Joy. Boats. Time.

❤️ On longing, choices and the tyranny of 'just'

Last August I sent myself a late night email which contained only three words: Joy. Boats. Time. When I discovered it the following morning I had no idea what it meant, but it had a ring of longing about it.

I stumbled across that email again recently when searching my archives for something else, on a morning I was heading off on solo retreat. That whisper of longing rose from the screen like a drift of woodsmoke.

Joy. Boats. Time.

The words felt important, and I found myself inking them onto my arm with a writing pen, and carrying them to Cornwall for a few days by the sea. I was off to contemplate some big questions about where to focus my attention in the coming years.

I have been running my business, Do What You Love, for more than a decade. Almost fourteen years of no boss, no comfortable salary, no predictability, but a ton of freedom, and the chance to write books and teach what I love, and a web of nourishing connections which spans the world. I feel both blessed and overworked.

I began blogging the first time round, back when online courses weren’t even a thing yet, and I have seen so many changes in that time, not to mention changes in myself. My business has had some major successes, and some expensive failures. Entire platforms have come and gone. My priorities have shifted, I have gotten older, and as my family has grown, the demands on my time have changed too.

Perhaps most importantly I have come to understand where the joy comes from, and what sucks the joy out of everything. It sounds obvious, but for a long time I was so busy building the business that I didn’t notice which was which. After one of the toughest years of my life, and the huge clarity that came with writing Kokoro, I wanted to take a moment to intentionally consider my next step. Hence Cornwall.

I took a bracing outdoor yoga class facing the Atlantic on a morning so windy I couldn’t hear the teacher. I stood among the sculptures in Barbara Hepworth’s garden, feeling deeply moved without knowing why. I wandered between artists’ studios, remembered some old dreams, and had a trajectory-shifting conversation with a stranger.

With Eivør Pálsdóttir’s Trøllabundin* pulsating in my ears, I scrambled onto the black rocks of Porthmeor Beach and danced as the sun went down. The waves rolled in, and through me, and down my face.

Joy. Boats. Time. This is what I want more of. Actually, this is all I want.

Whenever I go to Cornwall, I walk along the coast, turn to look back at the shoreline and get such a strong sense of this country being an island floating on the sea. It’s something to do with the dark rock and the ancient wildness, and the way the edges of the land sit high out of the waters below. There is beauty and danger at the water’s edge, and it reminds me that our lives are but one grain of sand at the mercy of the waves, and yet essential to the existence of the beach.

I first visited St Ives decades ago, when there were fewer tourists, and more locals living in the town. This time, as I returned, uneasy about my contribution to the hollowing out of the place by renting a holiday home, but drawn back by its light, I wandered barefoot along the sands and remembered how twenty-something me had dreamt of an artist’s life there, before packing up those dreams in my suitcase and returning to my job.

I walked past the apartment I had set my heart on buying, even though buying it was not within my reach - I’m not sure it was even for sale. Perhaps it wasn’t the apartment, but what the apartment represented, that I had wanted. As I walked past it this time, the pull returned.

Joy. Boats. Time. The sound of longing, still calling to me all these years on. It was there on my arm as I did salutations to the sun, reached to the sky, journaled by the sea.

In the words of

David Whyte

,

Longing is divine discontent; the unendurable present, finding a physical doorway to awe and discovery that frightens and emboldens, humiliates and beckons, makes us into pilgrim souls and sets us on a road that starts in the centre of the body and then leads out...

(Read the full piece here or in his wonderful book Essentials)

If you could describe your longing - your divine discontent - in three words, what they be, I wonder? Why not (safely, in a non-toxic way) ink them onto your skin today, and carry them around for a while? I’d love to know what they are (or perhaps even see a photo of them written on your being), if you’d care to share.

I keep a piece of paper in the front pocket of my Hobonichi diary. It holds a list of the things I’d do if I took a sabbatical. There are cute stickers of birds and a lighthouse and the sea, with scribblings around each one related to something joyful I’d do with twelve months off. (I know, I’m only three years shy of fifty and I still love stickers. What can I say?)

I took my diary on retreat, and when I saw that page for the hundredth time a new thought arrived: What if I rearranged my life and business so I could do all this anyway, without taking a sabbatical? It felt like a revelation.

I mentioned earlier that my company is called Do What You Love. It’s not like I don’t love what I do - it’s heart and soul work for me. It’s not that I haven’t taken many steps over the years to refine what I do - I have. But this idea of utter spaciousness in my working life was a real jolt.

How could I make that happen? How could I rearrange my life and business to have that feeling of space without actually taking a sabbatical? This was the question I asked myself over and over as I pondered what might be next.

I returned from Cornwall to a stack of parcels on my desk. One was from America.

A while back I had been asked to do a blurb for the US edition of creativity legend Julia Cameron’s newest book Living the Artist’s Way. At the time I had been stunned by the request, and had agreed of course, knowing full well that blurbs don’t always get used, but feeling honoured to have been asked.

