Predictable, Rebellious, or Not Bothered?
There's a concept I keep returning to — Microcosm of the Macrocosm. The idea that the small moments in our lives mirror the larger patterns of how we move through the world. How we respond to the little things reveals everything about how we meet the big ones.
My author's copy of Rewilding Yourself arrived this week.
I opened it and the first thing I noticed was the text alignment — slightly off center, sitting a little low. My immediate reaction: ugh, must redo.
Then I paused. Looked again. There was actually a natural curve to how the text laid on the page — almost intentional. Almost poetic. And I thought: I could call this a design choice. A reminder that life isn’t always neat and orderly.
So I did what any self-aware author does. I sat with it. Then I sent it to my advance readers.
Three Responses. Four Ways of Being.
The responses fell into three distinct camps — and they fascinated me.
Some wanted it straightened immediately. Clean lines, proper alignment, industry standard. There's wisdom in that — clarity, professionalism, respect for the reader's eye. Predictable isn't a criticism. It's often a strength.
Some loved it exactly as it was. The slight rebellion of it, the refusal to be perfectly contained. There's wisdom in that too — the willingness to push edges, to let imperfection breathe, to resist the pressure to conform.
And some didn't notice at first glance at all. They were looking at the face on the cover, the colors, the words curving along her cheek. The bigger picture entirely. Also wisdom.
And then there's the fourth — the one who cannot decide. Who turns it over and over, seeing merit in every perspective, unable to land. As the author, I'll own that one. But I'm not counting it among the reader responses. Authors are a special category of over thinkers entirely.
Four ways of moving through the world. All of them recognizable. All of them, in the right moment, valid.
What the Painting Studio Taught Me
I've written before about how the style of painting I do tends to reflect my life in the moment. When I'm in the messy middle of a piece, who am I being? Someone at ease with uncertainty, trusting it will resolve? Someone who wants to walk away? Someone waiting for another person to fix it? Always my choice.
This is the inquiry that rewilding invites — not the grand existential questions, but the small daily ones. Do my lines need to be perfect? Am I at peace with the process when the joy lives in the expression, not the end result?
I have a pair of Navajo earrings intentionally left just a little bit undone — open, unfinished, energy still moving through them. Not quite closed. Not quite resolved. Alive because of it. Art is like that. So is life.
The Decision
I sat with all of it for a while. The curve. The rebellion. The readers who loved it crooked.
Then I decided to fix it.
Not because perfection matters. Not because I need to fit neatly into industry expectations. But because I love the cover and I didn't want anything pulling attention away from her. She deserves a clean frame.
The inquiry itself was the point. Noticing my first reaction. Questioning it. Sitting with the alternatives. Choosing consciously rather than defaulting.
That's the rewilding journey distilled into one crooked text line — the practice of meeting yourself honestly in the small moments, so the larger ones don't catch you off guard.
Which response did you lean towards — predictable, rebellious, or not bothered?
Rewilding Yourself is available for pre-order now — text freshly centered for delivery this fall.
If this resonates and you'd like more — I write about embodied living, inner work, and the rewilding journey each week at my Substack newsletter here https://injoy2day.substack.com/
Warmly,
Suzanne
