An Invitation

Letters to Lake Michigan: a project in paying attention

Hello and welcome to the new home for the Letters to Lake Michigan newsletter. If you have been a subscriber for a while, you may have noticed a few changes to the format. I have moved my newsletters over to Substack and will be managing my newsletter here moving forward. You’ll be able to read all archived newsletters here.

If you’re new here, my name is Mae Stier, and I am a writer and photographer living in northern Michigan. This is a column that considers what it means to be human and what it means to interact with the natural world. To pay attention to the shifts in the season, the shifts in self. I hope that, like the lakeshore in my rural community, this becomes a space for connection.

Each month, you’ll receive a note from me in your inbox…perhaps consider it a reminder to pay attention, to notice the world around you. Maybe it is an invitation to take a walk (or a swim). Whatever it is, I hope it is meaningful.

An Invitation

Four years ago, I began a project that invited me to pay attention. It started so informally that I almost didn’t recognize its power, what this simple invitation offered.

All that I knew was I wanted to write. I wanted to move slowly, intentionally, and record the thoughts that constantly moved in my mind. On every bike ride, every evening stroll, my feet created a rhythm for words to fall into. At first, I jotted them down if I had pen and paper, occasionally making the room to notice and reflect. But soon, I knew that I needed to do more. I needed a daily writing practice.

It turns out one cannot have a daily practice of writing without first having time, patience, and, at least for me, the opportunity to move through nature. I needed to take a hike, to throw stones into the Lake before pulling out my notebook. I also needed to carve out time that had previously been given to, well, who knows what.

If I could return to that time four years ago, I would do things a little differently. I would be less social and would have said “no” to more things. I would have protected my time, that simple thing I thought then to have none of, but now, as a mother, I realize there is always time: it’s just what we do with it that matters.

This is funny, as I absolutely have less time now than once upon a childless moon. But my perspective has changed as my responsibilities have increased, even as my desire to be fully myself has remained steady. I learn how to add, refuse to subtract...I am a mother, and...and...

So I pay more attention even now to what I am doing. The nap I wish I could take while my mother watches my child is traded for a cup of tea and twenty minutes to write. I will not sleep my way to becoming a better writer. And while sleep is ever valuable, I doubt the twenty-minute nap I imagined would enrich me as much as twenty minutes at my writing desk.

I have started to read in the mornings, or maybe, I am six months into a habit of reading in the mornings. I keep my phone on the shelf as long as possible; I think this is the answer to many problems. Keep your phone on the shelf. Bring a notebook instead.

Four years ago, I began a project that invited me to pay attention. I spent time each day with Lake Michigan; wrote a small poem as an offering. To the Lake, to God, to me, to strangers. What a lesson to offer something meaningful into the world, to honor the importance of your voice in the chaos. While imperfect, I learned to trust that I had something to say. I began to listen to what the Lake was telling me. I am still learning, still listening, a little more each day. 

This has been a most transformative invitation. This quiet call to come closer. Be still. To notice the cloud formations over Lake Michigan, recognize the bird songs of the region, and identify trees and wildflowers on the Bluff.

I had no idea when I made more space for writing in my life that it would bring with it all of this, that it would help me make the space for the changes I wanted to see in myself. But slowly, one awakening has led to another. 

Recently a friend told me that my book has helped her notice the natural world more, and I was honored. That is the whole point of sharing my words. It is the whole point of writing you here. I simply aim to extend the invitation I have received to you. To welcome you into a space of noticing. So welcome; I am so glad you are here.

---

Thank you for being here & I hope to see you at the Lake,
Mae