I’ve always loved a blank page, an empty shelf, as close to silence as it can get, the number zero, a perfect circle, open field, no edge of horizon, the going into—suspended and hovering.
For me, the everything has always been in the nothing. Since I was a little girl. I arrived with this knowing. Only now is the veil so thin that I can see how I saw the world then, when I was small, how I played, what I was remembering in my pretend and daydream.
We’ve all been remembering
what it is to be alive,
how to get back to the nothing—
simplicity laid bare,
what’s here now, not more or else,
the essence of matter and what matters.
Human tendency is to try hard—to see over the horizon, assemble all the parts, hold the whole.
Yet the whole is in each part.
The essence is always here.
There’s nowhere else for it to be.
This isn’t metaphor. It’s matter.
When you walk into Pleiades by James Turrell, you go into the darkness, you think you’re there to see what’s out there, yet what you find is yourself, how you see, how you want to see, what you (can’t) let yourself un-see and re-see about seeing.
When you listen to John Cage’s musical composition of 4’33” (watch | read | NPR story), you go into what you expect music to be, what you believe about silence, and perhaps—you turn yourself over to it, let yourself relax, shift, surrender to the empty and full.
When you walk a labyrinth there’s a point at which you no longer know the placement of your footsteps, the where and how of your walking turns into something else, more than the space inside the spiral, more than yourself.
The frame matters.
The limit.
A simple frame lets the too big-too daunting-too abstract become accessible.
Look close here… even closer than you thought possible.
Go into this… even deeper, there’s always more to find.
Listen to one flower in a garden.
Watch a child’s pencil move across a page.
Feel yourself pull one thread through fabric.
Trace the arc of your breath.
We notice small to get closer to the essence.
To access the immensity.
This isn’t theory. It’s practice.
Everything we need is here. For community, justice, care, unity, curiosity, love.
When this feels lofty, theoretical, or far away, remember: the distance isn’t fixed, and it takes practice to shift our frames, to notice our noticing, to learn to access the expanse of what’s here.
So, we practice.
We practice especially in the places where the “everything we need” feels far away:
A community of caregivers who want to support children’s play but feel overwhelmed by the density of systems, the noise, and the mess.
A board room searching for meaningful action, yet weighted down by the breadth of options, strategies, timelines.
A studio of creatives longing to express what wants to come through even when it feels too big and with too much ache.
A classroom where a child struggles to belong and needs a way to express all the feelings inside.
A neighborhood meeting divided by strong ideas and lines drawn.
Your body, your mind, your home, where things keep circling, pulling you this way or that, perhaps not quite close enough to where you want to be.
The practice we need is always exactly where we are.
This isn’t far away. It’s every day, ordinary, now.
Our thoughts, feelings, dispositions, and inclinations are the material for our practice.
Yet, because we live in this material and are so entwined with it, it’s hard to see the world (its systems, policies, organizations, interactions, connections) that we’re constructing.
We are creating this world around us (consciously or not). How we see the sky shapes the sky.
The frame matters.
Our lenses, their aperture, where and how we attune, the resonance of our hums—this matters.
This creates the matter.
Small frames are gifts to help us see what we too often forget to see.
They guide us to listen, trust, allow, and connect with the aliveness all around us, the small matters easily missed when we try too hard to control and hold the whole.
They let us return to simplicity laid bare,
and we remember:
the whole is alive in every small thing.
*
as delight, Melissa
Learn more about small noticing frames and how they can support exploration and inquiry in various contexts: Small Frames
Let’s practice together!
I’m in the process of designing an online course for creatives. A playful course full of layered ways to engage the points of small in your creative process.
Who is a creative? Anyone who feels full of longing to create—plant a garden, write a book, start a business, find a homestead, build a house, teach a class, paint, dance, sing, stretch, gather a group together, serve tea, listen to trees, dream with others, step boldly into creating something new.
I’m a creative and I’m inside my process, too. So, instead of waiting until I have a “course” fully “developed,” I’ve decided to start now. To honor collective process.
During the rest of April into May, I will share weekly invitations for us to engage with the matter of what we long to create. We’ll write, draw, move, and dream. We’ll reflect on large visions and gather the smallest tools to use in our creating. We’ll sit in silence, listen to music, experience guided meditation, trace memory, gather glimpses, and invent new kinds of maps.
Our process will be asynchronous. It will all take place inside the Noticing Matters weekly subscriber community. You’ll receive one email per week with layered invitations for you to explore at your own pace, in your own time. You’ll have an opportunity to comment and share with others, if you choose to do so.
If you’d like to be part of this collective creative process to nourish your creative soul and connect with the creativity of others in community, I invite you to subscribe as a weekly paid subscriber. There is no additional cost for the course. [For those of you who are already paid subscribers, you don’t need to do anything; hopefully you’ll be happy with what you find next week in your inbox. :)]
If you aren’t sure if you want to become a weekly subscriber, but you’re curious… here’s a one week free trial link for you!
[Note: I’ve never used a free trial link before, so if it gives you trouble, please feel free to email me and I’ll try to help; melissa@melissaabutler.com]
Learn more about me and my work: www.melissaabutler.com
Reach out if you have a question or want to discuss a potential scope of work: melissa@melissaabutler.com
At this auspicious moment heading into the New Moon Total Solar Eclipse in Aries at 19 degrees (Monday 8 April 2024), I offer you a heart-opening playlist gift of 19 songs: April Opening
Mud Book: How to Make Pies and Cakes: This is not what John Cage is most known for, but it is one of his details that I like the most, that he wrote a 4x4 inch picture book about mud and that he chose to publish it for the rest of us to enjoy. “Thank you,” my heart sings.
Oh, this beautiful book. Words from the wise and glorious writings of Rachel Carson with brilliant, heartfull illustrations by Nikki McClure, this book does not disappoint.
Other books I’ve been reading (and loving) in March:
I’m not going to lie to you. My reading this month has mostly been inside A Court of Thorns and Roses, a 5-book series by Sarah Maas. I’ve been here since mid-March. I just finished Book 5 yesterday. It’s been a glorious whirlwind in this moment between eclipses. Thousands of pages flew through my fingers as I devoured the words, letting myself fall into their worlds.
Thanks for reading all the way to the end. I appreciate you. May this month of April rain down on you with endless small delights.