The Whirling Nun

The scent of pine needles sharpens the air, and snow crunches under every step. This time of year is quiet. The days are shorter, the nights are longer, and the world draws in. Winter's stillness is not emptiness, but a gentle nudge to listen more than we might in brighter months. Many traditions call the darkest weeks a time of waiting, but waiting does not mean nothing is happening. Beneath the surface, even in stillness, things move like a dancer readying to leap.

The figure who returns to me each winter is the Whirling Nun. She did not come from one tradition, but from a meeting of body, devotion, and creativity. Her name is from Nun in ancient Egypt, the endless, watery abyss before anything existed. In that story, Nun is a shapeless possibility that holds all that is needed to create. It is the place where the creator, Atum, began shaping the world. Nun is not empty; it is full of what could become.

When I imagined the Whirling Nun, I saw a figure skilled at moving within that primordial potential. Her skirts rise around her as she turns in slow, deliberate circles, embodying movement drawn from formless possibility. Her steady, soft gaze shows her focus on a center she carries within. She spins inside creative chaos, not to be overwhelmed by it, but to draw from it. With each turn, she gathers unshaped fragments from the deep and guides them until they begin to cohere and gain direction.

This mirrors the energy blooming in the dark days. Creativity is not limited to bright seasons. It often emerges from winter’s pressure and solitude. Without the speed of warmer months, we hear the faint sounds within that are drowned out by the louder parts of the year. General ideas draw closer. Small insights tap our attention. Imagination stirs and asks to be taken seriously.

To manage this energy, I keep a box and a digital folder, both called The Nun. I put in scraps such as thoughts, images, outlines, half sentences, or small ideas that come to me while I work on other projects. These pieces sit together and grow. The Nun is a private well of ideas. Nothing in it must become useful, but many do. They mix in new ways and show me new possibilities when the time is right.

If you are inspired to start your own idea box or folder, consider a simple ritual. Set aside a quiet moment to focus. Light a candle or take a deep breath, letting the day's distractions settle. Find a container that feels right, perhaps a beautiful box or a simple digital file. Give it a name that resonates with you. Each time you have an idea, no matter how small, place it into your box or folder with intention. Trust that in its own time, it will reveal its potential.

Winter supports this kind of quiet gathering. It draws us to the work that wants tending. It encourages us to clear mental clutter and return to the origins of inspiration. When the world grows still, it is easier to feel creative energy and recognize where it leads. Yet clearing mental clutter is challenging. I often resist, struggling to let go of the noise that clings tightly. By acknowledging that resistance and moving through it with patience, I find clarity and focus that allow creativity to flourish.

The Whirling Nun teaches us how to engage with this season. She enters the spin by trusting the center she holds inside herself. She moves with the swirling potential rather than resisting it. From the outside, she appears to be standing in a storm of motion, yet she remains grounded in a point that never wavers. Her turning is a reminder that embracing the creative unknown does not mean surrendering to chaos. It means choosing to participate in the shaping of what wants to emerge.

This is winter’s invitation. Darker days do not drain energy; they concentrate it. They help us see what waits to be made. The dark calls us to gather our ideas, tuck them where they can develop, and return to them when their time is ripe.

When the world dims, creativity brightens. This is the time to honor ideas that have been circling your awareness for weeks, months, or years. Let the dark hold you as you bring them forward. Let the stillness amplify their shape. When you feel the pull of your inner center, begin your turning. Trust it. Remember the gentle and deliberate first lift of the dancer’s foot. In that moment of ascent lies winter’s invitation. The dark days call forth creative light, and this season, quiet as it may seem, is fertile ground. Take a moment to think back on a time when stillness sparked your creativity. How did it foster ideas or lead you to new insights? As you reflect, let those memories encourage you to nurture quietness and allow it to guide you in gathering and shaping your current ideas.

When the Light Feels Too Bright

The brightness was blinding. Standing on the podium with lights flashing and applause ringing, I felt my ambitions become real. Success, once a distant dream, now loomed brilliant and large. People often assume fear only comes from the unknown, but experience teaches us otherwise. Even with a bright future, our resolve can falter. Sometimes we veer off course, not because the path is dark, but because light ahead feels overwhelming. We may see success gathering, but we cannot know fully how it will stretch or reshape us. Growth requires leaving the familiar behind. Even the prospect of our long-dreamed-of life can unsettle us.

