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The Humming

“There is a bird—I have read of it—a small, elegant creature that sings sweetly and yet pins its prey upon thorns. A contradiction made living. I wonder if you would recognise yourself there. I wonder if you would say that beauty and brutality are not opposites at all, but companions.”

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Emily Isaacson, The Humming

About the Book

Between Bear Mountain and Jerusalem, between rain-soaked cedar forests and olive branches turning silver before a storm, two women begin a correspondence that becomes far more than letters alone. Emily writes from the Fraser Valley in British Columbia—by candlelight. Lilith answers from stone courtyards and desert thresholds where peacocks wander through fig-shadow and olive oil burns in clay lamps beneath darkening skies. Together, they move through questions of poetry and prophecy, asking what it means to remain fully human in a world that rewards distraction and fragmentation. Beneath every page runs the low continuous vibration they come to call the humming—the hidden resonance beneath the weather, memory, prayer, and the soul itself.

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Written in luminous prose that moves between the contemplative, the philosophical, and the deeply intimate, The Humming is a literary meditation on rootedness, artistic vocation, and the sacredness hidden within ordinary life. Candles carried through quiet rooms. Rain moving through cedar roots. Cathedral windows igniting at sunset. Olive trees enduring difficult ground long enough to become oil and light. As the correspondence deepens, Emily and Lilith discover that revelation is not spectacle, power, or escape from the world, but a form of listening sustained with enough patience that reality itself begins to speak. The Humming offers a haunting and unforgettable journey into the inward life and the enduring mystery that waits beneath all things.

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Potter's Press: 143 pages

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Available now

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Letters​

 

​VI. Lilith to Emily (May 6)

Unmeasured latitude.
A desert of pale stone and extinguished altars.
Moonlight laid over the remains of names.

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You have begun to understand, Emily—but you are still reaching for light as though it were something outside you, something that arrives. You do not yet see that what you call light has already been passing through you, altered by your form, made particular by your fracture.

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Here, there are no windows.

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There are only thresholds that do not announce themselves: a churchyard without congregation, a field where bells once rang and do not ring now, a place where even memory feels like an intrusion. You would call it desolate. You would soften it, perhaps—place a flower there, give it a name that might persuade it toward gentleness.

 

But I will not.​

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Emily Isaacson

Reviews for The Humming

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×´You carried the candle through the house not as ritual, but because some part of you already understands that attention alters space. A room observed gently becomes different from a room merely occupied. The flame did not sanctify the house. It revealed the sanctity already latent within ordinary things.

This is why contemplatives withdraw from spectacle.

Not to escape the world, but to perceive it before it hardens into habit."

- Emily Isaacson

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