“Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us we find poems.” 

― Naomi Shihab Nye

I spend my days between re-invention and poetry. Let me explain. I believe in re-invention. I believe in the soft underbelly. I believe in the open mind and hand. I believe in the cracks that let the light in. I believe in the re-frame, the re-calibration, the re-imagining. I believe in the slog, the soar, the stench, the sweetness, the stretch. Re-invention is life’s gold mending our broken parts. Re-invention is life’s whip stitch piecing together our torn seems. Re-invention is life’s coral thriving within a sea-buried shipwreck. 

Moving between re-invention and poetry feels like breath. To stop re-inventing would mean death. Finding poetry, creating poetry — with the clarity of a fine diamond and the passion of an aria — might be the point of it all. When looked at this way, poetry is the everyday action of waking up and putting on my shoes. It is involuntary, like inhaling and exhaling. It is brushing my teeth and doing the dishes. It is stroking a cat and scrubbing a toilet. It is heating leftovers and filling prescriptions. Each action becomes a small re-invention, and as such, poetry. 

What I Keep Learning

It has been a year since a dear friend broke up with me. 

About a year ago, I received an email from a dear friend saying that she no longer wanted to have a relationship. After a lifetime — more than 35 years — she chose to end our friendship. The stages of grief ensued. Sadness. Anger. Denial. Bargaining. I still move back and forth between every stage depending upon the day. The circumstances of the break-up become less vivid as time passes and the situation feels more permanent. The questions shift from what does an apology, forgiveness, and reconciliation even mean in this situation — to — do I even seek (again) to repair the situation, and if I do, what does repair look like when trust has been so deeply broken? In the wake of a profound communication breakdown, I am a writer who cannot find words.

I write this now thinking about re-invention. I write this now because it is spring — a time of rebirth and resurrection. I write this now as the second round of silent birthdays ensues. I write this now as the list of moments from our lives that we have not shared grows. I write this because I know I am not alone in the space of making sense of lost, fractured, and broken relationships. It has been a tough year of things falling apart. We had navigated all our falling apart together for most of our lives and the separation feels almost like death has occurred. I did not choose to navigate these waters without her, yet that is where we are. 

Everything Will Be OK

A sign planted along the Atlanta Beltline a few weeks ago exclaimed these words. This sign reminds me of something I am increasingly convinced of — Everything will be OK because my experience has been that everything has been OK (definitely not as planned, but OK.) 

When I got my dream teaching job, I quickly realized managing a full teaching load and a community auditorium (all part of the job) was too much. Then, the main curtain of the stage in the auditorium was positioned too close to a light and began to smolder during a performance, causing a school evacuation. Then, after a few months, I submitted my resignation and cleaned out my classroom in the middle of the night. In the end, everything turned out OK. 

After the stage fire, I moved to Bellingham, Washington. When I arrived, I quickly learned my belongings had been lost on a truck in Nebraska. Then, fleas infested my apartment. Then, my car was totaled. Then, my teaching license was delayed. Then, I got fired from the job I had taken as a receptionist at a Pediatrician’s office. In the end, everything turned out OK. 

I moved to Austin, Texas to pursue a PhD. Then, the engine died in the car I bought to replace the car that replaced the car that replaced the car totaled in Bellingham. Then, it looked like an unhappy doctoral committee would derail my dissertation. Then, buried under multiple years of graduate school debt, graduating felt like climbing K2. In the end, everything turned out OK. 

My list of things that turned out OK could go on and on. 

My point is that when doubt fills my head, and fear fills my heart, I must remember the lessons I have learned. It is essential to draw from muscle memory. Knowing things will be OK means I stay present. Knowing things will be OK means I reach outside myself — to friends, mentors, and loved ones — for guidance. Knowing things will be OK means finding my breath. Knowing things will be OK means hope and faith do not rely on certainty or absolutes but rather the something else of seasons, tides, constellations, roots, and wings.

Before you know kindness

I first read Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Kindness” several years ago. Shihab Nye connects kindness with loss and sorrow, suggesting that kindness emerges from the deep space left by sorrow. That feels true in the way our common stories bind us together, in the way connections exist beyond words, and in the way there is a universality to sorrow — specifically as a predicate to kindness — that makes kindness known, real, and accessible.

In a world of deep sorrow, the idea that sorrow is a path to kindness is comforting and hopeful. Let me explain. Within our world, vulnerability is a path to kindness. Pain is a path to kindness. Honesty is a path to kindness. Faith is a path to kindness. Trust is a path to kindness. Gratitude is a path to kindness. Imagination is a path to kindness. Creativity is a path to kindness.

Kindness can only make sense after sorrow. Before sorrow, kindness is a separate experience — us and them. Before sorrow, kindness is a simple creature living inside a complex world. Before sorrow, kindness is platitude, lipstick, and syrup. After sorrow, kindness is horizon, oceans and miles. After sorrow, kindness is tears flowing together. After sorrow, kindness is common language. After sorrow, kindness is stillness and knowing. 

Paying Attention

— A tribute to 2024 Boston Marathon Finishers

— John Batiste at Coachella 2024

— Kindness, by Naomi Shihab Nye

— An On Being conversation with Naomi Shihab Nye — “Before You Know Kindness As the Deepest Thing Inside…”

— Voices in the Air — A Conversation with Naomi Shihab Nye hosted by Banyan Books & Sound