If the brightness feels too intense, pause. Try a simple grounding exercise to regain your center: inhale deeply, hold for a count of four, then exhale slowly. As you breathe, picture yourself rooted to the ground—stable and strong. Repeat this until calmness returns. Such practice steadies you, helping you embrace your path with clarity and courage.

Our fear of the future often mingles with the dread that stepping into our potential will change us. Success can feel like sudden pressure, a sense of responsibility, or an expectation to meet. But perhaps we can see fear differently. If success feels heavy, what strength in you is ready to carry it? Recall a moment when you embraced change and list the specific qualities that guided you, such as persistence or adaptability. Life brings even big changes gradually, integrating them step by step. 

When anchored in the present, we better notice the steps as they appear. The Now opens our senses and sharpens our perception. Breathing in crisp morning air or feeling the gentle sun, we see small signs that are easy to miss when uncertainty clouds our minds. When fear focuses us on an imagined future, it distracts us from reality. Presence widens our vision. It lets us see subtle signs that we are moving in the right direction. We notice chance encounters, sudden clarity, or a steadying feeling. These are the quiet ways life speaks, but we hear them only when truly here.

Storytellers know this. In Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, when Alice is overwhelmed by strange paths, the Cheshire Cat reminds her that direction comes from attention to what’s in front of us. In The Secret Garden, Mary Lennox’s daily care of a small patch brings slow transformation in the garden and in her. In The Lord of the Rings, Gandalf offers grounding: “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” These stories show: presence brings clarity.

When imagining the future, we fixate on results, not the patient steps that get us there. We forget growth is progressive and rooted in the present. Early in my career, I received a project that seemed beyond me. I felt overwhelmed and questioned my readiness. Breaking the project into manageable tasks and focusing step by step, I gained confidence and competence. This taught me that our souls reach toward purpose and the agreements made in a timeless place before arrival. Because of this, neither we nor the universe puts anything in our way that we are unprepared to face, even if it does not feel that way.

Think of learning to ride a bicycle. At first, the coordination and balance seem daunting. Each tumble and wobble feels like a setback. With time and regular practice, you start pedaling without fear. This gradual progress mirrors life. Mastery, after all, is a collection of small successes—not a single grand achievement.

Fear can make us freeze in place and worry about possible failures or future disappointments. Becoming aware of these fears helps weaken their hold. For example, if you think, 'achieving this might leave me dissatisfied,' realize that no goal marks the end of your journey. If you fear being recognized or doubt your ability, remind yourself that you deserve praise just as you are. To handle fear in the moment, try writing your fears in a journal to better understand them, or practice noticing your thoughts, for example, by quietly saying, 'This is my fear of not being good enough.' This helps you see the thought clearly and reduces its power.

When fear rises, especially during times of rapid change, focus on what you can see, hear, or touch now. For example, notice the feeling of your feet on the ground or the sound of your breathing. Challenge any beliefs that create fear, such as the idea that one mistake means failure. Quiet the inner critical voice by reminding yourself of your real accomplishments, such as meeting deadlines, learning new skills, or helping a teammate. Your success comes from your consistent effort, your creativity, and your sound decisions. Remind yourself of these facts when doubt appears.

Each time you meet the future with steadiness, you weaken fear’s foundation. Over time, the divide grows, and you see what lies ahead with clearer optimism. Remember, setbacks are part of growth. When you face obstacles, acknowledge them compassionately. They contribute to your development and resilience. To see your transformation, reflect on a recent time you met the future with courage. Consider a day you handled challenges with grace or took a step forward despite uncertainty. Celebrating these micro-victories reinforces your growth. Trust you are destined to thrive.

A Living Book on Michigan Avenue

November 21, 2025

What can one say about a museum experience that doesn't merely present history but invites you into it, one that engages the visitor through creative, physical interaction; that ignites every sense; that carries the imagination forward long after the moment; that gives texture and dimension to the lives of writers past and present; and that profoundly reminds us that we ourselves are story?

The American Writers Museum, behind the rotating door on the second floor of The Art Deco Building on Chicago's Michigan Avenue, serves as a threshold to a larger vision. In this participatory museum, literature becomes tactile. Imagine adjusting a display, selecting a scent that evokes a story, or even choosing a color that represents a theme. The lineage of American writing unfolds through color, sound, scent, movement, and memory, inviting you to contribute to its narrative. Within this space, they present a remarkable temporary exhibit: American Prophets: Writing, Religion & Culture.

