, so beautiful.”

And then I was like…soooo what do I do now?

I felt capable of noticing something beautiful and enjoying it, but I didn’t understand what came after that. Did I just…stand there? Keep looking? Have interesting observations?? Then walk away? And do it again??? Then go home?? And live my life??????

I realized that I have grown to understand beauty through the framework of sharing it. I see something beautiful and while enjoying it, I think, how can I capture this and share my pleasure with someone else? This is human. It’s normal to want to connect with others. But it’s also the product of my addiction to social media. It’s trained me to associate beauty and pleasure with posting. Then of course, there’s the writing piece, the way that, since starting dear diary, I am now also filtering all my thoughts and experiences into categories: interesting enough to write about, not interesting enough to write about. What clever observations do I have that would really make a splash on substack? What will the hot nyc & london-based twenty-somethings think? Will the eldest daughters like me????

I snapped a few photos of the trees because they were really just too tempting, and I did it in 16:9 frame so it’d fit Instagram stories perfectly. Sure, maybe I don’t know how to appreciate beauty for the sake of itself, but at least I am aware of that. For some reason my awareness gave me permission to submit to it. On our way back from the woods, I took a video of the green/red/orange/yellow tree-lined streets, and then I took another one, then another one. I put my phone down and said, “Wow,” to Peter a few times, affirming my ability to enjoy beautiful things in the present moment. Then at home I went through the videos and picked the best one and posted it, along with a few shots of the trees.

I don’t have a ton of followers, but you know. People usually respond to my stories. But this time, they didn’t. Or like, very very few people did, way less than usual. And because it was such a dramatic difference, I felt kind of bad. Like, maybe that was a dumb thing to post or something.

I’d taken this beautiful moment in the forest and enjoyed it through the framework of the fantasy of sharing it. Then upon sharing it, I felt a sense of pain. Did I make the beautiful moment less beautiful?

Sometimes the feeling of embarrassment that comes from an underperforming post spurs me to post more. Instead of being like, “hey, you shared something beautiful and then the lovely feeling of that beautiful moment was tarnished by the excessive concern about what others are thinking of you,” I’m like, “You should just post something else that’s better and that’ll get people to engage more and THEN YOU WILL FEEL GOOD!” So I posted a cozy photo of my first mug of yummy bone broth after simmering it on the stove for 12 hours the day before. And I waited for all my friends to knock down the door of my DMs, oohing and ahhing at me.

When I tell you…lmao. NO ONE liked this post. Like literally just Peter did. (Peter is not no one but is a very generous liker lol plus im MARRIED TO PETER ok it doesnt count). So then I was kinda spiraling about how I’m a big dumb idiot who should never post anything about my life because no one cares (a slight overreaction). I saw the flaw in this of course and I reflected on my earlier thoughts about beauty and pleasure. Again, I took this moment of joy—a hard-earned, lovely mug of broth on a chilly fall morning—and I soured it. The sharing soured it.

Sometimes I wonder what I even want out of sharing. A few years ago I barely posted anything on social media, but now I do often. I have a goal of selling a book and I want to build an audience for that. If I have a thought or experience that’s interesting or funny, I like to share it because it feels like an authentic expression of myself. It feels like owning my ideas and my personality in a way that I have historically been too shy to do. It keeps me in contact with people from previous walks of life that I certainly would have lost touch with if I didn’t post.

But I wonder if I’m doing it right. When it steals my joy, when it reduces the intensity of my pleasure, it’s of course not worth it. But it’s hard to predict when that will happen, and I hate the fact that the joy-stealing is so dependent on other people’s reactions.

I also am, frankly, disturbed that I struggle so much to just let the beauty of an experience be enough. Like, I think it really is about staring at the tree and savoring the nice feelings that engenders, and then moving forward. The warmth of the moment becomes a part of the tapestry of experiences I had that day. It will maybe be a moment I remember, maybe not. When I post, I am clinging. I am hanging on to a beautiful moment because somehow it feels more valuable if I preserve it, or if I think about it, if I comment on it or share it.

But I want to just be with the beauty. I want the fleeting moment of pleasure to be enough for me.

For a few days, I resisted posting an Instagram story of the novel I was thinking about on my hike. Then I gave in. I held it up against our overstuffed bookshelf, creating a background of other titles that would also potentially impress the cool bookseller. Hours passed. And then he messaged me: “Yesss this book is so good!”

When I got the notification, I wish I didn’t audibly say, “YES!” and send a screenshot of the DM to Peter. I wish it didn’t remind me how good validation and attention feel. I wish I didn’t suddenly care less about just being with the beauty of a pleasurable moment.

Outside my window, a tree with sunburst leaves probably rustled in the wind.

I looked at my phone.

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+ Reading: Bookseller-approved book is called My Lesbian Novel by Renee Gladman. It made me think about writing and storytelling in a new way. A novel can be whatever we want!!!

+ Writing: Took a few days off working on my manuscript—at first, because I didn’t think anything mattered and I wanted to quit writing forever, then like three days passed and I wrote a little again, then my bestie came to visit so I took another few days off. Will I write today or will I abandon my dreams in favor of a simple yet surprisingly unsatisfying life of broth-making and leaf-looking? WE’LL SEEEEE!! current word count is 62,155 :) (: