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Itās stuck with me ever since I first heard it in a Tara Brach course on healing blame and resentment. I remember reading it to my mother on the phone to tell her that I had forgiven her for the immense pain and suffering she had brought me when I was younger, holding back tears until I was sobbing through my words and then we just cried together. She was so grateful to have been redeemed. A beautiful pivotal moment in my life that I never thought could be possibleāand I will never forget. š¤
āOne time a man left home. He had argued with his mother and father the day before he left. They spoke horrible words to one another and he left without saying goodbye. He had been gone many years and even spent time in jail. Years later, he finally got out of jail and he wondered if his mother and father were even alive, and if they were ashamed of what had been said and of where he had wound up. He wrote to them and told them he would be coming home on a specific day the following week. If they wanted to see him and were not ashamed they should put a blanket on the clothesline, and he would know to come inside. If the blanket was missing, then he would know that he was not welcomed. He would know to turn back. He told them he hoped they were in good health.
The man arrived by rail the next week. He was nervous when he stepped off the train. There was no one there to meet him. He walked up the worn path towards the home place and thought about the past. He thought about his time in jail. He thought about how ashamed his parents must have been. He thought about the horrible words they spoke. He was just about to turn around and go back to where he came when he saw a blanket in a tree. He kept walking and he saw another blanket. He kept walking and he saw another blanket. Then he turned towards home and the house was covered in blankets, the yard was covered in blankets, the clothesline was covered in blankets, the path to the door was covered in blankets. His parents were standing there and they were welcoming him inside.ā
ā Crapalachia: A Biography of Place, Scott McClanahan
Feb 16, 2025
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Love this so much, hope things are going well for you and your mom ā¤ļø
Feb 17, 2025
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My grandparentsā house, Despite the horrors Iāve written about in the story pinned to my profile
I have a lot of terrible memories that took place there but there are also beautiful memories. they had a comfortable warm and inviting home in the country and in the moments where I wasnāt being confronted with my family dysfunction I felt so normal. They called the bedroom my sister and I would stay in the princess room; it had two twin beds and a huge collection of VHS tapes, board games, and vintage childrenās books. When I grew up my boyfriend and I got to stay in the one of the grownup rooms with en suite bathroom, pictured, which was a defining moment for me. I loved waking up before everybody, making coffee in the sun room, sitting there and reading the Dallas Morning News looking out into the garden. My grandfather sold the house before we had our falling-out and theyāve since passed so I couldnāt go back even if I wanted to.
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I would also say my paternal grandfather's house, which sat on a huge tract of land with pecan and pomegranate trees which we would pick up off of the ground. An irrigation dam ran behind it. In the winter, I would stomp on the cracked dry earth to break it beneath my feet, and shatter the ice that would form in the bird bath.
The walls were lined with my great grandmotherās pastel art from when she went to finishing school and my grandmotherās embroidery pieces. There was a wood paneled library with smoke-stained classic books, many of which I have with me today. My dad and his brother had a play room painted in primary color blue, yellow, and red, and my sister and I could play with all of their old toys and look at their old books. My grandmothers glass shoe and bell connection as well as her vanity set had all been left exactly as they were and I would admire them every time we visited. She died before I was born but I always felt a strong connection to her and I would love to have space to display her collections someday!
And I adored my grandfather who had been so prickly with my father and his brother but was so sweet to me. He would always give me porcelain dolls he bought on QVC. his house smelled like rotten bananas because he would buy them and forget to eat them. He died when I was about six years old and I said why couldnāt it have been my other grandfather that died (lol). I miss him a lot and I think he would be proud of me! š«¶
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Oh and my momās dead gay best friend Jackieās house which he shared with his partner Aaron, a sculptor who was close friends with Cormac McCarthy. I learned everything about sophistication in decor from them and their house was my favorite place on earth. He would have a huge Christmas party every year and go BALLS TO THE WALL DECORATING; other professors from the university and artists would hobnob and I would eat inappropriately too many hors dāoeuvres (he would get all of his charcuterie and shrimp cocktail from COSTCO). His kitchen had black and white checker board floors with cherry red accents and Betty Boop decor. I miss him so much too!!!
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Because these are the moments I cherish most in life, and they feel so integrated into who I am that itās hard to recall them individuallyā¦
* Going to reclaimed lumber yards, architectural salvage shops, quarries, plant nurseries, and the DUMP with my dad in his bright red '90s GMC Sierra.
* Going to the alpaca farm with my family and seeing my mom get her hair eaten by a camel (see below photo which is a picture of a picture of our ancient family dome iMacāmy dad managed to immortalize this moment forever. Iām the one with the denim hat).
* Snow in the desertā¦ almost never happened, but when it did, it was a big deal, so itās still special to me every time I see snow living up north.
* Every moment I spent with my dearly departed childhood pets and my own three pets that have passed. I feel lucky to have documented my time with my pets so thoroughly, so I can look back and remember every little moment.
* Going to my grandparentsā house on the lake in the DFW area for Christmas. Before my grandmother developed dementia, she had a distant, chilly WASPish demeanor but showed her love through her homemaking. They had a beautiful home with the most relaxing and cozy atmosphere. I loved waking up early with her and my grandfather before everybody else, pouring a cup of freshly percolated coffee, and sitting in the sunroom reading the Dallas Morning News as the sun came up. The ticking of their clocks and the sounds of them puttering around in the kitchen, starting some elaborate breakfast, put me at ease. I had a very complicated relationship with my grandfather, to say the least (which you can read about in the attached linkāI tried to embed it in this parenthetical but the link window is broken), but their house gave me a feeling of being home that I never had anywhere else.
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I wrote this on my substack yesterday and Iām SO proud of it. I love finding the words randomly on a bus somewhere
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My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebodyābe it a relative or one of my best friendsāwas to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too š
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Iāve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapidāa critique often rooted in misogynyābut now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments.
We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretationāpreconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume.
On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your imageāselfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that thereās another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. Itās refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics.
By sharing so few images of myself, Iāve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentionalāsomething that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance.
For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. Iāve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look.
In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? Itās a question worth considering.
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