The Whale I Won't Finish

Aug 21, 2025

Stillness pulls me—and then guilt arrives, asking what I’ve produced.

What can I possibly make when I’m with you, Stillness? And yet … I seek you.

My whale afghan—a crochet project—is a beautiful thing. A comfort. But I don’t let myself finish it. Because in some quiet, broken corner of my mind, I’ve decided it isn’t “productive” enough.

My mother crocheted. She never had the patience to teach me. So in her presence, as her caregiver, I taught myself. My gift to her.

But truthfully—it was a gift to me. One I’m still learning how to receive.

About eight years ago, I sat surrounded by yarn, feet buried under skeins of ocean blue and soft gray, ready to begin my first crochet project: a humpback whale and her calf. A single-crochet afghan with complex stitch counts and constant color changes. My mother told me I was foolish to start with something so complicated.

My stubbornness may be the only reason I got as far as I did. But the afghan remains unfinished.

The Clock Inside Me

I’ve tried. Many times. But have you ever noticed how loud the ticks of an analog clock sound when you’re sitting still—surrounded by soft yarn and favorite colors? How easily the rhythm of the stitches begins to echo the tick … tick … until it becomes louder than your thoughts?

I put down the needle. Arranged the yarn neatly back into the basket. Folded the incomplete whale and her calf and laid the afghan lovingly on top.

She waits for me.
But the ticking reminds me: There are more important things to do.

Stillness tells me I’m not being productive. Not in the sense that’s been assigned to “the greater good.”

But who designed that “greater good”? Because it doesn’t feel good to always be in motion—to always be doing. Mostly for others.

And here comes the guilt again.

It feels selfish to think of myself when I care for others who’ve had fewer choices. Less kindness.

That guilt—it was planted early. I was the second of eleven children. The oldest daughter. The helper. The second mother. I was trained to be productive. That’s how I earned attention.

But I don’t want attention anymore. I don’t need it.

Still, the guilt of stillness and self remains. It’s deep. Ingrained.

I know better now. But knowing and unlearning are two different battles. We both know that doing still feels like the cost of earning air.

What Resonance Looks Like (and Why I Distrust It)

Back in the day, sit me beside a body of water—even for a few moments—and I’d find heaven. My words would flow. My mind would open. I wrote without aim. Not for others. Not to fix the world.

I have a reading chair I’ve carried from home to home for twenty years. It’s white. Still looks brand new. Sitting in it with a book that stirs something deep in me should be sacred.

But it happens rarely.

Music? The truest path to my soul. And yet, I cannot recall the last time I surrendered to it fully.

This is what my resonant soul craves—words, music, stillness, connection.

But when I’m lost in the tragedy of Oscar Wilde, or when Stevie Ray Vaughan spills his soul across the strings of Number One, I forget. I forget my son asked for help half an hour ago.

Then the guilt returns—not from my son, but from within. From the invisible ledger of usefulness.

And so I return. Dutiful. “Productive.” Not for love. Not for need. But for obligation.

And I know …
The moments I just described are not idle moments.
But they don’t leave behind a checkbox either.
No mark that proves I’ve done enough.

So Why Bother?

Because I must.
Because something in me still reaches toward what calls me.

A moment of resonance has saved me too many times.
And writing—something I’ve finally allowed myself to do this past year—has probably saved me from total isolation.

So I bother. Because I deserve to follow what calls me.

Writing lets me pursue what isn’t physically accessible.
But emotional resonance matters. Perhaps even more so.

Resonance has given me a way to redefine productivity—one I can live with. Even when I am not still.

I bother because it heals me. And I need healing.

We all do. This world leaves scars.
But we can turn those scars into mantras—reminders of what calls us, and what does not.