As a child, my Aunt Barbara, a schoolteacher, taught me the word "kindergarten."
I had watched my five older sisters go off to school and return with wisdom that ribboned from their hair and danced in their shadows. They could now pass notes to each other filled with lines and letters that left me cross-eyed. They could escape into books and sign their names on things. What power existed in the ink of their pens! What freedom. What was happening in the place called "school," where they spent their days while I was stuck home with the cats and brothers who were entertaining but sticky-fingered and annoying, the brothers, not the cats.
"Kindergarten is a word that means garden of children." She whispered in a tone reserved for church and secrets. Mystery and marvel made their way through my blood as I imagined a parade of children's faces framed in petals, like the heads that popped up from nowhere when Dorothy landed in Oz. I almost peed myself with excitement.
I knew that when I went to kindergarten, I would burst and bloom like our mother's fuchsia azalea bush that hugged our front porch. I, too, would stand well-rooted yet rambling, spinning spells like my authorized sisters.
Our home celebrated reading. Books filled the shelves. The art on our walls was of women reading, not just reading but being entranced by the books. My mother's happiest place, her most frivolous state, was tucked into a book's well-broken binder. She spent her free time gobbling down books and weak tea on the couch, in the yard, at the table, and on the stoop. I would watch her melt into her dogeared paperback and wonder what had held her so transfixed.
Today, as a minister, I am a weaver of words—a miracle mixologist curating thoughtful tonics and sacred elixirs to imbibe for the spiritually word-thirsty. I have authored books and plays for which I have received a humble pittance, but the meat of my money comes from my role as a minister. Along with counseling and community care, I am responsible for a twenty-minute talk once a week, wrangling words and wisdom from a thousand little rivers as diverse as divinity teachings to dirty jokes. It’s a humble writer’s life, but it’s mine, and I love it.
But every once in a while, I can, like most of us, get spooked by the haunting accusations that it is not enough. On Substack, like most media platforms, there are plenty of sirens… marketing mavens whose monologues turn my head with promises of winning friends and influencing people. I am easily seduced. These dazzling distractions activate my inner addict, and I feel itchy like I'm wearing a wet wool sweater.
Before being a minister, I made my living as a professional actress. So I don't have a problem trading art for money. But after years of seeing every audition as an answer to my mortgage issue, it's been nice to write here in Substack, just to write. I don't need to draw blood from every batch of words. And this is the absolute truth that I am grateful and satisfied with.
That is until someone signs up for a paid subscription, and then, for a seemingly unearned and euphoric moment, I forget all about the odd itchiness, and I have what can only be described as a creative orgasm.
Having your work watched, read, and related to is already rewarding, but the added sponsorship is… well, that’s the money shot.
A side note: Coming from the Show biz Industry, I've used the term "Money shot" for years while teaching spiritual principles and giving sermons. Thinking it was the big reveal in a movie. A few months ago, Will, my better half, explained that the term was related to porn films. A pivotal and specific moment in porn films. I was momentarily mortified as I replayed all the times I had used the phrase on the pulpit. “Are you sure?” I asked, praying he was joking. But he just shrugged. “How did I NOT know this? How do YOU know this.” He turned to fill his coffee mug, but I am pretty sure I heard him say, “research.”
So, that happened. Just another day in the life of an irreverent reverend, so I guess it's on brand.
The subscription thing has always intrigued me. I was at the gym the other day (a statement you will only ever hear me say in the first two weeks of the year), and I saw all these bodies working hard, grunting, and jumping about. It dawned on me that I had paid good money to be in this hot room while someone yelled directions at me that, if followed, would bring me within a hair of a cardiac arrest.
Aside from the first two weeks of the year, when I try to convince myself that I am a gym rat, I get my exercise by walking in the forest. I am lucky to live by a forest, and luckier still, that only once in my years of walking the woods have I come upon a man playing pocket pool. I was with a few other women at the time, so I wasn’t too scared. But the forest has its issues when you are a woman.
My point is that it’s odd what is defined as “work” that we require payment for and other equally hard stuff that we happily do for free or even pay to do. And how did this hierarchy come to be? How did we decide what was work and what was a workout? There are some blurry criteria around why we pay and who and how.
Will and I stopped at a family-run farm on the way to Madeline Island that left its produce on a table with an open cash register, with money inside and no one guarding it. People were just trusted to take their produce and leave money. The first time I saw this, it blew my Jersey girl's mind. On the other hand, Will (a Midwest guy) thought it was normal and even left MORE money than what we owed for the pint of fresh berries. I was like, WTF?
I had to restrain my inner Artful Dodger from grabbing all the produce and money and driving off with a howl of conquest. It's a good thing I married someone with a moral compass.
