Hello the House!

on Wobbliness, Wonder and the Wisdom to Just Be

Hello the house.

I’ve been using this greeting ever since I first heard it in the film Out of Africa. Karen Blixen (played by Meryl Streep) is at her farm in the Ngong Hills, Nairobi, and a friend named Felicity comes to visit, cheerfully exclaiming, “Hello the house!” It has a nice way about it, doesn’t it? A charming nod to the hospitality of a time before text messages or even phones, when we needed to announce ourselves as we arrived at someone’s home unexpectedly.

Karen Blixen & Felicity in the film Out of Africa

It’s how I’m feeling today—the need to announce myself in your inbox for an informal visit, a bit different from the usual Sunday fare, and with a positive sound. There’s a part of me that wants to sound cheerful, even when I feel far from it.

I’ve had an incredibly productive, busy, and overwhelming week as I work on a book proposal I hope to send out later this summer. I already work more than full-time with two jobs, and if this book is going to happen, every day must be planned with specific tasks to check off. It’s been—a lot. And honestly, my writing brain is tired. I’m feeling all sorts of doubt about this process, and about my big idea, and I know, I know—that’s very normal. I am also dealing with some health issues that are more of a nuisance than anything else. Nothing serious, just painful, unpleasant and energy draining. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the only way forward is to keep pushing through the fog, inching along, word by word, task by task, moment by moment. As someone said once upon a time, somewhere, it ain’t my first rodeo.

a tiny joy this week: the glitter aisle at the new arts and crafts store that opened in our village

Anyhow, I didn’t show up here to carry on about my aches and activities, but I do need to set the table appropriately so I can serve the forthcoming meal. I did show up, however, because I’m always curious about how you are and like spending this time with you in this telepathic kind of writer/reader way. I’m wondering what you are finding challenging right now? What are you finding utterly beautiful? What are you engaging in to bring yourself moments of calm within the chaos? Will you share that with me in the comments below? I hope so. Then this all feels far more worthwhile.

Me? I’ve been sitting outside in the woods near my home when I can, when it’s not freezing and pouring rain, just listening to birds and feeling the air on my skin, writing in my notebook. I’ve also made my inside desk extra comfy and lovely—with a soft cover for my chair, fresh flowers, the glow of a beeswax candle, fairy lights for when it’s dark outside, and a stack of inspiring books to dip into when my own words get sticky. When working from home, I’ve been taking a few moments here and there to crawl into bed, deep under the covers, close my eyes for ten minutes and just breathe. If I’m lucky, there’s a purring cat nearby and I can bury my nose into warm fur. And there are watercolours—taking a few moments to dip a lovely brush into water and drop two or three soothing colours onto a sketchbook page, just watching in wonder as they dance, mix, mingle, and create something that didn’t exist before. Tiny joys.

But can I admit I feel a little wobbly lately?

I think that’s a good word. Wobbly. And jumpy. Twitchy. Even my eyes have been twitching. Even when I’m bone tired, it’s like I can’t be truly still. Even my morning meditation is nearly impossible. This is unusual for me. I have the tools to center myself, to feel more grounded—but the truth is, there’s a lot going on, right here in my own small world, and across the big wide one. Some of it is in my control, but most of it isn’t. It all affects me, though, and I bet you can relate. If not right now, then at some point in your life.

Just hanging out…on a limb. Watercolour in sketchbook.

There have been other seasons when I’ve appeared strong—doing what needed to be done, holding everything together with seeming ease. I probably appear that way to others, right now, too, but I know that beneath the surface, there’s nothing easeful. No stillness. No deep root anchoring me. Just the motions, held up by sheer willpower and habit.

And I’ve been wondering, friends—how often do we confuse that kind of strength with the real thing? How many of us are walking around like that—upright but wobbly, bright but almost on empty? How often do we perform with conjured steadiness when what we really need is deep rest?

This kind of pushing through with a smile on our faces is so common for women in general, for caregivers of all kinds, artists, teachers—well, so many of us, right? Think of a pillar of smoke… rising, visible, powerful-looking, but dissipating with one strong gust of wind. That’s the invisible scaffolding I’m inching along this week.

The blessing here is that I’m aware of it. That’s what years of self-reflection, therapy, reading the words of wise teachers and writing them in my notebooks, trying, failing and getting back up again and again have given me. I’m aware. It doesn’t make it any easier to confront, but at least I know what I’m dealing with. Reality is a good pal, you know?

When we stay too long in that outward-performance/performative mode—smiling, producing, showing up no matter what—we start to drift from ourselves. The body tightens. The breath shortens. Rest doesn’t restore us the way it used to. We might still look “strong” from the outside, but inside, the current is pulling us under, and anxiety starts to creep in, with burnout not far behind.

So yes, having the awareness that we’re entering the danger zone doesn’t always keep us from diving into it—but at least we know when we’re starting to lose touch with the quieter places that hold us closer to center and know it’s time to do something about it.

That kind of awareness set seed in me during a season of deep grief and loss when I was in my early twenties. Everything extraneous dropped away because I couldn’t handle much more than the most basic tasks of a day. What mattered wasn’t how I looked or what I accomplished, but whether I could stay present—whether I could soften into the ache instead of pushing it aside or armouring myself against it. I am still grateful that I recognised this about myself. Again, it didn’t make it any easier, but it got me through.

There was a strange kind of strength in that time of getting through. One that didn’t rise like a tower, but deepened something vital inside of me, like a bright star reflected in a still pool of dark water. Not the big, round moon, but a tiny star. Not a lake, but a small pond—as dark and as deep as my heartache. That’s how my fragile hold felt at the time. Yes, a tiny star in the deepest small pool of dark water.

image created between the author and Substack’s image generator

This became an image I kept returning to—not because it was peaceful, but because it was honest. It didn’t perform. It didn’t reach for solutions. It just held me there. I could close my eyes, sit by that pond and watch the star glimmer. It reflected the light I knew was still there. And the deeper the pond of grief became, the more stars it could contain, all of it—joy, sorrow, silence, fear, sadness, hollowness, and light and everything in between.

That’s what I’ve learned to trust: that real strength isn’t always about standing tall or pushing through. Sometimes it’s about sinking in and letting the silt settle. Making space to feel what’s real, even when it’s dark. Starting again from the inside out. Sometimes it’s about choosing depth—not how much I can do, but how real I can get. Gosh, the farthest stars are more visible when the sky is darkest, right?

I love stars. Do you love stars? I love things that glimmer in the dark. Maybe that’s why I always have fairy lights in my home.

I am grateful that my untethered state right now is from burnout and overwhelm and not from that kind of deep grief, but my way back to my more grounded self is still the same—to be with it. Acknowledge it. Lean against it. Let it show me the twinkling of stars that are still there. That are always there. You believe that, too, right? They are always always there.

I love that simple greeting: Hello the house. Because some days, it takes courage to knock. To accept that what I end up with might not be my best essay, but that the most honest try is enough. Glad to be here with you. Always. Now….let me know what’s happening with you.

(That’s three paragraphs beginning with the pronoun “I”…OYE. But I am leaving them as the are.)