Talk with me- does Substack feel like home to you?
From secrets to subtle erotica, rich craft pieces to complete books.. it’s all here.
A metaphor fell out of my thoughts this morning and it’s walked with me all day.
There is a feeling when you enter a some spaces. An invitation to be one’s self, to be at home. I want to linger, to wander, and exhale.
I’ve been a few places that evoke this physical response; the old cottage in Upstate NY it’s warm shale stone shore invites me to collect, the talcum powder beaches on Marco Island where my folks used to live, I walked every sunrise, and a couple bookstores that dance at the edge of my memories. When I’m lonely for nourishment this is what I seek
.
The metaphor that appeared this morning is that Substack feels like a perfect bookstore. While I know that’s not remotely profound, nor reverential, it brings the silent sigh of relief to me. Fortunately, the nosey salespeople who peek over your shoulder and comment on whatever book you’re holding, while encouraging you to look over here, then over there, not caring one bit that you’d rather be left alone are no where to be seen. I can stay as long as I want and not buy a thing.
It’s not physically huge like Powells in Portland, Oregon or Elliott Bay Books in Seattle, yet it holds more written words than any bookstore could fathom. While both those brick and mortar stores can be fun to pop in for a visit, after I’m there for about 15 minutes I feel as I do when in Costco or Home Depot. The shelves are far too high, objects above seem to perch precariously, I must move for someone to look behind where I’m standing, the aisles don’t invite me to sit, my breath gets shorter, something smells like glue or is that plastic, there are people, too many people.
A panic attack would threaten to take over, I hid behind my scarf while I raced outside, praying no one saw nor cared.
The kind of bookstore Substack reminds me of is more quirky, diverse, more comfortable. Its set up encourages exploring. It even invites you to shelve your writing amongst the others, (in several places I might add.)
I’ve got my hot coffee with a large dollop of heavy cream. No one is warning me to be careful not to spill. Later it’s a glass of dark red wine, nibbles of delicious brie, sharp cheddar with a bite or two of cave aged blue. With a slice of crusty bread and a handful of olives I call it dinner. Nesting in my favorite chair, my big ol tom cat purrs loudly.
The essays and books waiting in this unique bookstore are sometimes referred by a friend, sometimes the algorithm lights a match and a new-to-me author arrives spontaneously in my home. I find notes figuratively scribbled on the pages saying “you’ll enjoy this read, it’s juicy” or “this one touched my heart” or the pure serendipity of a cosmic magnet draws me in for no logical reason.
I’m able to avoid the political aisles if I’m needing a break or I can march with kindred spirits lightning sparking on our paths. I can swim in gorgeous photography, and immerse my heart in a purely crafted line. There are essayists, theologians, poets, historians, art educators, business analysts, philosophers, artists, educators, travelers, published authors and wannabes, acerbic wit, heart wrenching grief, and I can buy (subscribe) or read endlessly for free.
While I now read more slowly, with eyes out of focus (due to heath conditions), I still find it to be one of my most comforting pass times. I’m transported in an instant by a friend who writes of a busy place with great burgers, where the smokers linger outside, or to the southern Maine coast with photos of its salty waves crashing on the rocks creating music with the buoys as they pass, the puffins are coming back they say, to the patio of an artist friend near Taos as they offer tapas to their studio touring guests, to a author speaking of the harsh reality of caring for our elders, to the homes in Kenya where learning how to kill deadly snakes is necessary to living, to a Las Vegas glory who’s astute mind pens many styles from soft erotica to political deep dives, to meditation teachers who help me move thru my imperfect life, to business consultants turned philosophers sharing insights from their Wisconsin home, to incredible poets who have brought me from tears, thru heartbreak, to simplicity of beauty and staying soft and death, from deep hearted souls living with their own challenges making incredible videos about being Unfixed, to the followers and subscribers whom I’ve met and those I have not yet, your lives weave through mine.I am grateful
.
I leave you with one of my most favorite poems..
The Facts of Life
Written by Pádraig Ó Tuama
That you were born
and you will die.
That you will sometimes love enough
and sometimes not.
That you will lie
if only to yourself.
That you will get tired.
That you will learn most from the situations
you did not choose.
That there will be some things that move you
more than you can say.
That you will live
that you must be loved.
That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of
your attention.
That you began as the fusion of a sperm and an egg
of two people who once were strangers
and may well still be.
That life isn’t fair.
That life is sometimes good
and sometimes even better than good.
That life is often not so good.
That life is real
and if you can survive it, well,
survive it well
with love
and art
and meaning given
where meaning’s scarce.
That you will learn to live with regret.
That you will learn to live with respect.
That the structures that constrict you
may not be permanently constricting.
That you will probably be okay.
That you must accept change
before you die
but you will die anyway.
So you might as well live
and you might as well love.
You might as well love.
You might as well love.
“Together” is a compilation of thoughts by Teyani Whitman. All posts are free, along with the first half of my book Staying Together. For every three monthly paid subscriptions of $5, I will donate $5 to the nonprofit, The Ocean Cleanup. Thank you for supporting both me and the amazing work of saving our oceans and rivers.
It's fascinating how you connect the sensory experience of a physical space—the warm shale stone, the talcum powder beaches, the smell of glue or plastic—with the intangible feeling of an online platform. This makes me think about how our brains construct "place," not just from what we see or touch, but from the emotional and psychological textures we encounter. Substack, in your description, isn't just a website; it's a multi-sensory mental landscape, imbued with the quiet comfort of your coffee and wine, the purring cat, and the gentle serendipity of discovery.
Perhaps the profound "at homeness" you feel on Substack isn't just about content, but about the absence of sensory overload and social pressure that often accompanies digital interaction. It's a space where the usual digital cacophony is muted, allowing for a different kind of presence—a more internal, reflective presence that mimics the quietude of reading a beloved book in a cozy nook. It suggests that true digital comfort might lie not in hyper-connectivity, but in thoughtful, curated disengagement from the overwhelming aspects of the internet.
Substack doesn't necessarily feel like home to me, but it does feel homey.
This is quite simply … pleasure. Thank you and hugs.