One of the hardest things to learn in memoir is how to move from the personal to the universal. You don’t get there by abstracting. You get there by staying true to your body, your memory, your place in the world—and then trusting that readers will find themselves in the specific textures of your experience. In this letter, I return to Santa Fe after years away. I’m not trying to sum up my whole journey. I just tell you where I am. What I’m seeing. What I remember. And through that, I can invite you to reflect on where you are, what you’re tending, and what kind of future you might be planting.
The oak beam story is another tool I return to often: narrative resonance. Memoir isn’t just a diary. It’s storytelling. And good storytelling braids meaning through image, symbol, and time. When I heard about the chapel beam—replaced by a tree planted hundreds of years before—it struck a chord deep in my gut. And so I gave that story to you, not as an “example,” but as a living metaphor inside a moment of national reflection. When you’re writing memoir, pay attention to the images and stories that live with you. Don’t just report them—offer them. That’s how memoir becomes communion, not just confession.
Letter: The Kind of Freedom That Lasts
Welcome. This newsletter is for those who are hungry for meaning but tired of performance. You don’t need to follow a system to be here. You don’t need to have it all figured out. If you’ve had even one moment when the world shimmered—when time slowed and something deeper came through—you’ve already been marked by spirit.
Seeking is for people who live with questions. People who’ve known beauty, grief, and longing—and still want to live with their eyes and hearts open. You don’t need to believe anything to belong here. Spirituality begins in experience. In breath. In the body. In mystery.
Today is the Fourth of July. And while the country celebrates freedom, I’m thinking about a deeper kind of liberty. The kind that comes from tuning back in. The kind that begins in the gut, in the fingertips, in the quiet decisions we make about how we move through the world. A liberty that lives not in slogans, but in care.
I moved to Santa Fe in 1994. I was 28 and full of ambition. I believed I had something to prove. I came here chasing literary success and adventure, hoping to write books that would set the world on fire. I stayed for almost twenty years. And in that time, the city unraveled me. I lost identities, old scaffolding, the ego I thought would carry me.
When I left in 2012, I drove north over Raton Pass, cracked open and unsure of what came next. I remember whispering a prayer as I crossed the state line: Shatter me, if that’s what it takes. But bring me to something real.
Yesterday, I drove back across that same pass—this time heading south.
I’m here again for a few weeks. Staying with a friend. Seeing clients. Resting. Walking old streets with my dog. Watching the way light falls on adobe. Remembering who I was. Listening for who I am now. I’m not chasing anything. I’m not burned out. I feel whole. And I’m considering whether it’s time to come home.
There’s a story I want to offer today.
In Oxford, England, a small chapel was built in the 1200s. A great oak beam stretched across its ceiling. After centuries, the beam began to rot—worms had hollowed it out. The caretakers knew it had to be replaced. So they stepped outside to the edge of the chapel grounds and cut down an oak tree that had been planted the same year the chapel was built. The original builders had planted it for this moment. They knew the beam would one day fail. And once the new beam was raised into place, they planted another.
That kind of thinking takes vision. That kind of care lives on through generations. It’s not glamorous. It’s not quick. But it’s how things endure.
That’s the kind of life I want for myself. That’s the kind of country I want to live in. One that tends to its foundations. One that looks far ahead. One that builds from the soul up—not through beliefs, but through rhythm, devotion, and staying close to the ground.
So today, I’m wishing you rest. I’m wishing you clarity. I’m wishing you a day that reminds you how deeply spirit already lives in your life. Through your body. Your relationships. Your animals. The land around you. This is the work that matters. This is the kind of freedom that lasts.
Happy Fourth. I’m grateful to be writing to you from this place.
—Brad
