The full newsletter sample is below, but first I hope you read this for context…
Hi there!!!
If you've been following my work for a while, you may know me through my music, writing, momondays, speaking, or one of the many projects I've been fortunate enough to be part of over the years.
What connects all of those things is a fascination with stories — the ones we tell ourselves, the ones we share with others, and the small moments that help us make sense of life.
That's what inspired a new newsletter called Glimmers & Gratitudes. (Usually a 2-3 minute read.)
I’ve been writing weekly glimmers & gratitudes for a few years, mostly for myself, to help me make sense of my world and maintain a sense of optimism. And then I thought that you might appreciate that too. Every few weeks, I'll share a short reflection (and hopefully a bit of wisdom) drawn from my work, creativity, relationships, music, or everyday life.
Not advice. Not marketing. Just observations, stories, and ideas that I hope will give you something to think about.
Below is the most recent issue as a sample. If it resonates with you, then I invite you to add your email to receive the next one, at https://neray.com/stay-in-the-loop
Thanks for being here.
Michel
The Opening in the Reeds
In 1999, I went on a wilderness canoe trip with a bunch of guys. They’d done this before. For me, it was only my second trip.
I was the newbie… what did I know about reading maps?
We had to find our way from the lake through a channel to the river. Everyone said, “It’s this way.” When I looked at the map, I couldn’t help but think to myself, ‘I think it’s there, across the lake, that way. But what do I know?’
They said, “Let’s go this way.”
We followed a narrow channel that got narrower and narrower. We dragged the canoes through mud and over beaver dams. “This has got to be the way,” they said.
The channel became a creek, became a trickle, became a field. Two hours and forty-five minutes later, it was a dead end, and we were exhausted.
We turned around and dragged our canoes from the field back into the trickle that became the creek, through the mud and over the beaver dams. Two hours and forty-five minutes later, we were back at the lake, and even more exhausted.
I looked at the map once more and said, “I still think it’s there, across the lake, that way.”
Everyone looked across the lake, but nobody saw an opening in the shoreline. Just a wall of reeds.
I looked at the map for what felt like the eighth time and said, “It has to be there.”
No one else offered a different suggestion, so they shrugged their shoulders and nodded ever so slightly, as if to say, ‘What do you know, but okay.’
We headed across the lake. We got closer and closer, but there was still no opening. Just a wall of reeds.
Until we were right up against it.
And when we looked very closely, we saw a small opening, right where the map said it would be.
“Trust what you know. Leave room for what you don’t.”
Sometimes other people see things we don’t. They have more experience. They know what to look for.
But sometimes they don’t see it, and we do.
How often do we hand over a decision because we’re afraid of being wrong? How often do we doubt ourselves, even when some part of us knows that we know? And how often do we discount the voice of someone less experienced because we assume that our experience makes us right?
These days, whether I’m making a personal decision or helping someone else make theirs, I think about that trip. Sometimes the experienced voices are right. Sometimes the map is wrong. And sometimes there’s an opening in the reeds that no one can find until you’re close enough to see it.
But then again, what do I know?