how to disappear

substack//36.

On Wednesday morning, I met my friend E for a walk with the dogs in the arroyo. Between us we have four dogs: three black Labs and a corgi named Wally. We didn’t know what else to do, so we walked and talked about what we were going to do. How could we exist going forward? That day and in the future. That itself presented the most immediate challenges, but the future was deeply troubling, too. What were we to do now?

E said she felt like going into the woods and collecting greenery and doing simple, basic things like building a fire. I wanted to walk for miles and miles until my body became a nub and I vanished.

Neither of us could believe the election results. The night before I’d had a bad feeling and stopped watching the returns on my computer; Steve was in the other room, scrolling through ski bloopers and cat videos. I put on an indie movie. When my lawyer friend texted FUCK to our group chat, I knew we were doomed and went to bed.

“Is retail therapy an option?” I wondered aloud. E and I thought about it. Normally our answer would be yes, but that day it was a solid no. I told her I was going to wear denim overalls all winter. The same pair. I was not going to support the capitalist machine, I declared. It was going to be an overalls winter.

There were spotty patches of snow on the ground, and another storm was forecast for later that day. You could already see the grey smudge of snow clouds on the horizon, rolling east and dulling the sky in a muted wintry light. We walked, encased in numbness. It was too difficult to talk too much about what had happened. We’d suffered a shock. It would take a few days for our brains to catch up.

The experience felt familiar, universal. It was grief. The day spun on around us as though everything was normal. The dogs pranced and tumbled at our feet, digging a soggy tennis ball out of the snow; they didn’t care! People we passed on the trail smiled at us. Didn’t they know? Why did they look so cheerful?

Now that I was going to wear overalls all winter, I needed to become a painter. Writing was out of the question— it felt too trivial and frivolous, and, plus, would there even still be books? How could a brain put two sentences together! Running seemed similarly intolerable—too complicated and striving, effortful. Who had the mojo? The only course of action was to go to the zendo and meditate for hours every day, for so long, and in my blue overalls, that I became the sitting.

E and I reached a small, muddy pond and turned around. I wouldn’t walk myself into oblivion that day, but maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, I could do yoga six hours each day every day forever until eventually I vanished. It’s human nature, during times of extreme stress, the impulse to hide in order to stay safe. If I got small enough, maybe I could slip between the cracks, go unnoticed, escape all harm.

Later that morning, after E and I parted ways, I went over to my friend Natalie’s. She was out of it, too, so I brought my blank sketchbook to make my first drawing. Natalie’s a painter, and she’s written books about it. It’s easy! she insists. You just draw what you see! I sat in her living room chair and drew the table in front of me, just a simple outline. It was surprisingly decent until I added the top, which shot into air at a flyaway angle.

“Oh no, I messed up,” I called to Natalie in the kitchen.

“You can’t mess up in drawing,” came her reply. I understood it in my bones because it’s the same with writing. You just put down what you know and see and feel, no matter how mundane or strange.

We tried to talk about world affairs, but our words all got jumbled. I sat at the counter, drawing a vase with a rose, while she ate toast. The petals were tricky, but I got them down as best I could. The flower, like the whole world, felt fuzzy, blurred together.

“Are we on drugs?” I asked Nat.

We both laughed.

After a while it was time to go home. It was starting to snow, fat wet flakes that clumped on the apple branches when I took Nat’s compost out to the garden. “It’s good,” Natalie said of the snow. “It makes it easier to hide.”

I got into my car to leave. I’d made two drawings. I’d made something visible and plain, something out of nothing. It was the opposite of disappearing, but also sort of the same. I’d dropped my ideas of right and wrong, good and bad, and put down what I saw. I had a whole sketchbook of blank pages—I could draw anything! I could draw it all. Natalie was right.

The next morning I woke up feeling lighter. The immediate shock had burned off, replaced by an unexpected relief. The decision was over. We didn’t have to think about it anymore. There would be other things to think about, of course, and new emotions—anger, disbelief, fear—but this part was over. My brain was still fried, and I still didn’t feel like writing, but one day I would again, and until then I could go for walks and sit very still and draw what I saw and felt, and disappear into my imagination without going anywhere.

So can you.

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~Practice with me at DESERT FLOW CAMP, FEB 12-16, 2025~

Now more than ever, caring for ourselves is caring for each other. Join us at Willow House, just outside Big Bend National Park, too discover your innate creativity and discover daily habits to bring more inspiration, energy, and ease into your life. We’ll spend our days finding flow state through running, writing, hiking, yoga, meditation, community, and the natural world. Joy is not selfish. Creativity is not frivolous. We need art more than ever, and whatever our medium, we are all artists. This is a co-ed camp with limited space; to save your spot, fill out the registration form below or reach out here with any questions. Flow isn’t free of adversity; it’s how we respond and grow from adversity. Hope to see you. Xo

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