Posted by: scintillatingspeck | December 5, 2014


I’ve had a fairly wretched bout of feeling blocked with writing.  It’s good to remind myself that I have this here blog, and it can serve any purpose I want it to serve.  It can be a play space.  It can be a place where I get to mess around and not have super-high expectations of myself.  It can be short; it can be long; it can be silly; it can veer into eloquence and just as quickly take a splashy dive and swim away.  I need a play space.  It doesn’t take away my need to focus on my Book (and that capital B takes on colossal proportions in my head, with spiky serifs and stern eyes and a stick-straight spine), but oh, the space of release, imperfection, having a voice—these are things I sorely need, right now, and I need to know that there are a handful of eyes observing.  (And now I’m picturing a handful of eyeballs, of course.)

My brain has not been super-organized of late.  What I know is that being quite ill with melancholy, emotional overwhelm, wetiko, attempting to live honestly and fully in this culture of industrial insanity, this does not exactly lead to superb capacities of concentration.  I’m stepping back, offering self-compassion, and I see a person who has been Working Really Hard in ways that almost nobody else can see.  In a culture that reinforces very strange ideas about Achievement and Success and Receiving External Approval, it’s a radical act to acknowledge the unseen work, that dismantling of internal barriers, that rejection of demon stories, that fidelity to love and health and sanity, stumbling back to stand its ground after crumbling repeatedly.  It’s a practice of continuous uncrumbling, nurtured along by steadfast, encouraging human animals who nose me upright, if I let them, if I can be open to them.

It isn’t necessary, though, to be open to everyone.  I am realizing this more fully.  There is energy that I need to conserve rather than spend.  There is the refining of priorities, rearranging, trying them on for size, shuffling and figuring.  There is the acceptance that everyone else can do this, too, and that I am not necessarily a priority to others.  There is the enfolding darkness of winter, urging reflection, demanding that I retract my turtle-head quite a bit more, in order to move towards growth.  It might appear static to most, but under the shell there is work and play and rest happening.

I can’t use ordinary metrics of success anymore.  These days I might ask myself, instead:  Did Lily and I eat some good food today?  Did we stretch our bodies and minds and hearts?  Did we take care of necessary tasks?  Did we redefine what is necessary?  Did we give voice to our needs?  Did we play?  sing?  dance?  Were we as kind as we could be, to ourselves and others?  And even if we “failed” at any or all of those things, did we allow ourselves that imperfection and the chance to uncrumble?

It’s enough, it’s plenty, that I’ve written at all and made a cup of tea.  I choose enough-ness.




  1. This is so much my interior dialogue as well. Simply being aware and not fracturing into a billion specks takes a tremendous amount of work for me some days. It does not matter that some people can do the same thing without much effort. For me (and perhaps you, as well) it is hard. But I am grateful to be a perceiving human. Perceiving you. Bless your ass so hard.

    • When it’s especially hard, I often return to the thought, “I get to perceive. I get to feel.” We have this strange gift of sentience. Whoa.

  2. I am a young mother, who just stumbled upon Guy M’s work. I am looking into hosting him so he can come spread message where I am. How do you, as a mother, cope with that fact that near term extinction is well, near? Especially with a young child. I am having a hard time emotionally.

    I wrote this on a blog with guys findings:
    I am a young mother. I actually had a short conversation with Guy over facebook, about his findings etc. Look I am not stupid, or a sheeple, etc. I do find it incredibly heart wrenching, sad, depressing, etc that my son will not be able to grow up and explore the world like I was able to. Children are such beautiful creatures, they learn so quickly, and grow so fast. And they are so filled with innocence, and kindness. So yes,as much as I want to think that none of this will come to pass, I am also an open minded thinker and observer. I see the destruction that has been caused to our beautiful earth, as much efforts as I who came from a mother who always tended to her trees and gardens with such care and love, others didn’t and now we have irreversible damage. Yes, it hurts my heart more than anyone will be able to know that my son, and our beautiful earth and animals, and plants won’t have a much longer future. Live while you can, and hope that your end doesn’t have much suffering, I hope to have my son in my arms and my husbands around us.

    • Thanks for your comment, Lola.

      How do I cope? I think it’s summarized by a phrase you wrote, “Live while you can.” I think this applies regardless of whether people accept the possibility/probability of near-term extinction.

      Okay, I might add that “live while you can” also means, to me: don’t waste time on BS, allocate your time and energy to your true priorities, realize that the fact that our days are numbered (and have always been numbered) is a gift, and don’t wait. Don’t put things off. Any of us could die for all kinds of reasons, today, tomorrow, years from now— we can take that knowledge and let it flatten us (and how I understand that reaction, having had it myself oh so many times), or we can say, oh my heavens, my life is a miracle, my child’s life is a miracle, just breathing in and out is a CRAZY MIRACLE.

      This doesn’t negate death and destruction, but we don’t get to control that very much.

      I don’t know if it helps, but this is how I cope. I think seeking to control outcomes is fruitless. I think security is an illusion. I think we can still live our miraculous lives, appreciation overflowing. This doesn’t mean stuffing emotions, at all; it’s the opposite. There is plenty of room for all the feelings. And we get to model for our children how to live.

      You mentioned Facebook; you might want to check out a group there called Whistling in the Dark.

  3. Thanks so much. Are you on that group?

    • I am. I should say, though, that I’ve been trying to limit the time that I spend on Facebook and modify the ways that I use it, because I tend to get addicted to it. I haven’t been spending much time in online group settings in a while.

      • It’s just somedays, I feel like I can’t breath, I can’t even look at my son without bursting into tears.

  4. Hang in there, Lola. I hear you. I hope there are people around you you can lean on. Crying is okay. My daughter has seen me cry many times. I try to show her that one can be both emotional and resilient. Breathing is important; keep breathing. There’s more breathing to do before all is said and done. Big hugs.

    • Thats true. still heart broken, i just hope we go as fast and painless as possible.

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