Is this the hidden catalyst of personal growth?
On discomfort and momentum.
Dear friend,
How do we strike a balance between comfort and discomfort? How do we know when to take good care, and when to push ourselves over the edge?
Today, I can tell you that I’m covered in 46 bites—three from spiders, the rest most likely mosquitos. My legs are thrashed with sores from my too-big rubber boots and my clothes have been damp for six days, hanging limp on the line. Some have started to sprout furry green and white mold, which I wipe in vain with vinegar.
There’s no refrigeration up here, so we take what we can get. I’m eating out of the same never-ending pot of beans every day, reheated morning and night. Besides that—pasta, rice, eggs, and when I’m lucky, some papaya cut straight from the tree.
Yesterday while changing my sheets, a frog leapt out from under my bed, followed by a thin but lively snake, its head raised inches off the ground into attack position. The two clambered around my bare feet as I yelped in surprise.
I haven’t been dry in days and my passport is wrinkly enough to warrant 24 hours submerged in dry rice. Last night, a giant paca—a sort of jungle guinea pig—snuck into my food bin and gnawed through the styrofoam of my last container of ramen.
And yet I am filled with a simple contentment that could bring me to my knees again and again.
I’m warm, fed, clean and just dry enough, surrounded by wonderful people here on Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula—home to 2.5% of our planet’s biodiversity on a mere 0.00000085% of the earth’s total surface area.
Each day I traipse through the jungle looking for spider monkeys, macaws, toucans, leafcutter ants, scorpion spiders, anteaters, and capuchin monkeys.
I shed my clothes to splash under thunderous waterfalls and laugh when I fall climbing a vine down a wet rock face.
The beans always taste amazing, even though I eat them for every meal. I mop them up with hunks of soft bread, hardly believing my luck.
I fall asleep in an exhausted, damp haze between 8 and 9 pm every night, then wake to the parrots cawing at the sun and howler monkeys grumbling back and forth over my head.
I read in the hammock while someone plays the ukulele, write and do yoga on the balcony while the rain pours in the afternoon. I brave the hike down the mountain and ford across the El Tigre river to do laundry, check my email, and pick up supplies every few days.
Over the last couple of years, I’ve become a bit of a princess about my working conditions. I have a militant morning routine. A standing desk and a mug warmer. Plenty of sunshine breaks, and a foot massager as a treat after a few hours of writing.
I knew when I decided to drop most of my freelance client work earlier this year that I’d have to shed a lot of this. To par back my nitpicky habits and learn to once again thrive in more basic circumstances.
This newsletter used to take me four hours to write from that standing desk as I sipped coffee heated from my trusty mug warmer.
The last two weeks I’ve spent just under an hour pouring it onto the page by hand as stingless bees waft around my face. I then hike down the mountain and type it up from my new standing desk—a crate on top of a freezer in a musty storeroom where the bats periodically fly from one corner to another, missing my head by inches.
This has forced me to notice all the ways in which comfort has slowly become cover for stagnation.
Discomfort is, obviously and inherently, not very pleasant. But I have found that in healthy doses, it always creates momentum. Ancient patterns I’ve let calcify over months, years of repetition are now cracking apart and slipping away.
And in their place, a new understanding.
Maybe everything I’ve wanted to create is already right within reach, and always has been.
Maybe I can continue to open my arms wide to the world—damp from rain and sweat, covered in welts and bites—and continue to learn the truth that what is meant for me will always bloom for me.
Maybe my only job is to compost the spent remnants of my life, clear the fertile space for new growth, and trust the great unfolding.
***
More soon :) Enjoy this week’s input and output!
***The following are three pieces of creative input. Consider them inspiration to refill your creative cup. I encourage you to give your inner artist a sweet treat this week—even when you don’t think you deserve it, even when you’re hesitant to call yourself a creative person.
Quarteto Em Cy by Quarteto Em Cy
brings the vibrant spirit of 70’s Brazilian tropicália to life with lush harmonies and irresistible rhythms. The quartet of sisters (Cybele, Cylene, Cynara and Cyva) weaves together influences of bossa nova, samba, and MPB, creating a sonic journey worth taking.
Take a taste: the enchanting vocals in Tudo Que Voce Podia Ser and the rhythmic playfulness in Cantoria are standout tracks that capture the essence of this remarkable album.
***
Talking about love (and not talking about it) by
dives deep into the intricate dance of love, longing, and the societal narratives that shape our romantic lives. Wilson weaves a poignant narrative that juxtaposes the dreamy ideals of love with the harsh realities of modern dating, all while reflecting on the persistent yet unspoken yearning that underpins our interactions.
Take a taste: "You sat through all the painstaking small talk, looked beautiful for guys who didn’t give a damn, tried a singles’ night where all the men were old and ugly and socially inept. You stayed hopeful. Now, he gives you flowers in our doorway as I duck out of the way. I’m trying to pay attention because you want me to write a poem for your wedding, and it might be with him.”
***
The Marginalian by
is a treasure trove of wisdom—blending literature, science, art, and philosophy into a beautifully curated exploration of the human experience. Popova’s reflections on timeless ideas and remarkable minds invite readers to ponder life's deepest questions and revel in the beauty of intellectual curiosity.
Take a taste: one of my favorites is Popova’s thoughtful write-up on Robin Wall-Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss: “The Magic of Moss and What It Teaches Us About the Art of Attentiveness to Life at All Scales.”
***The following are two ideas for creative output. Consider them as prompts for creative living in action. Because you have every right to get out there, practice your craft, engage your innate human creativity, and have a fuckin’ good time doing it.
Press local flowers
This week, I invite you to slow down and savor nature's fleeting moments by pressing flowers.
On your next walk, pick a few buds that catch your eye—maybe a wildflower by the roadside or a colorful petal in your garden. Place them between the pages of a heavy book, and let time and pressure do the rest.
By the end of the week, you'll have a lovely keepsake, a small reminder of the beauty you found. Use your pressed flowers to make bookmarks, decorate your journal, or create a little piece of art for your wall.
***
Bird watch with the Merlin app
This week, treat yourself to an artist date with your elderly neighbor’s favorite app, Merlin bird ID.
Head to a park, forest, or your backyard. Open the app and let it guide you in identifying the birds you see. Listen to their songs, watch their movements, and notice the colors and patterns of their feathers. Bring along a sketchbook or camera. Capture what you see, or simply take it all in.
That’s all for now, friend.
Talk soon,
Katie
P.S. If you missed the announcement, the waitlist is now open for Itty Bitty Art Club! A month-long collaborative project to help you get back in touch with your creative practice via 30 teeny weeny creative prompts that can be used to inspire any form of art-making, whether you’re a poet, quilter, singer, chef, dancer, whatever. We start in July, you can sign up for the waitlist here!
Thank you for the mention ❤️