"Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Listen, don't open the door to the study and begin reading, rather take down a musical instrument and let the beauty that we love be what we do. Listen, friends, there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground." —Rumi
For the last few months, I’ve been in a state of blissful exhaustion, like the final push of birth. New kitten. New construction. New assignments for my girls. And sleeping around. Not that kind of sleeping around—the kind sold by a patriarchal sex culture that numbs feminine pleasure before we’re ready, or decides our sensual desires expire with menopause.
The fuckernuckles kind. The fall-asleep-mid-sentence kind. The crash-anywhere-as-long-as-there-aren’t-snoring-dogs-or-children kind. The standing-in-the-middle of a room with no-clue why you’re there kind. The blank-stare-at-the-screen kind. The someone, please, unplug me kind.
Exhaustion born of interruptions. Of chasing down case workers for one more signature. Of not seeing the finish line. Of wearing hats that don’t fit your learning style—or your soul.
It’s the kind of depletion women have rehearsed for centuries: sculpting their bodies, silencing their longings, watering down or postponing their creativity to attend to one more thing for someone else.
It’s a legacy. A historical accumulation of scar tissue that runs through our lineages, quietly wrecking women’s creative lives in the name of love.
“They call it love. We call it unpaid labor.”
—Silvia Federici, feminist theorist and activist, writing in the 1970s to expose how domestic work was romanticized and rendered invisible—even in so-called progressive homes.
And still, we kneel.
Sometimes I forget I have good friends, women who want to hear me, not fix me. They say, “Promise you’ll call me.”
The other day, I braved a call to a friend—after what might’ve been my first panic attack, the kind that accumulates from being on call 24/7 for more years than I can count.
After a deep listening that doesn’t require training—just a wild heart and feels like a continuous hug—she said:
“That’s hard. You have to write.”
Here’s part of what spilled out:
I never imagined a tiny feline would take center stage in our domestic drama. But she’s never in one place for long: somersaulting midair, darting underfoot, stealing Woody’s bed, his water, his toys. We clocked two more accidents within five minutes.
Dinner time. Abby’s in her just-right custom chair, delighting in a Beyond Burger drowned in ketchup. Libby is propped in her wheelchair, following my cues with gleeful abandon: “Open, chew, swallow.” Next to laughing, eating is her truest passion. I usually stand to keep pace with her rhythm. But tonight, I’m on a stool—one foot braced on her chair, the other planted on the floor. Woody waits at my side for anything that misses her mouth. Kitten scouts the kitchen with stunning precision.
Without warning, in full play mode, Ruby launches, fresh claws, straight to my leg. Boom! I land hard on my butt, spoon flying, Woody rushing in—not to rescue me, but the airborne spoon. Abby, my first responder, rushes over. “Mom, are you okay?”
I’m not sure. Suddenly, I have to pee. I hobble to the bathroom, sit gingerly, and feel blood clotting beneath my right cheek, about the size of our iron skillet.
Just as I start to relish the fact I didn’t re-injure my tailbone, another crash jolts me off the can.
OMG. I step out and see Abby staggering toward me, one hand to her face, the other clutching her glasses, blood oozing, while Woody and Ruby lap up the puddles like it’s dinner.
“I didn’t want to step on Ruby,” she sobs, voice trembling.
She has a clean gash above her left eye, the good eye. The one she navigates space with. The one without blind spots. The one that preserves the limited vision she has.
I scan the scene. Libby’s secure in her chair, half-fed, cheeks painted in marinara, patiently waiting for dessert. Abby is worried she has a concussion. She doesn’t. A cold compress slows the bleeding. I flip through my mental Rolodex for backup.
Autumn’s at the gym—phone off. Ruby, Beverly, Lori: all nearby, no one picks up. I text them all: “We’ve got a situation at #407. Come quickly.”
I grab the arnica and pop a few pellets into Abby’s mouth. Libby’s nurse, Lori, arrives first. We agree: a butterfly bandage will do, for now. We wait to clean up until Abby is calm.
Meanwhile, my butt throbs in quiet protest. Is this the offering—the cost of creation?
Autumn arrives a bit later and scoops up the kitten. “Ruby, are you okay?” she coos like a true creature-mama—instinct and tenderness, part fox, part forest. I return to Libby, who’s been waiting with intermittent giggles, single-handedly keeping the mood afloat, ready for chocolate pudding.
When all are fed and calm, we debrief the evening and agree: we need a miniature circus tent for mealtimes. Contain the kitten. Protect the people.
There is a grounding wisdom in Rumi’s poem; the poem itself feels like a river that softens the aches of the day. It gives us a prayer to sing, a place to stand, when swimming in doubt, uncertainty, grief, and exhaustion, and in choosing to rise.
It touches something I heard from another Substack mama, Maria
, who wrote:
“I feel the kneeling to beauty, to trembling and breaking, to mending and bending and composting in writing. Sometimes I forget its purpose is to anchor in the soul.”
Another mama-writer, Jeannie,
told me:
“I forgot what a calm nervous system feels like. I’ve been living from one crisis or appointment to another for twelve solid years. I’m worn out. My body says no, but I don’t have a choice. Who else will take care of Sarah like I do?
My answer: “No one, but to relax into the rest of a beautiful friendship.”
Her response, “Sounds very much like an oasis in the desert.”
Her words don’t deny or resolve. They land, they invite. Naming that oasis on the horizon is a kind of resting.
Substack writer
offers this:
“They—we don’t need or want to know about every turd on mom’s bed, every failure of care… but how the writer was challenged and changed by life with mom….”
“Love, not anger, is the engine of writing. It can be all the more enthralling if love dances with regret and resentment.”
“Love is the only energy I’ve ever used as a writer. I’ve never written out of anger, although anger has informed love.” —Athol Fugard, renowned South African playwright
Fierce love is what carries the story. Creating beauty leaves little room for collision.
And more importantly, it gives us one more place to bow, bend, and kiss the earth.
We live in the thicket of big lies and precision misinformation—a choke cord, designed to distract, divide, destroy, and conquer.
In times like now, our personal stories matter more than ever—the raw ones that slow challenge and change us. They bring us back to the origins of life, root us in source, and transform us—forward and backward—through the dark clatter of history. The connective tissue in our shared stories curates a balm for the scar tissue we carry from the mindless misuse of power by those who did not learn the rules of love.
I’m reminded of Darly Davis, the Black musician who befriended KKK members to bridge gaps in understanding. In his TED Talk “Why I, as a Black man, attend KKK rallies,” he offers:
“What we don’t understand, we fear. What we fear, we destroy.”
No training, just wild love.
Dear friend, please 💜 this post and comment or restack it. I always respond and love to hear your voices.
What is the beauty you kneel before, kiss—to love, to be, to do?1
Writing is mine. Even with the interruptions. Usually with them.
With Love,
Prajna
P.S. Check out my upcoming retreats. Santa Cruz: the waiting list is open. Devon, England, has two spaces open. Our new moon women’s circle welcomes you. Learn more here.
Your writing heals not only you, but us as well.❤️🩹🫶💐
Your chaos and kindness and wild love inspire me so. 💙