It’s like driving over a hill
the day after a flood
only to discover on calm water
a gathering of trumpet swans,
the elegant stretch of their long necks rising,
their white wings spread wide in arrival.
Or like skiing through a vast valley
only to find another trail that leads you
into a grove of elder cedar trees,
their great trunks humbling you,
their balsamic scent opening
in the shade like holy incense.
Yes, that’s what it’s like when,
in a world that feels hostile and hateful,
you arrive in a faraway town full of strangers
who welcome you into warm rooms
filled with bright cloths, with soft guitar,
with fringed yellow tulips in blue vases.
Yes, that’s what it’s like when,
after listening to the firehose of the news,
you meet new friends who speak with you
of moss and making baskets and singing and seeds,
and your heart leaps up like a crocus in spring,
alive with the truth of how good it can be, this life.
Posts Tagged ‘humanity’
Some Good News
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged goodness, humanity, kindness, news on February 25, 2025| 4 Comments »
The Turning
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ermine, humanity, love on February 17, 2025| 14 Comments »
I can’t think of a more powerful response to life’s sorrows than loving.
—Suleika Jaouad
When stories of the selfishness of humans
stain my thoughts like spilt gray ink, when
proofs of our cruelty grab me by the chest
and squeeze, squeeze until it hurts to breathe,
when I lament what we’re capable of,
this is when I most need to remember
it is also human to love.
Like today, when crushed by a thoughtless act,
I found myself atop a snow-covered pass
where I almost missed the sleek, white body
leaping across the vast white field,
and that chance spotting, that wonder,
that luck was all it took to fall in love again
with this world that somehow created a creature
that changes colors twice a year,
a creature that runs easily atop deep, new snow.
And as love raced through me
like a winter-white ermine, I, too,
was able to not sink in, to not get stuck
in what feels cold, dense and bottomless.
This was not a moment that will change the world,
but in this moment, loving the world changed me—
made me more than my fear and sadness,
turned me again toward the miracle.
Having Lost Sight Now of the Shore
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, grief, humanity, ocean on November 13, 2021| 7 Comments »
Wading into the ocean of grief,
I feel how the tides tug
at the story of how I arrived here—
the waves don’t tear my story away,
no, but float its fabric around me
till I wear it more loosely
and meet the raw self inside the story.
How many of us are here
in these waters learning
new ways to swim?
Already we’re deeper, deeper in.
Though it is a terrible gift to be here,
I fall in love with us all,
with our common humanity.
How sweet it is to meet each other
with our vulnerability glittering on our skin,
our bodies more buoyant
than we ever dreamed.
Wanting a Fractal Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Corona Virus, fibonacci sequence, golden spiral, humanity, love, math, nature, pattern on April 5, 2020| 7 Comments »
Eadem mutata resurgo
Latin motto: Changed, I rise again
Sometimes in spring
I can still find the dried seeds
of the mountain mahogany
clinging to the ends
of the branches—
feathery golden spirals,
logarithmic and light.
How the universe
loves a pattern,
an elegant mathematics—
this same spiral is found
in spider webs, sunflowers,
snail shells, cyclones, the arms
of galaxies, the human ear,
even in the nerves of my cornea
that help me to see
the very pattern that
gives me the ability to see.
I want to find the self-similar spiral curve
that informs kindness and strength
as it spreads through a people. I want
to find the equation that calculates
an exponentially growing radius of love.
I want to find the dynamic beauty in us
that amplifies as it moves out
with ever increasing speed
from the infinite center.
I want to embody the trustworthy constant
that inspires our species to be better,
want to know the recursive courage that drives us
to thrive in difficult times.
Our potential, endless, yet humble
as last year’s seed in my hand, ready
to be planted, to sprout, to grow.
Manifesto
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged humanity, poem, poetry, power on May 29, 2019| 7 Comments »
And if we can’t save the world,
and who says we can’t, then
let us try anyway. Perhaps
we have no superhuman powers—
can’t see through buildings,
can’t fly, can’t bend the bars of cages—
but we have human powers—
can listen, can stand up to,
can stand up for, can cradle.
And if we can’t imagine
a world of peace, and who
says we can’t, then let us
try anyway. Perhaps we start
tonight—on a Wednesday.
Thursday works, too. Or Friday.
Doesn’t much matter the day.
