to make a change, you need to be willing to disappear

a small note on recent events and a poem.

Pampas Grass in Moonlight (Obana ni tsuki) (1909-1910) by Kamisaka Sekka (Japanese, 1866–1942)

Dear Friends,

I have been quiet this week, and likely will be for a few more days, as I navigate an unexpected health situation.

I am currently in hospital after being taken into emergency care on Monday night (my birthday!), and I am not yet sure when I will be able to leave—hopefully in a few days :).

Even though I miss connecting with you all here on Substack, I am doing my best to give my body the rest it needs. When I do write these days, it is mostly in the form of short journal entries.

I deeply appreciate each one of you. Thank you for your understanding, and for being part of a space that allows for the spontaneous and honest unfolding of life—making room for connection, transformation, and healing.

In the meantime, I’d like to offer one of my poems to hold you this week:

to make a change

When I stop speaking
there is no passion
for words, or silence
only a blue chamber
of stillness, ongoing and vast
like the sky, underneath
which we keep our hurts
caged.

Let it all come out, gently
into the spaces you hold:
the wild, the scary, the scandalous 
parts of you — that we all are.

If I were to speak
of how it is done, 
I would have to take that space
in which you find
yourself, and the answers. 

To make a change, you need to 
be willing to disappear and go into 
silence.

---

I will be returning from silence soon, when I am able. Until then, it would mean so much if you could keep me in your thoughts and hearts, even if just for a little moment.

Warmly and with love,

Justyna

If you find warmth, comfort, inspiration, joy, motivation, or anything else of value in these letters and would like to show your support, please consider becoming a deeply valued patron by upgrading to a monthly or yearly subscription. This will also give you access to the full archive. If you have a financial restriction, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

The riverside I visited on my birthday morning.

A quote from the book I am currently reading visited me this morning in my hospital bed: “Make friends with pain, and you will never be alone.” While my approach and experience may be different from that of a miner (the quote’s author), I can still sense a kind of kinship here—both with him and, increasingly, with pain.

Before you go:

Please let me know how you are doing this week, and what is unfolding for you. Perhaps we can use this post as a little community check-in? :)

Here, to aid you in your reflection, some gentle prompts:

What do you hear in silence these days?

What part of you is asking to be released into the open?

Where in your life might stillness be inviting change (or change inviting stillness :) )?