love it when souls get leaky and poems happen

To live without explanation. My ego hates this, but my grief demands it.

They cannot defeat a rebellion they cannot see—we, the quiet force that slips through cracks, rewrites the story, and builds the energetic heart. Refuse to be reduced. The monolith is already crumbling.

Current era

Left in the dust in order to stay aligned with soul enough times to know: It’s okay. When the dust settles, truth reveals light pouring through hearts wild and brave enough to hold the empty pose.

I have judgement; I’m human. I’m cozy with it. I know how it feels in me. I also know how curiosity feels. I’ve cultivated its reach across my inner landscape. As long as I’m the tiniest bit more curious than certain, discovery and connection is possible.

Listening, really listening, means being prepared to see and hear things based on other's experiences, from other perspectives, that may challenge our preconceptions, maybe even disturb our sense of identity. That's what can make it feel so uncomfortable. And so very important.

It is never what I think it should be, what I try so desperately to get it to be. It is always, so stubbornly, what it is. And I don’t want to miss the gift.

In a culture obsessed with conquering, I don’t want to be untouchable or unstoppable. I want to be opened, softened, yielding to life.

Some days there is nothing in the world that can make me feel better. But the sea helps me feel how I feel.

When I write, I want the words to be truer than I am. I want them to question me, crack my facade, cut through the fog, pull me out of myself, and tousle me with light.

I’ve been trying to “get a grip” on what it means to be me in this life for my whole life. Turns out there’s no gripping the inexplicable. There’s only living it. Life is one big free fall through the mystery.

As a recovering Meddler and Empath Without Boundaries, I worry sometimes that minding my business looks like I don’t care. But it’s the opposite. I care so much—enough to set down the weight of the world and humbly do my job.

Please help me say what I cannot say. —prayer for writing

Deep feeling and nuanced thinking requires keen discerning. Otherwise, I’m a ship lost at sea. May I know anchors within my explorations, ease within my deep dives, and gentle winds that catch my wings, turning the fall to fly.

Healing is the realization there are things I cannot fix that I must soften and stretch my heart to hold.

Being my genuine self guarantees not fitting in. Fair enough. But the real challenge: Authenticity poses me for deep belonging, wherein love demolishes every bit of identity I’ve built around being misunderstood.

Some things don’t resolve; they snowball into new mysteries.

How often I’ve tried to make a Thing of things. Easy to do in this world of spectacle and illusion. But each day, it comes down to this: I’m either quietly devoting myself to what I love, or I’m not. Everything else belongs to the wind.