In truth, I found the farmer’s approach refreshing and relatable. This writing, storytelling, sermonizing, and community creating… this whole creative cluster fuck, (I mean that in a well-faceted and consensual way) is just put out there because, like the farmer, I think good things should be accessible to people, even if they don’t have money. And for my part, I write because I don’t have a choice.
Creative expression is not an option or a hobby. It’s an addiction that I have no willpower around. I would die for it because I would die without it. I gladly burn my hours and spend my ink chasing that euphoric high that comes from wrangling my thoughts into symbols. It’s satisfying in a way I, ironically, have no words for. But I know my obsession is not normal.
I hear friends say, “I need to add more creativity to my life,” or, “This is the year I get my creative juices flowing.” I have no idea what that means—it sounds as absurd as saying, “This is the year I learn how to breathe.”
So here on Substack, I think of the monetizing option as less of a “win friends and influence people” thing and more of an “I just hid a chocolate cake in your fridge.” When one of you generous souls presses the subscription button, the actual cost won’t change anyone’s life too dramatically—not yours for giving and not mine for receiving, especially if you click the free option.
And yet, it changes everything. When you or I nod in someone's creative direction and say, "Your work, your effort, it's cool, I appreciate it." That spontaneous, unexpected, weird, and wonderful exchange can light a person up for a good few hours. I speak from experience. It's not the money. It's the fact that it is connected to art, something artisanal and freshly baked and offered up. Something that has no price tag, yet we feel called to invest in it anyhow. That’s pretty magical, like the honor system at a roadside farm that people actually honor.
When a thing happens (and so far, it has happened 20 times. Thank you to my 20 patron saints), it's the thing that I tell Will at the end of the day when he comes home from work. “Someone subscribed to my Substack!!!” I say, and yes, the exclamation points are necessary. Because I share this news the same way you’d say, “Guess what?! Someone left a chocolate cake in our freaking fridge!!!”
So, thank you for meeting up with me in this garden of words. I am grateful for the notes of encouragement, the subscriptions, likes, shares, and the general friendship and support you have blessed me with these last few months on Substack. I have found my kindergarten.
May your year be filled with fresh flowers, toast and jam, dirty jokes, and good friends to walk you through the scary forest. May you meet with enough discomfort to make you grow and enough generosity to sustain your faith, and may this year pull from you your own love notes, mad rambles, and bashful confessions—the things that keep you weird, wonderful, and reaching for words to express the complicated, conflicted, and beautiful state of your being.
And mostly, may you find a chocolate cake hidden in your fridge.
Love, Maur
It’s always great to hear from you.
EVENTS
Every second Tuesday of the Month, Cathy Richardson and I produce a story night with a musical twist. Join us this month at FitzGerald’s. TICKETS
Join us on Zoom every Sunday at 10:30 am CT. Please don’t leave your brains, beliefs, or background at the door. We don’t have all the answers, but we love the questions. All are welcomed and celebrated. LINK TO JOIN
DESSERT
The podcast Inside Wink is delicious. Jean and Alison offer great guests, deep content, and feel-good banter. Enjoy Dessert! LINK
CAUSES
In Illinois: This was forwarded to me. If you live in Illinois, please join us. We are rallying friends to participate in a timely outreach to Sen. Dick Durbin. Please fill out this quick form letter for him today, tomorrow, or Friday? As a reminder, it is more impactful when 20+ people communicate about the same issue within a week; he will be pushed to take action. So far, I know 11 people willing to complete this form letter.
Click the link, go to the drop-down, pick “other,” and add your personal info. In the comment box, you can paste the form letter that has been provided or write your own. This took me less than a minute: email form/direct: https://www.durbin.senate.gov/contact/email
Here is an example of what to copy and paste into the comments box on the form letter.
Dear Senator Durbin,
Thank you for your many years of service and leadership on behalf of your constituents and the American people. This letter is in support of H.R. 2725: The Do Not Harm Act, and H.R. 15: The Equality Act, which would safeguard anti-discrimination protections and prevent the misuse of religious freedom laws to justify discrimination.
Both the Equality Act and the Do No Harm Act are important to me personally, as they directly impact the safety and well-being of family members, friends, co-workers and the larger community in which I live.
Also, given your extensive record in support of all forms of civil rights, can you please explain why you are not included on the list prepared by Advocates for Trans Equality which recognizes champions of trans rights in the 118th Congress?
We know politics is about compromise but apparently, you voted for some bills that included language weakening trans rights. What will you do to avoid that sort of compromise in the 119th Congress?
Thank you again for your years of service and consistent support of a decent and just America. Eagerly anticipating your response,
Sincerely, "Your Name Here"
You're welcome to copy and paste this and pass this info along to your community. Peace and love to you, Tania
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