Let Them Have Their Version

A Sunday Special, because some essays do not wait for Tuesday.

This year has been hard. It has also been extraordinary. I have stopped asking those two things to cancel each other out.

In this one: what Still, by Design. taught me about stillness and what Good Little Innkeeper is teaching me about truth. Being so good at meaning that imagination starts impersonating evidence. Why good intentions are not receipts. The exhausting belief that there is always one more sentence that will finally make someone see what you see.

And my own version of something people call the Let Them Theory. Mine is not about no longer caring. I care. Probably too much. Mine is: let them have their version. Let them remember it differently. Let them say no. Let them leave. And then do the harder thing. Do not move into it. Their version belongs to them. Your life belongs to you.

Also in this episode: retiring from several positions I never should have held, a community that can travel anywhere you are listening from, and why the embarrassing texts already sent themselves.

Good Little Innkeeper is finished and looking for representation. Still, by Design. is where the stillness lives.

Every episode is also a film, with the words arriving on screen the moment they are spoken. The score is original, written in the house for this episode and owned by it. Nothing under these words is borrowed.

Listen, watch, and read: averylanemaxwell.com/podcast The books: averylanemaxwell.com The letters, on Substack: https://averylanemaxwell.substack.com The Patron Circle: https://www.patreon.com/c/AveryLaneMaxwell The Galena House playlist, the episodes among the songs they sit with: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/55wkYr82P02Tsr4zgKZubw Write to the house: avery@galena.house

Made at Galena House, in Frisco, Colorado.

[gentle music] A small note before we begin. This is a personal podcast. I'm telling these stories as I remember and understand them, from my own life and perspective. When other people wander into them, I'll protect what belongs to them. And while much of this story happens inside a real inn, these are my words, not the official voice of the property, its owners, or anyone else who works here.

All right. Come in. It's already warm. There are Sundays when a house feels used up. Not sad.

Not empty. Just used. The coffee has been made several times. The dishwasher has had more conversations with me than most people. Somebody has left a glass somewhere a glass does not belong, a towel is hanging from a chair, and there is a light on upstairs that nobody needs.