I had the honor of representing Rachel Pollack and her award-winning, genre-spanning work. Beside her artifacts — her Persephone statue,the candlesticks where each Friday she would ignite Shabbat prayers, handwritten fragments, and photographs — I felt the resonance of her devotion to myth, magic, and story. Her fierce spiritual imagination shaped everything she touched.

At the exhibit's opening soiree, the gentle clink of glasses and occasional clack and tap from a vintage typewriter underscored the buzz of lively conversation. I overheard a snippet from a nearby group discussing the fabric of storytelling. Someone exclaimed, 'There is no life without story.' It was a delight meeting the other honored authors and representatives. Kudos to the excellent AWM team for creating a space where even reclusive, introverted writers could comfortably mingle with the museum's founders, board members, trustees, supporters, and each other.

Where else would you find, gathered around Jack Kevorkian's typewriter, a biographer from the Pacific Northwest, Black cultural playwrights, a Pixar animator, a promising young videographer, a music legend, a Cherokee language steward and author, and a passionate bookseller with over thirty years dedicated to the trade?

Only two places come to mind: a museum dedicated to the written word...and, of course, a book.

Sit down at your keyboard. Pick up your pen. Add your voice to the lineage.    

Make magic.

Inkvolution

 

Inkvolution

The first inks were born of fire and earth. Long before bottled pigment and sleek cartridges, people made do with what they had. They mixed soot, charcoal, ash, minerals, plants, and even the residue of flame itself. The earliest carbon pigment ink is distinguished by its deep black color and faint sheen. The ancient Egyptians and Chinese were already producing it by 2500 BCE, blending fine soot, or lampblack, with a water-soluble binder such as animal glue or gum arabic from the acacia tree. The result was a rich black that clung to papyrus and silk. It was a voice made visible.

Later came iron gall ink, the long-reigning monarch of European writing from the Middle Ages through the nineteenth century. This formula relied on quiet chemistry: tannic acid from oak galls mixed with ferrous sulfate. When the two met, they produced a deep blue-black that gradually turned into a warm, rusty brown. Gum arabic again served as the binder, keeping the pigment in suspension and helping it stick to the page. The ink was durable and nearly indelible. This durability is why so many of our oldest manuscripts still survive.

Across the world, other cultures turned to the resources of their own landscapes. Sepia ink from cephalopods provided early writers with a dark, blue-black hue and a subtle shimmer. Celtic and Pict warriors crushed woad leaves to create a vivid blue pigment for body paint. American colonists simmered black walnuts with vinegar and gum arabic to produce a deep, earthy ink. The Maya mixed indigo with a special clay to create Maya Blue, a color so stable it still resists fading after centuries. Mineral pigments, such as red ochre and malachite, produced vibrant reds and greens. This proves that creativity has always been bound to the land itself.

Recently, I decided to make my own batch of oak gall ink by following the same steps ancient scribes practiced. Crushing the galls, steeping them, and watching the liquid grow dark felt like more than a craft project. It was like an ancient memory returning through my hands. As I stirred, a recognition rose within me. I became aware that something deep and old was awakening, as if generations of makers stood beside me, guiding the process.

In Tarot, Wands are the suit of fire. They symbolize creation, inspiration, and the first spark of an idea. Pentacles, by contrast, belong to the element of earth and represent craft, labor, and the tangible work of bringing a vision into form. The first inks, born of flame and soil, exist in that intersection. Fire transforms wood into charcoal and soot. Earth provides minerals, resins, galls, and clay that make the substance whole. Together, they show the eternal dialogue between inspiration and manifestation.

Each time I work with ink, I feel that meeting of forces. The stroke of a pen becomes a meditation on balance. It is a moment between the invisible spark of imagination and the physical mark it leaves behind. To write, to draw, to create something lasting—these acts honor both the flame and the ground that sustains it.

It is humbling to realize that these same ingredients—drawn from tree, mineral, and fire—have carried human thought across millennia. Each time I dip a pen into that dark, living ink, I sense a thread extending through time. It connects me to everyone who has ever tried to keep an idea from vanishing into the air.

Creativity & Gratitude

 

My creative world has been full lately, in the best possible way. I’ve returned to exchanging pen pal letters, finding something deeply grounding in the slower rhythm of handwriting and the quiet joy of connection through paper and ink. Between letters, I sketch, often sparked by biopics that linger with me long after the credits roll—each activity feeding into the next.

