Greetings, fellow domesticated mammals. Last week, we dismantled time itself using an old calendar by cutting it up, tearing it down, and finally admitting we don’t really know where the past belongs once it stops bossing us around in the present. If you joined me in responsibly (or irresponsibly) disposing of time, welcome back. I’m glad you’re still here, breathing, and presumably shedding.
This week’s creative nudge comes from the soft underbelly of domestic life: dust bunnies. I love that we call them that. Not dust clumps. Not lint aggregations. Bunnies. As if our own little tumbleweeds of hair and fiber are breeding quietly behind the couch, waiting for dusk. The name alone suggests movement, intention, maybe even a family structure. We don’t admit, “I have a dust problem.” We say, “The dust bunnies are back,” like they’ve been out foraging and avoiding predators while we slept.
In my house, dust bunnies reproduce fastest in the garage. I regularly do creative work there, and sweeping helps me procrastinate, which I embrace as part of the mysterious creative process. Gathering these soft, grey creatures into a pile gives me time to think about what to do next. But instead of scooping them up and throwing them away like an adult, I nudge them outside, toward the front yard.
Here’s why: I like to imagine the hummingbirds that zip around my front yard—tiny, furious, impossibly alive—collecting bits of those dust bunnies to line their nests. I don’t know if this actually happens. I don’t need confirmation. This is not a science project; it’s a belief system based on my abundance of hope and dryer lint.
Dust bunnies are evidence of living. They’re made of us, our pets, our clothes, the places where we linger. They collect where attention lapses, like under beds, behind propped open doors, and in corners we never quite reach. In a dry and breezy place like Riverside, they don’t even have the decency to stay put. They roam. They migrate. They multiply. They roll across the floor like tiny reminders that entropy is working overtime.
Instead of treating dust bunnies as a failure of housekeeping, let’s give them a few minutes of creative attention. Consider them collaborators using one or more of these gentle provocations:
1. Still Life: Gather a few dust bunnies and study them. Arrange and photograph them like wildlife. Give each one a name and a backstory.
2. Soft Touch: Using gloves if needed, shape a dust bunny intentionally. Roll it. Stack it like an ephemeral snowman. Combine several into a larger, more assertive form. Give it space to roam.
3. Bunny ASMR: Sweep slowly. Listen. Poke around under that bed. The whisper of dust across concrete or tile is subtle but present. Record it. Dub unrelated sounds over it such as you calling out to them like you would after seeing a cute dog you want to pet.
4. Bunny Census: Locate all the dust bunnies in home or from just one room. Count them. Rank them by size or attitude. Decide which one is the alpha.
5. The Offering: Place a small pile of dust bunnies somewhere outside. Not littering—an offering. For birds, bugs, or the imagination…or just to confuse your neighbors. Notice how it feels to give something worthless to you a second purpose in nature.
Dust bunnies remind us that even neglect leaves a trace. That the smallest, softest accumulations are proof we were here: moving through rooms, brushing up against the world, leaving bits of ourselves behind. Reclaim a few minutes out of your domestic duties. Chase a bunny. Name it. Set it free. And if a hummingbird out there builds a nest lined with the remnants of your life, well…what a nice upgrade for everyone involved!
This column was written with the help of ChatGPT 5.2, used as a creative collaborator in my ongoing exploration of how humans can stay human in an era of unprecedented technological change.