All that matters is the choice
to meet this moment exactly
as it is, with no dream of being
anyone else but our flawed
and fabulous very self—
and then, wholly present,
bringing this self to the world,
touching again and again what is true.
What if we do? And if we can’t
save ourselves, and who
says we can’t, let’s try anyway.
There was a time I thought
I could never be healed. That
was only because it hadn’t happened yet,
so I decided it wasn’t possible.
Healing happened anyway.
What have we decided isn’t possible?
What if we stopped believing
that limit? What if, right now,
we used our human powers
of compassion, clarity, gratitude,
praise? What if we did it together—
opened all those closed doors inside
us? What if we let the opening do
what opening does?
The Gate
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airport, beauty, connection, humanity, poem, poetry, travel on June 21, 2018| 6 Comments »
It was Concourse B that altered me
as I ran past old women in sarongs
and young wailing children and men
in red ties and couples holding hands.
At first, all humanity felt like a hindrance,
living hurdles between me
and gate B-14 where the plane
for Seattle was already boarding.
But then, and who can say why,
as I stitched past B-70, B-68, B-66,
I began to notice how beautiful they were,
the ones with dark briefcases and the ones
with strollers, tall ones and fat ones and
slight ones and crooked ones,
all of us constellating in the same place
at the same time, star dust
with dreams and goals and heartaches
and hopes. And as I wove through
the fabric of us,
I felt their blessing as they parted
to let me through,
and I blessed them, too,
with a thousand silent thank yous,
astonished at how different we are,
how very much the same.
From The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged humanity, poem, poetry, sonder, swimming, the dictionary of obscure sorrows on June 24, 2015| 4 Comments »
It turns out it’s just made up, the word sonder.
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows says it’s a noun
that means, “the realization that each random passerby is living
a life as vivid and complex as your own … an epic story
that continues invisibly around you like an anthill
sprawling deep underground.” But it’s not made up,
the realization, as I noticed today at the pool in downtown Chicago.
I swim in a lane with an older man and a young obese woman.
For them, I will most likely always be nothing more
than an extra who showed up on the first clear summer day
after a week of rain, the woman in the black bikini and purple
goggles who shared their wide swim lane. The sun wove its light
through the chlorinated water as we swam back and forth,
back and forth. I would not have noticed them all, except
that there they were in my way and in my lane, though
I regarded them not only with small frustration but also
with growing curiosity. Who were they? What flavor
of ice cream did they like? Who had broken their hearts
and what were they sure they would never tell anyone else?
Were their closets clean or chaotic with hats and scarves spilling
out of uncloseable drawers? Did their mothers love them
or tell them they were worthless? Did they know how to fence? Or weld?
Had they ever been to France? Could they speak another language or sing?
I lived a life with them then, there in our lane where we never
spoke a word, our arms pulling us all in the same direction, toward an end
from which we always returned, though later not one of us would remember
who we shared that hour with, nor would we recall
how the sun shone so brightly, as if it were only for us.
And the Polar Bear Sat in the Shade
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged freedom, humanity, poem, poetry, sea lion, zoo on August 10, 2014| 2 Comments »
The sea lion swims in the glass-framed pond
with his eyes closed. Lap after lap, he barely
seems to move his great webbed feet, his smooth
gray body flexes and curves. I try to imagine his eyes
are closed in contentment, but that is such
an utterly human wish. It is human to wish—
to see what we want to see, to believe what we want
to believe. The sea lion swims in his cage
with his eyes closed. I can’t stop watching.
A Short History of Humanity
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged action verb, history, humanity, poem, poetry on October 10, 2013| 1 Comment »
want
wreak
begin
leak
kill
make
swallow
break
climb
wait
chance
create
hold
hope
foil
choke
will
feast
lie
cease
argue
shame
try
again
Inc Lak Keig
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged humanity, i am the other you, kindness, poetry on August 20, 2013| 2 Comments »
A woman walks down the street.
It does not matter her name,
the color of her hair, her age,
or how she votes. What matters
is if you would go help her rise
when she trips and twists her ankle.
What matters is if you look openly
into her eyes when she is seeking yours.
What matters is if you see how she,
like you, is holding onto something dead
and has not quite yet managed to let
it go. There are cultures where people
greet each other, strangers and lovers,
by saying, I am the other you.
What matters is if, when you see the woman
walking on the street, you believe this is true.