To stay open
is what I wanted.
Though winter and war
have taught me
the importance of refuge.
Even then, like a wild rabbit
that is no less soft
and no less gentle
inside its dark burrow,
the heart in its shelter
finds ways to stay open,
if not to the world,
at least to whatever
it is that shines
through the self,
and the deep remove
becomes a chance
to steep in tenderness
before re-emerging again
into the world
with all its threats
and dangers,
with all its green
and radiant beauty.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged heart, opening, rabbit, refuge, shelter | 2 Comments »
It was exactly 20 years ago on the Spring Equinox in 2006 that I began a daily poem practice. On that day, I committed to write a poem a day for 30 days. I thought that sounded impossible. But now it is over 7,300 days later. And the daily practice has completely changed everything about how I meet the world. Thank you for joining me in this daily practice … I’m so grateful you’re here seeing what happens next with me!
Posted in Uncategorized | 39 Comments »
Driving past the graveyard
listening to news
as it explodes—
while we breathe
it’s never too late
to choose compassion.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged compassion, time | 4 Comments »
In the moment when a person names a child,
Gail tells me, it is said a sacred wisdom
shines through the namer that connects the child’s
soul to their character, infusing the new being
with what they need for this life.
In these days of heartache and horror,
I think of my mother holding me wet in her arms
for the first time, when she whispered syllables
that charged me with joy—that sincere, love-drenched
moment out of which my whole life has bloomed.
Perhaps this is why I cry when Gail tells me
about the magic of that moment. It’s as if mom
gifted me an underground spring that flows
even when the land around it is dry. Even when
it doesn’t rain. For years. Still, that water flows.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged destiny, joy, name | 6 Comments »
The hands are churches that worship the world.
—Naomi Shihab Nye, “Daily”
To pour water over the aloe,
the cyclamen, the jade plant, the cactus,
this, too, is prayer. Prayer in touching
my own dry lips, marveling at the fullness
beneath fingertips. Worship in hefting
the tea pot by its thick black handle.
Worship in squeezing the sudsy warm sponge.
Just yesterday, while we were driving,
Art said to me, “Why not open to the marvelous?”
I equated marvelous with the grand, the inexplicable,
even the strange. It didn’t occur to me then
that gripping the smooth, leather arc of steering wheel
is marvelous, cradling the white paper cup full of coffee
is marvelous, fingering the waffle pattern on the dishcloth
as I fold it is marvelous. Marvelous, flipping through
skin-thin pages of notebooks. Marvelous
and sacred, my palm resting on my husband’s thigh.
Marvelous, these knobby knuckles, how they
curl around the hair brush. Sacred,
the pillowed pads of these fingers, how they
trace the lines of my husband’s face,
how they twist and tug wool around the knitting
needles, how they tap at the keyboard to fashion
language out of feeling, how they rest above my heart
and translate into praise that beat, faithful and familiar.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged chore, daily, habit, hands, sacred, worship | 5 Comments »
Every time we pass this spot on the dusty river trail,
my daughter gazes across the water to the other side,
shaded by cliffs, where moss grows thick and deep.
I would love to sleep on that moss, she says,
as her eyes go gauzy, her voice grows soft.
Living in high desert, as we do, mossy places are few.
As a girl, I had in my bedroom a whole wall covered
with a mural of a Japanese garden, its gray rocks
mostly covered in green. I, too, dreamed of stepping
into in a place so lush, so verdant, so alive even rocks
proved fertile ground. To find that kind of fertility inside me—
inviting what is sensual, vital, to flourish in the barren,
desiccated places in my heart—that is my new dream.
But it is not always easy to let in the dark. Not always easy
to let what is hard in me be broken down so something
might grow. There are places I long to go with my girl.
Some are nearby, just across the stream.
Some, breath close, are much harder to travel to.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged conversation, fertile, inner landscape, moss | 2 Comments »
In a world of bests, good is a relief. Best invites an argument; good is just a suggestion.
—Melissa Kirsch, “What’s Good” in The New York Times, March 14, 2026
This morning I slip out of my good bed
into my good green slippers. I drink good coffee
and play a good game of chase with my nephews.
They are good, good boys. I take a good long drive
with my good old friend and we arrive in a town
I have loved for years full of good memories
and good people. There we eat a good dinner
and then spend a night sharing poems.
I’m grateful for the poems that make me ache,
because it’s good to bear what’s bad together.
It’s not easy. But real. Real good. The kind of good
that makes your whole body hum, that makes
your hands clap and your heart stretch wide,
feeling so good, so good, even as you cry.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged community, good, good enough, paradox, poetry reading | 6 Comments »
for Thilo
To the unmoving body
of the tiny bird in the grass
below the kitchen window,
the young boy brings a plate
of white safflower seeds.
Hours later, when the bird
has not moved, one wing still askew,
the boy weeps. His father and I
sing a death song as we carry
the almost weightless body
in a brief procession across the yard.
The boy and his mother walk
behind. Her fingers lightly rest
where his own wings would be.
There is a tenderness inside us
that knows every life is precious
and refuses to pretend otherwise.
Later, the boy carves a chickadee
into the top crust of an apple pie,
making of grief something beautiful.
I want to protect that part of him—
the part that feels, that respects,
that honors. I want to awaken
that part in us all—the part
that dares to care deeply,
the part that knows every
life matters.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged boy, caring, chickadee, feeling, grief, love, pie | 6 Comments »
We lay on the porch in the dark
marveling up at the sky, Orion’s
belt at our feet, Jupiter just up
to the left. We chatted of satellites
and the soft milky way glow; we
named the constellations we could.
And when young Winston laid his head
on my chest and I felt the gentle ease
in his small warm weight, I was equal
parts universe and human—
astonished again by how, in this vast,
cold, expanding world, we have been given
the capacity to trust. And no matter
how bleak it sometimes gets on earth,
there are also moments such as this,
when we come together to gaze into the night
and, lingering in immensity, we feel it,
side by side by side by side by side by
side by side, the gift of loving each other,
dark though it may be.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged constellations, family, love, night, trust | 6 Comments »