The first law of thermodynamics states this:
'energy can neither be created nor destroyed.'

Which is that everything around us is recycled energy:
you, me, your dog, those we love and those we avoid.

Which is to say that the energy that makes us
is as ancient as the beginning of time itself.

Which is to say that our bones could have been 
fragmented together from the ashes of the library of Alexandria.

Which is to say our sinews and spine were crafted from the 
end of a hundred-year-old oak tree and our smiles a comet.

Which is to say our hearts could be Achilles' spirit
when he battled at Troy, bringing his enemies down with it.

Which is to say, when we feel like life is overwhelming, 
wemust remember that we're just sparks of energy borrowing skin.

That no matter how much this pain feels everlasting,
this is just the temporary fabric we are in.

my brain and
heart divorced
 
a decade ago
 
over who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have become
 
eventually,
they couldn't be
in the same room
with each other
 
now my head and heart
share custody of me
 
I stay with my brain
during the week
 
and my heart
gets me on weekends
 
they never speak to one another
          - instead, they give me
the same note to pass
to each other every week
 
and their notes they
send to one another always
say the same thing:
 
"This is all your fault"
 
on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the past
 
and on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the future
 
they blame each
other for the
state of my life
 
there's been a lot
of yelling - and crying
 
so,
 
     lately, I've been
spending a lot of
time with my gut
 
who serves as my
unofficial therapist
 
most nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcage
 
and slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut's plush leather chair
that's always open for me
 
~ and I just sit sit sit sit
until the sun comes up
 
last evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my head
 
I nodded
 
I said I didn't know
if I could live with
either of them anymore
 
"my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,"
I lamented
  
my gut squeezed my hand
 
"I just can't live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,"
I sighed
 
my gut smiled and said:
 
"in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,"
 
I was confused
      - the look on my face gave it away
 
"if you are exhausted about
your heart's obsession with
the fixed past and your mind's focus
on the uncertain future
 
your lungs are the perfect place for you
 
there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there either
 
there is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this moment
 
there is only breath
and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out."
 
this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leaves
 
and while my
heart was staring
at old photographs
 
I packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungs
 
before I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said
 
"what took you so long?"
 
 
~ John Roedel (johnroedel.com)

Notes on Survival
by Nikita Gill

You are allowed to break.
Everything does.
The stars grow tired and fall.
The waves crash against rocks and shores.
Trees fall for both storms and wind
leaving behind seeds and saplings
so a version of them may grow again.
Storm clouds part for rain
then part for the sun to come through.
Night must break for day
and day for night in a cycle.
The world is made of broken things
piecing themselves back together
-- this is what gives us the most resilient stories.
So why do you think that you were made
any differently than the night and the storm clouds?
You know how to put yourself back together again, too,
just as well as they do.

Take heart that you have managed
to rebuild yourself a thousand times
after every bad day.

That is no small thing.

​WHEN SOMEONE DEEPLY LISTENS TO YOU
by John Fox

When someone deeply listens to you
It is like holding out a dented cup
you’ve had since childhood
and watching it fill up with
cold, fresh water.
When it balances on top of the brim,
you are understood.
When it overflows and touches your skin
you are loved.

When someone deeply listens to you
the room where you stay
starts a new life
and the place where you wrote your first poem
begins to glow in your mind’s eye.
It is as if gold had been discovered.

When someone deeply listens to you
Your bare feet are on the earth
and a beloved land that seemed distant
is now at home within you.

by Lynn Ungar

Imagine. The only thing that
God requires of them
is a persistent, wriggling, moving forward,
passing the earth through
the crinkled tube of their bodies
in a motion less like chewing
than like song.

Everything they encounter
goes through them,
as if sunsets, drug store clerks,
diesel fumes and sidewalks
were to move through our very centers
and emerge subtly different
for having fed us — looser somehow,
more open to the possibility of life.
​
They say the job of angels
is to sing to God in serried choirs.
Perhaps. But most jobs
aren’t so glamorous.
Mostly the world depends upon
the silent chanting underneath our feet.
To every grain that enters: “Welcome.”
To every parting mote: “Be blessed.”

AN INVITATION
by Jeff Foster
from Falling in Love With Where You Are
​
I don't want to hear what you believe
I'm not at all interested in your certainty
I couldn't care less about your unexcelled perfection

Share with me your doubts
Open up your tender heart
Let me in to your struggles

I'll meet you in that place
Where your spiritual conclusions
Are starting to crack open

That's where the creativity lives
That's where the newness shines
That's where we can truly meet:
Beyond the image

Your imperfections
Are so perfect
In this light

I don't want you to be perfect
I want you to be real

the fire that awakens you
by Danielle Doby
From I Am Her Tribe

I am drawn to the light in others
it is how I know I am not alone

to be a seeker of the light
is to be connected to the very truth itself -

               the way out of the darkness
               is when we can look across the table
               and find our face in another's 

when we let our stories exist
we invite others to see themselves more clearly
in a space where
pain
struggle
stunning resilience
and belonging
are not unique to just one person

they live in each of us
proving we are not on our own

i heal
and you heal
and when we heal
the world heals with us

an open heart is the key
that unlocks hope's reach

the sun is here
within you
now open your eyes

WHEN SOMEONE DEEPLY LISTENS TO YOU
by John Fox

When someone deeply listens to you
It is like holding out a dented cup
you’ve had since childhood
and watching it fill up with
cold, fresh water.
When it balances on top of the brim,
you are understood.
When it overflows and touches your skin
you are loved.

