Dear Somebody

Pre-order HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember: MONDAY For a limited time, my friends at BuyOlympia are giving away a free, 5”x7” limited edition print of my How To Keep Going paint palette with every pre-ordered copy of How it Feels to Find Yourself. This palette, in particular, is special to me.

Purchase elegy/a crow/Ba Hi all, Welcome to my first craft post, where I’m focusing on the process behind elegy/a crow/Ba, my first accordion book and illustrated poem. Last semester, I took a sketchbooking class with Kruttika Susarla. I was eager to develop a sketchbook practice that, I hoped, would cultivate a deep love of drawing.

Pre-order HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF Hi, friends. Once a month or so, I’ll be sending out a newsletter focusing on craft. These posts will highlight the inner workings of specific projects I’ve made or am working on. It’ll be an opportunity for you to ask questions about my process and for me to share the thoughts and inspirations behind certain decisions.

Hi, friends. Today’s newsletter is a departure from our usual while I reveal the cover for my upcoming book, HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF: Navigating Life’s Changes with Purpose, Clarity, and Heart, which will be published on May 23, 2023 by TarcherPerigee (Penguin Random House). HOW IT FEELS TO FIND YOURSELF is a collection of paint palettes and short essays.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember: MONDAY Most days after lunch, I go for a walk with my dad. I put on my shoes and coat and wait for him by the door. I’m impatient, feeling like a little kid waiting to be driven to school. Sometimes my dad does drive me to school, just like he did when I was growing up, the only differences being that it’s now 25 years later, I’m in graduate school and married with a kid, and he’s retired.

A quick note: for today only, Barnes & Noble is offering 25% off all pre-orders of my upcoming release, How it Feels to Find Yourself, with code PREORDER25 — if you’re considering purchasing a copy, I encourage you to save by pre-ordering today! A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember: MONDAY For the past week and half, N has been fighting bath time. She kicks and screams, wriggling on the floor.

Dear Somebody, Welcome to the first edition of this newsletter hosted on Substack! Thanks for bearing with me while I migrated. While this weekly letter will always be free, I’m considering adding a paid tier to this newsletter, likely this upcoming May. If you’re interested in seeing more from me, please let me know what excites you most. Thank you to those who have already written to me.

A small note: next week, this letter will come from Substack instead of Flodesk. Please set your inboxes to accept email from meeraleepatel@substack.com to prevent your spam filter from intercepting them. This weekly letter will continue to be free, but moving to Substack will allow me to foster community: you'll be able to comment on letters and engage in conversation if you wish. As I prepare to graduate from school this semester, I'm re-evaluating what I want my business and career to look like.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember: MONDAY While you are sleeping, I consider your breath, wait for it beside my own, measure each one by the slow climb of your stomach against blue linen sheet. You are round; the moon. You love me, for now. I try my hardest to keep you curious, believing there is more—ocean floor under sea under twilight under sky under cloud under bird under song, I try my hardest not to undo you. Your eyes, closed. The moon, alone.

A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember: MONDAY I step out into the evening and breathe it all in: the borrowed sky, the pinprick of star, your small hand lost in your father’s. I’m six paces behind. I follow your shadows like a stranger, I memorize each crack before you step on it, I see the uneven anger of sidewalk lashing against your toes. You talk in night voices, small but bright against the still air.