I’m Caroline Miller.

I speak plainly about the things we’re not supposed to. Depression. Being broke. Anxiety. Bullshit. Being fat. But also I speak plainly about the feeling you get when you pick up an open bottle of dish soap and little, fairy-sized bubbles surprise you, gusting out, everywhere, to delight in rainbow globes by the cheap fluorescent tube light over the kitchen sink. I also speak plainly about how my husband is also my father and my brother and my best friend and my child and my protector and my spellbinder. I speak plainly about what is beautiful, without being bashful about it. And I speak plainly about what is ugly, without being bashful about that either. Or resentful. What is is what is. Hey Presto! Enlightenment.  Elusive and ever present.

Plain-speakers are vilified and deified in our topsy-turvy world, and I have no interest in either but, humbly, like a dumb animal to the slaughter, I will keep being a plain-speaker ‘til I die. Not because I am noble, but because I can’t help it. I’m not worthy of praise for not knuckling under. I’m just too clumsy and mulish to do so. A dangerous combination – both for me and for others who catch my notice.

Some may feel it wise to give a woman space, when she’s clearly having a breakdown.  A wide berth. But don’t look away too often or too long.  My song is your song.  Maybe in a different key.  But they all go together, our songs.  It’s up to us to just keep singing.


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