When someone deeply listens to you
the room where you stay
starts a new life
and the place where you wrote your first poem
begins to glow in your mind’s eye.
It is as if gold had been discovered.

When someone deeply listens to you
Your bare feet are on the earth
and a beloved land that seemed distant
is now at home within you.

​Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

​—after Gwendolyn Brooks

We mourn, we bless,
we blow, we wail, we
wind—down, we sip,
we spin, we blind, we
bend, bow & hem. We
hip, we blend, we bind,
we shake, we shine,
shine. We lips & we
teeth, we praise & protest.
We document & we
drama. We demand &
we flow, fold & hang
loose. We measure &
we moan, mourn & whine
low. & we live, and we
breathe. & some of the time,
we don’t.

Tonight, I am here. Here
& tired. Here & awake,
sure, & alive. Yes here &
still, still here, still & here
& still awake & still still
alive.

​If you are not proud
For who you are, for what you say, for how you look;
If every time you stop
To think of yourself, you do not see yourself glowing
With golden light; do not, therefore, give up on yourself.
You can get proud.
 
You do not need
A better body, a purer spirit, or a Ph.D.
To be proud.
You do not need
A lot of money, a handsome boyfriend, or a nice car.
You do not need
To be able to walk, or see, or hear,
Or use big, complicated words,
Or do any of those things that you just can’t do
To be proud. A caseworker
Cannot make you proud,
Or a doctor.
You only need more practice.
You get proud by practicing.
 
There are many many ways to get proud.
You can try riding a horse, or skiing on one leg,
Or playing guitar,
And do well or not so well,
And be glad you tried
Either way.
You can show
Something you’ve made
To someone you respect
And be happy with it no matter
What they say.
You can say
What you think, though you know
Other people do not think the same way, and you can
keep saying it, even if they tell you
You are crazy.
 
You can add your voice
All night to the voices
Of a hundred and fifty others
In a circle
Around a jailhouse
Where your brothers and sisters are being held
For blocking buses with no lifts,
Or you can be one of the ones
Inside the jailhouse,
Knowing of the circle outside.
You can speak your love
To a friend
Without fear.
You can find someone who will listen to you
Without judging you or doubting you or being
Afraid of you
And let you hear yourself perhaps
For the very first time.
These are all ways
Of getting proud.
None of them
Are easy, but all of them
Are possible. You can do all of these things,
Or just one of them again and again.
You get proud
By practicing.
 
Power makes you proud, and power
Comes in many fine forms
Supple and rich as butterfly wings.
It is music
when you practice opening your mouth
And liking what you hear
Because it is the sound of your own
True voice.
 
It is sunlight
When you practice seeing
Strength and beauty in everyone,
Including yourself.
It is dance
when you practice knowing
That what you do
And the way you do it
Is the right way for you
And cannot be called wrong.
All these hold
More power than weapons or money
Or lies.
All these practices bring power, and power
Makes you proud.
You get proud
By practicing.
 
Remember, you weren’t the one
Who made you ashamed,
But you are the one
Who can make you proud.
Just practice,
Practice until you get proud, and once you are proud,
Keep practicing so you won’t forget.
You get proud
By practicing.

stop.
stand here.
and breathe in
all that makes you grateful for this life.

a good laugh.
a good cry.
when both are fused together
at the same time.

soul connections.
choosing someone with your whole heart.
the ease exhaled after the release.

tuck these close
into the corners of your pockets.

the deep crevices of yoru spine.

so you may always
stand tall in the belief
that no matter what you are given
magic is always present within you
in what's here
and what's right now.

Long before the pandemic, the trees
knew how to guard one place with
roots and shade. Moss found
how to hug a stone for life.
Every stream works out how
to move in place, staying home
even as it flows generously
outward, sending bounty far.
Now is our time to practice -
singing from balconies, sending
words of comfort by any courier,
kindling our lonesome generosity
to shine in all directions like stars.

For the rebels and the misfits, the black sheep and the outsiders. For the refugees, the orphans, the scapegoats, and the weirdos. For the uprooted, the abandoned, the shunned and invisible ones.

May you recognize with increasing vividness that you know what you know.

May you give up your allegiances to self-doubt, meekness, and hesitation.

May you be willing to be unlikeable, and in the process be utterly loved.

May you be impervious to the wrongful projections of others, and may you deliver your disagreements with precision and grace.

May you see, with the consummate clarity of nature moving through you, that your voice is not only necessary, but desperately needed to sing us out of this muddle.

May you feel shored up, supported, entwined, and reassured as you offer yourself and your gifts to the world.

May you know for certain that even as you stand by yourself, you are not alone.