Research and writing shape my days as I juggle several projects. These efforts have connected me with remarkable artists and authors in many genres. Our conversations reveal how vibrant and generous the creative community is. Soon, I'll travel to Chicago to meet some of these people in person and finally share some real, unhurried time together—an experience I eagerly anticipate.

Away from the page, life keeps its own steady rhythm. Piper’s walks and playdates bring bursts of joy, while Lulu’s long cuddle sessions remind me how much comfort there is in stillness. Both rescues continue to blossom in their own ways; witnessing their growing trust and confidence gently balances the energy of my creative pursuits.

All these moments create a season defined by gratitude, expressed through creativity and connection for what is and what will be. 

Audible Haunting

Instruments of the Macabre

Certain instruments seem to stand at music's boundary: the cello, oboe, bassoon, and pipe organ are examples. Their voices create a feeling linking the physical act of playing to emotional intensity. Even when playing happy-sounding music, they produce an uneasy effect. This is not only because of their association with mourning or horror, but also because of how our bodies react. The body receives tense sounds as sensory information and turns them into physical emotions through the nervous system.

Sound is pressure moving through matter. Each tone vibrates through the air, skin, and the inner ear before reaching the brain. Low sounds can excite the vagus nerve and cause a deep body response. High-pitched dissonance can trigger warnings in the brain and stress hormones. When the oboe plays slightly sharp against the strings, the body senses imbalance before the mind understands. The idea of the "macabre" is not only aesthetic. It is also biological: our cells listen as deeply as our minds.

Yet within this unease, there is a strange attraction. Instruments that disturb our balance remind us that we respond to vibrations. The cello’s somber sound echoes the shape of the human chest, while the oboe’s reed resembles the texture of breath. In their discord, we sense our own nature, with its mix of harmony and tension within the body.

What we call the macabre may be the body remembering its thresholds—where sound becomes sensation, where harmony and horror share a frequency.

Living Ancestors: Walking with Wisdom

Honoring the Guides Who Shape Our Paths

When we think of “ancestors,” it’s easy to imagine only those who have passed on. We picture family lines stretching back through time, or cultural figures whose stories helped shape the world we now live in. Yet there’s another layer to ancestry that is often overlooked: our Living Ancestors.

Living Ancestors may be people of blood, such as elders in our families whose wisdom has been gathered through decades of lived experience. They may also be teachers, mentors, artists, activists, or community members whose influence has guided our choices, shaped our values, and inspired our steps along the path. Some we know personally. Others we’ve never met, but their words, their creations, and their lives have left an imprint on ours.

For a long time, I assumed that “ancestor” meant older. The word itself carries the weight of lineage, time, and the long arc of life. But then I realized something that shifted my understanding: Living Ancestors can also be younger than we are. A child who sees the world with fresh eyes, a student who asks the unanswerable question, or a younger colleague whose bravery sparks change—all can embody the ancestral role of showing us new ways forward. Ancestry is not just about age; it is about impact. Sometimes those who come after us illuminate truths we were not yet able to see.

Acknowledging our Living Ancestors, whether older or younger, is an act of both gratitude and awareness. It grounds us in the truth that we are not moving through life alone. Nor are we creating in a vacuum. Every path we walk has been opened, cleared, or expanded by someone before us or beside us. They may not have walked the exact same road, but their courage, curiosity, or resilience made space for ours.

This recognition changes how we navigate our present. It can remind us to walk with humility, knowing we inherit strengths and struggles alike. It can also help us cultivate discernment, learning from what worked, what failed, and what still needs tending. By honoring our Living Ancestors, we acknowledge that our growth is relational. We become part of a lineage of story, creativity, and transformation that continues to unfold. 

Practical ways to begin:

• Name them. Speak or write the names of those who have influenced your journey, whether they share your DNA or not.

• Notice across generations. Look for the wisdom and influence not only in your elders, but also in those younger who may be carrying new light.

• Share their stories. Tell others how their work or example has shaped you. This keeps their contributions alive and relevant.

• Practice gratitude. A simple ritual of thanks—silent or spoken—honors the connections that sustain you.

• Engage with their presence. Let their guidance, challenges, and inspiration actively inform the way you live today.

Recognizing our Living Ancestors is not simply about honoring the past or shaping the future. It is about acknowledging the ongoing influence, guidance, and conversation that surrounds us in every moment. Their presence is woven into the paths we walk, the choices we make, and the ways we relate to the world. In this way, our lives become a shared story, continuously written with those who have walked beside us, those who walk with us now, and those who inspire us from unexpected places.

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