Posted by: scintillatingspeck | October 28, 2015

Puttering, catharsis, stillness.

It’s not necessary for me to post a link to this on Facebook.  It’s just not.  Either people will find me, or they won’t.

Where am I?  Am I in some ethereal, imaginary cyber-palace?  Maybe in the infinitude of multiverses, I am.  But in this universe, I’m sitting in a recliner in my house in Florence, Massachusetts, listening to the rain fall outside in the dark, listening to Lily turning pages upstairs in her bed.

We did some good puttering today.  I sewed tarantula legs.  Lily made creations out of paper and clay.  We read books.  We went to the co-op.  We cooked.  We talked about lots of things.  We sorted through some clothes to figure out what Lily has outgrown.  Then there were all the things we didn’t do:  we didn’t awaken to an alarm clock.  We didn’t feel bored.  We didn’t have any arguments.  We didn’t spiral into frustration or despair.  We didn’t answer to anyone else’s agenda.

It was cathartic for me to listen a while to an old Ani DiFranco album, “Not a Pretty Girl.”  (I bought it in 1995.  That was 20 years ago.  What?!)  It speaks to me as clearly as ever.  I wanted something to listen to while tarantula-sewing and kept spilling tears into the furry, black fabric.

and no I don’t prefer obscurity
but I’m an idealistic girl
and I wouldn’t work for you
no matter what you paid
and I may not be able
to change the whole fucking world
but I can be the million that you never made
I can be the million that you never made
you’re looking at the million that you never made

Meanwhile, post-Ani-catharsis, I am dwelling primarily on stillness.  Do I even need to write a blog post?  Who is it for?  Perhaps I and everyone else would be better served by some silence for a while.  Imagine that.

I think so much of my writing has been motivated by a desire for communion and intimacy, to be seen and known, to reach out my hands across otherwise insurmountable distances.  My heart is telling me, though, to not approach things by standing at a long distance and talking through a metaphorical megaphone at an invisible crowd (if it can even be considered a “crowd”), but to make things much more personal and sensory.  To write letters, or emails, to individuals.  To send packages.  To make plans with my sister.  To visit a few friends nearby.  To visit myself, quietly, gently.

May we allow ourselves ample time and space to listen to our own hearts and those of our loves.

May we be met in the stillness by a vast, ubiquitous intimacy.

May we meet whatever grief needs to be witnessed.

May we rest deeply, eat well, write when called to write, be silent when called to be silent.



  1. Love this.

  2. Perfect.

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