The parcel contained a complimentary copy from the publisher. I opened the book and saw a whole list of blurbs about Julia’s work.

The blurb I had offered wasn’t there, but to be fair the ones that were came from super famous people, so it was no wonder mine didn’t make the cut, I thought. Oh well, never mind. It was nice to have had an early peek at it anyway.

Just as I was having this conversation with myself, Mr K called from the kitchen offering tea. I put the book down, and went to catch up with his news.

A little while later I came back to my writing room to open the rest of the parcels. I had left Living the Artist’s Way face down on my desk, and it was only then that I noticed. Staring up at me was my own name. The publisher had put my blurb - and only mine - on the back cover. Of Julia Cameron’s book.

And not just any book, the intuition-centred follow up to her internationally bestselling book The Artist’s Way, which I remember reading back when I was wandering that same beach in Cornwall, dreaming of a creative life.

I had to sit down for a moment.

The universe was holding up a mirror to the path I have walked since setting up my company nearly fourteen years ago. It was one of those full circle things, except it was less full circle than swirling loop of the living-writing spiral. It showed me that we can be both further along than we realised, and back at the beginning with the same dreams still calling to us.

Art had called me back then, and art is calling me again now. Not painting specifically, although there may be some of that. But art as a way of life. Life as art. More room to write, and think, and have interesting discussions about the things that matter, in the company of people who are interested in the same things.

Joy. Writing without deadlines. Art making without judgement. Helping others to do more of what they love. Laughing with abandon. Windows open. Sunshine pouring in.

Boats. Sea air. Salty skin. Actual boats, or views of boats from more days on the shoreline. Movement. Dreams of faraway places. Travelling together towards an unknown horizon.

Time. To wander, ponder, mentor, write, tend to things that matter. Time to ask questions and wait patiently for the answers. Time to pause and choose the right things every single day.

Longing can arise in the middle of anything but it often gets pushed away, especially when we are slaves to the tyranny of ‘just’.

I’ll just get this launched and then I’ll have room.

I’ll just learn this and then I’ll know enough.

I’ll just reach this milestone and then I’ll be enough. 

Sometimes ‘just’ is helpful - it reminds us that we are nearly there, and with a little more effort we can finish the thing. But the shadow side of it is that one project rolls into another, and contentment gets postponed to a future date.

As a result of this slow-dawning realisation I have decided to make some major changes in my business. I am simplifying everything, prioritising joy, honouring my own time, and building a boat to carry us through the storms of life together. This boat is called SoulCircle, and you are invited to board. Let me tell you a little more about it.

From now on I am focusing on where I can make the greatest impact, not for the most people but for the people who want it most.

Why am I telling you this? Because one of the major outcomes of this decision making process is my commitment to making Substack a major part of how I show up in the world with my ideas, insights, teachings, inspiration and support from now on.

SoulCircle is my way of curating a smaller, tight-knit community of people who resonate deeply with my work, who would benefit from regular interaction with me and with each other all year round, and would like to gather every so often for ceremony, inspiration and mentoring. To pay attention to our longings. To spill what is in our heads and hearts. To get support from kindred spirits for the meaningful work we want to do in the world. If that sounds like what you need, come and join me.

My intention is to build a sustainable community that will be here for the long term, whilst allowing me to honour the ebb and flow of my own creativity, so I can keep on sharing that journey with you. It is also an opportunity for you to support my writing, and if you choose to do that, my gratitude runs deeper than I can say.

Over the coming days I will be transitioning my Substack towards a focus on supporting paid subscribers in a beautiful new membership called SoulCircle - my new year-round community here. Many of my essays will be paywalled to allow for the time to write them, and the vulnerability made more possible with the kind of energy exchange and honouring that a subscription offers.

No more ‘just… and then I can…’
Instead just this, right now.

Think quality, not quantity. Spaciousness, not overwhelm. Think thoughtful essays and voice notes about life in all its complexity, as well as regular LIVE SoulCircles (gathering and writing together once every 6 weeks or so), quarterly group mentoring in the form of ask-me-anything Q&A, personal recommendations and more. Not too much, just enough.

The circle is taking shape, and I’ve saved a place for you. Come and join us. Just click the button below.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask in the comments! If you have already joined, THANK YOU! I look forward to travelling this next part of the journey with you, and I send you a deep bow of gratitude for your ongoing support of my work.

Beth Xx

Photos: Holly Bobbins

*Trøllabundin (‘Spellbound’ in Faroese) is a stunning song by Eivør Pálsdóttir. You can find the English lyrics here but I love listening to the original Faroese without having to attach to meaning. It's like an incantation. If you like the song, you will love this incredible live version with the Danish National Symphony Orchestra. I discovered this song when it was woven beautifully into the gorgeous novel The Seven Skins of Esther Wilding by

Holly Ringland

.

**Please note I will not be writing essays to any particular publishing schedule. I prefer to create and publish when I feel like I have something of real value to share.