On Being Beloved

Our journey toward meaningful presence and living.

Apr 02, 2024

The highway unwinds itself like a ribbon, stretching from New York City towards New Paltz, NY, a pocket of solace that breaks the monotony of urban existence. This past weekend, with my wife, Porsche, our dog, Stokely, and two of our close friends, we shared a collective sigh of relief as the city's skyline receded in the rearview mirror. A tangible signifier of our temporary escape from the relentless pace of our lives.

New York City, with its raucous symphony of sounds and endless demands, often feels like a container too small for the spirit it houses. It is a place where work looms larger than life, where the constant hum of hustle can drown out the quieter, more introspective moments that whisper the truths of being alive.

It seems to me, each day, New York, and America’s other major cities, lose a bit more of their luster. Dissipating is the scent of possibility, all while heavily reeking of hardship and compromise.

This is why it's so important for me to occasionally step away, and why I think so many others should as well. There is a particular kind of magic in the act of departure, a deliberate break from the routine that binds us to our daily burdens. It is in these moments of retreat that we find the space to breathe, to think, to exist beyond the constraints of our constructed identities.

On this journey, clarity was what I was looking for as I was finishing edits on my debut Young Adult novel, set to be released next year, and trying to devise strategies to cultivate an audience for my forthcoming poetry collection. Thankfully, clarity was exactly what I found.

In towns such as New Paltz, time dilates, offering itself like a gift to those willing to retreat from the omnipresent stresses of life. Here, amidst the natural beauty and the slower pace, I find the space to breathe, to think, to be. It is in these moments of detachment that I not only write and plan more clearly, but also find time to sift through the digital mess that is my personal emails and social media messages. My inboxes are often left unread or skimmed between one obligation and the next — and also because many of my emails and messages tend to be from people with harsh or overtly racist points to be made.

But as I sat and weaved my way through messages, a specific email caught my attention. A query both simple and profound. The sender, a woman who says she has been a reader of mine for years, sought to understand my frequent use of the term “beloved” to refer to readers. She noted its presence threading through many of my essays, social media posts, and in the title of my poetry collection. Being in such a calming place, paired with her earnest desire for connection, compelled me to respond.

While I knew the answer to her question in my heart, the act of articulation required a moment of respite, a brief departure from immediacy. I stepped outside into the cool embrace of the early morning, where the simple, unadorned pleasure of playing fetch with Stokely awaited. In the arc of a small blue ball thrown across the sunrise, in the joyful abandon of a dog chasing after it, there lay a kind of truth, a reminder of the essence that underpins our most complex constructs of happiness. It was in witnessing Stokely's straightforward delight, unburdened by the weight of human complexities, that I found a clarity, a lens through which the answer to her question could be understood anew.

Returning to the laptop, the glow of the screen seemed like a bridge to convey what had crystallized in the moments outside with my dog. My fingers found their rhythm on the keys, crafting a response that sought not just to answer but to connect.

A response which I’d like to share with you all.

Dear ___,
Thank you for such a lovely question, and I hope I can do it justice.
I believe in this life, my work, be it through the words I write or a brief exchange with a stranger, serves two purposes: to remind us of the fundamental importance of being present, and of truly showing up for one another.
Just now, I was outside, engaged in the simple joy of playing fetch with my dog, who will turn four this summer. Time with him is a luxury, often squeezed into the margins of a writer’s schedule, yet I prioritize it, despite the constant looming presence of work. Though, there was a time when his perpetual commitment to play irritated me, under the shadow of limited time and bandwidth. But one day, it struck me how swiftly he had transitioned from the three-month-old bundle of energy we adopted, to the companion he is today. And I realized it will not be long before he reaches an age that will leave our days of play behind us.
This is why I try to show up for him, and challenge myself to be present. Because this will eventually be a long time ago.
Life, in its relentless forward motion, carries us along its current like leaves caught in a swift stream, rarely allowing us the grace of pause to ponder its brevity. This thing we so laboriously engage in, with its myriad of distractions and detours, often obscures the stark truth of our limited stay upon this earth. We are, for all our complexities and contradictions, small beings—our lives but a momentary blip in the universe.
It is a truth both unsettling and oddly comforting, this finitude of our existence. It is a reminder that plays in the back of my mind, like a forgotten song from childhood that occasionally finds its way to the surface. I remind myself of this truth often, not as a morbid fixation, but as a means to give the everyday significance. The knowledge that our time here is limited, and indeed, that each moment is irreplaceable, casts everything in a different light.
We are not placed on this earth merely to occupy space; we are here for the moments, we are here to be with each other. Our purpose is not to wage war over differences or to succumb to greed. I've witnessed the end of human lives, seen the light fade from eyes that once held stories, dreams, and fears. In those final moments, the trivial disputes, the insatiable desire for more—it all falls away. What remains, what truly lingers in the heart, is the memory of joy found in life's simplest pleasures: the weightless leap of a dog chasing after a thrown ball, the embrace of a child, the quiet rhythm of a loved one's breathing beside you. These are the moments that define us.
This is why the words I set down on paper often grapple with the unnecessary hardships that scar our society. Transphobia, white supremacy, abortion access, Palestine, poverty, and the so on. These hardships, so at odds with the essence of living, compel me to write, to unearth the truths that lie buried beneath the rubble of daily existence. In my writing, I often call people beloved, not as a term of endearment reserved for the few, but as a beacon for all who journey through the pages I've penned. It is a reminder, both to myself and to the reader, that the crux of our being here, the very heart of this grand, often bewildering dance of life, is to truly see one another.
To recognize ourselves and each other as beloved creatures is perhaps the most profound revelation we can aspire to. If we can achieve this, then there will have been a point to it all.
With Love,
Frederick

The world tends to obscure simple truths. It erects barriers between us, crafting a maze of isolation that we navigate, often in despair. But in the quiet moments, in the spaces between the chaos, there lies a possibility for connection, for recognition. This is what I seek to capture in my words, this is what I strive to remind us of: the inherent worth of every soul, the unspoken bond that links us in our shared humanity.

To write of such things is to wrestle with the shadows, to chase the flickering light of understanding through the darkness of ignorance and fear. It is a challenging, often thankless endeavor, yet it is one that bears the weight of necessity. For if we can take a step back, out of our cities, out of our homes, out of our comfort, out of our ignorance, and begin to see each other as beloved, we can start to dismantle the walls that divide us. We can do the things we are truly here for. We can be alive.

To see oneself and others as beloved is to be moved to action, to be driven by a compassion that seeks to alleviate suffering and foster a world where every individual is valued. This vision, though it may seem a distant dream, is the constellation that guides my pen. It is a vision of a world remade, a world where the unnecessary hardships that plague our society are but relics of a less enlightened age.

Thus, I write. I write in the hope that my words might serve as a mirror, reflecting back to us the truth of our existence: that we are all, in every moment, infinitely beloved. And if, in the reading, a single soul is reminded of this, then indeed, I have done my job.

April is National Poetry Month, and as such I’d like to share a poem from my forthcoming poetry collection, “We Alive, Beloved.” Which is available for preorder everywhere. Remember preorders are deeply important for marginalized authors. Preorder numbers tell booksellers and the media that a book has the potential of being successful and should be invested in.