Author Archives: sputnitsa

About sputnitsa

Born in the US, I grew up in Africa and the West Indies, and returned stateside in my teens. After a decade in international development, democracy work, and inclusivity training for domestic NGOs, I joined Peace Corps, and after a year, experienced my first Russian invasion. I followed that up by volunteering with refugees and youth, and after some vacation time climbing minarets and mountains, I returned to New York City, where today I work on social justice with college students, produce short films, and write.

Edmond Jabes, on the first book (or only book) we write

When, as a child, I wrote my name for the first time, I knew I was beginning a book. ~ The Book of Questions …”This phrase responded to something that was very true for me, very profound, which I must … Continue reading

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It is the Now

Times are dark and uncertain, and how things are going to end isn’t a given. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. It’s the love we share in the now that is everything that matters. Love makes and remakes us. And I believe … Continue reading

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Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Have I Learned Anything At All?

Many moons back, a man told me that he and I had no future together, due to the cultural gulf between us. I was devastated, but also furious that he’d not thought of the gap before leaping. I’d pointed it … Continue reading

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the road is short, with many a winding turn

I was twenty. Driving down dark roads. Around us, only trees and stars, and the many, many curves the road threw before us. I drove slowly. It was our first night together. We’d end it lying on our backs on our gorgeous … Continue reading

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Okay.

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M

Kid, you have died. And the world continues being the world despite that. You knew it would. Somewhere in you, its relentlessness must have seemed proof you weren’t worth anything. But you were. It’s snowing. Weather keeps weathering. Movies keep … Continue reading

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The Woman Who Wasn’t There

I called him “My Old Man.” Every Sunday, for three years, I would make him a pot of soup and visit his tiny apartment cluttered with paintings and cockroaches. We’d sit, look at photos of trees, and he’d tell me the same stories. … Continue reading

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