Glitter Soup
How tiny acts of creativity help in crazy times
The other day, I was sitting at my table with cardboard scraps, a bottle of glue, and a bowl of what my dear friend Erin affectionately calls Glitter Soup.
It’s not fancy. Just a big thrifted jar where I’ve poured in every stray container of glitter I’ve collected over the years—pink stars, green hexagons, fine gold dust, big chunks of iridescent purple. Nothing matches. It’s messy and chaotic, a jumble of odds and ends.
And yet… when I dip a glue-covered star into that bowl and lift it out, something magical happens. The chaos clings together and suddenly it’s beautiful. I hold a tiny constellation in my hand, shimmering with light.
At first, it was just play. But then I noticed something: whenever the world felt too loud, too sharp, too overwhelming, I found myself wandering back to the table. Dipping scraps into Glitter Soup. Watching scraps turn into stars.
I realized I wasn’t just making crafts. I was giving myself hope.
The Lesson of Glitter Soup
When Erin first called it Glitter Soup, I laughed. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how right she was.
Life is Glitter Soup.
It’s a messy mix of everything: the heartbreaks, the belly laughs, the late-night tears, the ordinary Tuesday afternoons. Alone, each piece can feel too sharp or too small. But together? Together they make something that sparkles.
The beauty isn’t in the individual pieces. It’s in the mix.
A Lineage of Scraps and Sparkle
This isn’t new wisdom—it’s ancient.
Our grandmothers stitched quilts from scraps, turning rags into heirlooms. Families during the Depression planted gardens in empty lots, coaxing life from broken ground. In Appalachia, broken jars were pressed into garden walls, catching sunlight and making stained glass out of refuse.
Over and over again, women have gathered up what seemed like “not enough” and turned it into beauty that lasted.
When I glitter a cardboard star, I feel like I’m stepping into that lineage—choosing to believe that scraps are never just scraps. They’re the raw material of resilience.
Going for glitter
Now, when the heaviness closes in, I tell myself: go glitter.
For me, that might mean dipping another star into the soup. But for you, it could look completely different:
Pouring tea into your favorite chipped mug.
Watering plants and whispering encouragement.
Scribbling neon doodles in a journal.
Stirring a simmer pot just to fill your home with comfort.
Walking outside to tilt your head back and catch one real star.
Your “glitter” is whatever practice brings you back to yourself—whatever spark of whimsy or hope reminds you that you’re more than the chaos.
Joy as Rebellion
I don’t think joy is frivolous. I think it’s rebellion.
We live in a culture that thrives on our fear, that profits from our panic. They want us scrolling endlessly, overwhelmed and numb.
But every time you stop to glitter—to create beauty, to find delight, to honor your own version of Glitter Soup—you’re resisting. You’re refusing to be swallowed whole by the heaviness. You’re stitching light back into the fabric of your days.
Our ancestors sang while they worked, carved flowers into their tools, painted symbols on cave walls. They didn’t wait for perfection—they created beauty as a way to survive. So can we.
A Little Invitation
So the next time the world feels unbearably heavy, don’t collapse under it. Don’t believe the lie that scraps are worthless or that beauty has to wait.
Instead, dip into your Glitter Soup—whatever that looks like for you. Scoop up the mess, hold it to the light, and watch it shimmer.
Because the truth is, the world will always be overwhelming sometimes. But you? You’ve got glitter. Enough to make stars. Enough to remind yourself—and all of us—that joy has always found a way to shine through.
I'm planting 72 purple spring bulbs this week.
Right now, it’s trying to enjoy as much of Halloween as I can and working on a story every day, even if it’s a few lines, or just some plotting notes.