:: part five ::
To find this shape of you, you need to start slowly and small, and build up the places you have neglected.
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:: part 4 ::
I am of course writing these things for myself, attempting to teach myself things about being a human that I have been mulling over for years.
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:: part 3 ::
All of this leads to relationship. Relationship to the world around you and to the people in it, a way to live a sacred life that dignifies and sees others.
But there is an order to all of this. There are the secret things. There are the things you share, the stories you tell. There are the things you try to say but can never quite communicate.
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:: part 2 ::
So, there are the hidden things that no one can ever fully describe or define in you. The hidden nuance, your history, your life of true and untrue things, all the times you did something that seemed so normal but actually took real and overwhelming bravery.
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There is no one who can define or contain all of you. All your wildness, your beauty, the things you struggle through on your own. The thoughts of others can’t create you, can’t limit your being.
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Here is one of my poems from my first year of daily poetry. You can read the images or scroll to read the text. I’ve been editing all of the poems in this first year, and trying to figure out the best way to publish them!
Oh, how I love poetry.
xo.
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Good morning, —here are some snippets from the last few weeks which I never managed to form into an actual blog post, until now they are a scrap bag of moments!
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Right now, I am taking inspiration from the red cotton tree, which flowers after its leaves fall, when it has nothing left but gray branches. I do not know what this means, or if it means anything, but Jesus said, “consider the flowers,” so here I am, looking at this big tree, driving around the valley to find the ones I love. I know it is a place to rest the eyes. I know people gather the flowers for food.
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Lately, it is hard to wake up. I can’t quite remember why things are safe or whether days or wakefulness is good, so I need to pull myself out of bed and put my feet on the stairs.
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Dear Isaac,
You turned nine a few weeks ago, and though you are still somewhat small among all the bigs, well, nine is kind of a large age for a little bear to be.
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Morning like a glass of clear water. I take the first sip. Everything has become a poem, lately, even sleeping, which feels like being curled on the forest floor with creatures coming by to investigate what or who I am.
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Hi! I’m emerging from the beautiful haze of Christmas to write about it, after a week of preparation and then the days themselves:
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The other day, I was riding one of our motorbikes, a rattly old beloved thing, through town to pick up some groceries. I could start many sentences this way. It is what I do. I shop for mangos, lemons, and tomatoes. And somewhere along the way, I had an epiphany.
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This is a post about putting together Kenya’s twelfth-grade curriculum. And it is a post about Black Panther. As always, there are smarter and more experienced people who write about these things, but sometimes we need to hear about complex issues from our friends, and I am your friend.
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blessings on the tiny flowers
on the side of my path, God, bless
the wild egrets in their flight,
bless the late rains, rain blessings on
my dear friends, the strong ones
I am sitting in a coffee shop in Bangkok, wearing two masks. There are many things in this city that I would like to do but cannot because of the state of things, the pandemic.
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Rain comes in quickly, almost instantly, first as damp wind and then water gusting, sheeting, pouring, drenching. The power goes out and the kids stampede upstairs to play in Isaac’s room.
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Dear Solo,
My love, in all the motion and the sets of goodbyes and all of it, you turned thirteen!
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