I wanted to thank you for your recent note about the boy who cast a bottle into the Indian Ocean and the reply that arrived fifty years later. It made me smile.
I’ve been thinking and writing about hope lately — especially how thin and performative the word can sometimes feel in the middle of relentless news cycles and collective anxiety. Your story reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten: that hope doesn’t live in certainty at all. It lives in the space we leave open when we don’t know what will happen next.
There was something quietly beautiful about the image of that bottle drifting through half a century of uncertainty before finding its reader. It felt like a small metaphor for the kinds of things many of us are doing right now, casting words, ideas, and conversations into the world without any guarantee of where they might land.
Your piece buoyed my spirits today at just the right time. Thank you.
I enjoy your writing and just purchased your latest book, Happy As We Are. The book club I am in is reading your book, Every Shade of Love, based on a recommendation I made. The reality of individuals, families, and locations keeps us turning pages. I look forward to your Substack reflections because your writing strengths are examples of lived experience delightfully described.
When stories touch the mind and heart, they are precious, and I think I know a bit about how you feel, as comments from people who have read my books also affect me in ways that keep me going and writing.
Dancing with uncertainty has never come naturally to me and I've had to learn and practice to reflect first, notice what my intuition is saying - what is my body feeling - and then trust in the first step. Sometimes the process can take a while with the mind (practical, fearful) wrestling with the deep knowing (that gut feeling), but I’ve learned over time that taking even the smallest chance opens doors to new experiences, friendships and opportunities and this is a gift.
As an artist, painting teaches me a lot about dancing with uncertainty. Each new piece begins as a blank space that may or may not become something meaningful, yet without making the first mark I’d never know, nor would I get to experience the joy that comes from creating something from nothing or the chance to offer a point of connection to others.
Wonderful! I've a couple 'not-knowing's which I truly embrace, they keep me firmly rooted in the present. I do wonder if the bottle will arrive and be opened. No matter if they take years, maybe not 50 though!
Thank you for the reminder, Bernadette. Amid all my uncertainty I remain hopeful often enough to feel alive, at least sometimes.
Carrying on is hope in action, Michelle. 🧡
Hi Bernadette,
I wanted to thank you for your recent note about the boy who cast a bottle into the Indian Ocean and the reply that arrived fifty years later. It made me smile.
I’ve been thinking and writing about hope lately — especially how thin and performative the word can sometimes feel in the middle of relentless news cycles and collective anxiety. Your story reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten: that hope doesn’t live in certainty at all. It lives in the space we leave open when we don’t know what will happen next.
There was something quietly beautiful about the image of that bottle drifting through half a century of uncertainty before finding its reader. It felt like a small metaphor for the kinds of things many of us are doing right now, casting words, ideas, and conversations into the world without any guarantee of where they might land.
Your piece buoyed my spirits today at just the right time. Thank you.
Warmly,
Don
I'm glad it helped to read this today, Don. Thanks for being here.
Thank you for the delightful and challenging metaphors. Yes, I cast bottles every day, and I also wonder daily about "the cost of the quest ."
🧡
I enjoy your writing and just purchased your latest book, Happy As We Are. The book club I am in is reading your book, Every Shade of Love, based on a recommendation I made. The reality of individuals, families, and locations keeps us turning pages. I look forward to your Substack reflections because your writing strengths are examples of lived experience delightfully described.
Virginia, thanks so much for all of your support. It means more than you know.
When stories touch the mind and heart, they are precious, and I think I know a bit about how you feel, as comments from people who have read my books also affect me in ways that keep me going and writing.
Thank you for the kind words in your review, Virginia. I'm glad there was something in this story for you.
Dancing with uncertainty has never come naturally to me and I've had to learn and practice to reflect first, notice what my intuition is saying - what is my body feeling - and then trust in the first step. Sometimes the process can take a while with the mind (practical, fearful) wrestling with the deep knowing (that gut feeling), but I’ve learned over time that taking even the smallest chance opens doors to new experiences, friendships and opportunities and this is a gift.
As an artist, painting teaches me a lot about dancing with uncertainty. Each new piece begins as a blank space that may or may not become something meaningful, yet without making the first mark I’d never know, nor would I get to experience the joy that comes from creating something from nothing or the chance to offer a point of connection to others.
I love the idea of trusting in the first step, Marion. Yes, all art is an act of faith. Thanks for taking the time to reflect with me today.
Amazing another 13 year old boy found the note! Thanks for the reminder uncertainty and aliveness come in a two-pack 💕💕💕
I know, what a lovely coincidence! Thanks for being here every week, Kellie. I appreciate you.
Wonderful! I've a couple 'not-knowing's which I truly embrace, they keep me firmly rooted in the present. I do wonder if the bottle will arrive and be opened. No matter if they take years, maybe not 50 though!
I hope you'll let us know when one of those bottles reaches your shores, Ciaran.
Certainly will. Time will tell of course