The Strange Persistence of Apricots.
Old Work That Won’t Let Go.
Today I was reflecting after reading a piece from a reader that completely caught me off guard — I am rarely ever thinking about The Apricot Memoirs, so much so that I’ve completely handed it over, disengaging entirely from promoting it as I follow new body of works and tend to the pages of my next book. And yet, there it is, still quietly making its way through the world without any help from me.
It’s strange to witness. Sometimes I regard it with detached curiosity, wondering how a book I wrote eight years ago — when I was playful enough to publish without a shred of knowledge about the ‘proper way’ — continues to circulate like it has its own secret compass. My publisher sends me reports, and I shake my head, bemused by its persistence as it makes its quiet rounds, slipping into new hands and becoming something meaningful for strangers I’ll never meet.
I won’t pretend I haven’t wondered how this is still happening. I’ve written so many different things since then — sharper things, softer things, stranger things. And yet, here it is, my best-seller, living on like a guest who refuses to leave the party. Sometimes I examine it with a kind of clinical detachment, tilting my head and thinking, Really? Still this?
But then there are moments when I’m reminded of its tenderness — not just the book’s, but mine too. That younger version of me—blissfully unaware of the rules of publishing—wrote for the sheer joy of it, letting the words spill out because it felt the same as paint. She believed in poetry’s power to shift something, to stir the still air. I look back at her with a tenderness that borders on protectiveness, as though I’m witnessing a younger self I’ve come to cherish…
The strangest revelation, though, is this: books never really stay yours. They slip out of your hands and become what they need to be for other people. Just as Rose wrote to me recently about how The Apricot Memoirs became a kind of scripture for her — read in the bath, underlined fiercely, pages curling from damp hands. It startled me in the best way, that intimacy between her and these words I once called mine.
So here’s to that fierce girl who wrote without hesitation. And here’s to you, dear reader, if this reflection finds you with a book that’s become your confidante.
I’ll drop the link to her beautiful piece here:
“AN ODE TO MY FAVOURITE POETRY BOOK: The Apricot Memoirs” by
Tell me, do you have a book that’s held you over the years? I'd love to hear about it and if you are yet acquainted with the wild roads of where this all begins, feel free to read the story of origin of these dear apricots below or even more personally, get the book here.
Play takes crayons and decides to write a book.
Throughout his life, Albert Einstein would retain the intuition and the awe of a child. He never lost his sense of wonder at the magic of nature's phenomena-magnetic fields, gravity, inertia, acceleration, light beams-which grown-ups find so commonplace. He retained the ability to hold two thoughts in his mind simultaneously, to be puzzled when they conflicted, and to marvel when he could smell an underlying unity. "People like you and me never grow old," he wrote to a friend later in life. "We never cease to stand like curious children before the great mystery into which we were born”.
Reader, sower, patron—co-conspirator of this quiet little arthouse, Thank you for supporting Catching Shower Flowers. You are part of this strange and tender place where the world tilts slightly, and art spills out. Your patronage isn’t just a gesture; it’s an act of recognition. It whispers, This matters. Keep going. And so, I do—because you are here, because you believe in the turning of thoughts, thoughts that have the chance to move into language, into poem, into story. I am grateful for you.
This is so special to me 🥹 I’m always delighted to see what you’ve created throughout the years, but The Apricot Memoirs became something more to me — a permission slip to be my own creative self and to have your poems to read as I grew through that. As I slowly made my way to the end of this book I began to reflect on what it’s really meant to me, and this post was an expression of that. I feel so lucky to have experienced this little magical moment / celebration of creativity with you! Thanks for this and everything <3 from me and I’m sure so many others! 💚💚
This is lovely. How telling of community, that that's what we do for one another, often unbeknownst to us- we uphold and remind and revel in work that is not our own. We elevate other's words, allow them to influence our own, and share, share, share. <3