Templates

it’s impossible
that we keep breathing
with all the years
pressing on our chest

it’s impossible
that we keep walking
given the condition
of the heart’s terrain

it’s impossible
that laughter continues to spill
from the cracks in our sorrow

that anger continues to be
a kind of faith

that the small graces
coffee, clean socks, the stillness of night

still sustain us
sometimes

it’s impossible
how we break on our dreams
and then dream them again

how amidst the thousand small terrors
of daily life
it is possible to be kind

how as the ax falls
and nooses swing
we go on checking the TV Guide for decent movies
accepting some phone calls, dodging others

doing battle with the rent and the weather and
the holes in our shoes and
the distance between us

there is something inside me that says
yes
there is no way out
you have to play this terrible guitar
until the strings break
or your fingers

but the music I know
in the moments between
the panic I hold more intimately
than any lover

it’s impossible
how much sorrow
a smile can hold

I think every human being
eventually has a moment
where they are standing outside in sweatpants
that have lost the will to be pants,
holding a trash bag, a divorce, a parking ticket,
or some other receipt from the universe
that says, “surprise, this too is part of it.”

And then the sky bruises purple.

And the air touches your face
like it knows your whole story.

And suddenly you realize:

all the real is actually unreal.

The dirt.
The breath.
The weird little bones in your hands.
The fact that we are here,
on a floating rock with pollen counts,
paying bills,
missing dead people,
loving living people
who say “leaving now”
while still fully naked and looking for socks.

And still,
the moon clocks in.

No applause.
No benefits.
No note from management saying,
“Great work being ancient and luminous again.”

Just the moon,
working nights
like a single mother with no applause,
packing silver lunches
for every dark thing
that still has to rise.

Tell me that isn’t holy.
Tell me there is a better word
than sacred
for the way light keeps returning
with no guarantee
we will actually stop and take note.

I know people who believe in therapy,
probiotics,
tarot,
twelve-step meetings,
manifestation journals,
and waiting exactly eleven minutes
before texting back
so they do not appear emotionally available,
even though their whole nervous system
is standing in the driveway holding flowers.

And underneath all of it,
every ritual,
every doctrine,
every smoothie with chia seeds,
the prayer is the same:

Please let me be loved.
Please let me be forgiven.
Please let this strange little life
mean something
before my lower back
submits its formal resignation.

What is going on?

For real tho—What is this place?

This unbearable tenderness
of being alive long enough
to watch steam lift from coffee in winter
like a soul practicing leaving.

To see your friend laugh so hard
they slap the table
as if joy is a mosquito
they are trying to kill.

To hear a child say “pisghetti”
and, for one shining second,
realize language
has finally been improved.

I know I already noted this in the first piece,
but the older I get,
the less use I have for certainty.

Certainty has never made me pull over
because the sunset looked like God
dropped a jar of peach jam
across the whole midwestern sky
and decided to be lazy
and not clean up.

Certainty has never made me gasp
at rain on hot pavement.

Certainty has never found me
in the cereal aisle,
holding Captain Crunch,
suddenly remembering
that everyone I have ever loved
was made from stardust,
hunger,
and a series of decisions
we probably should have slept on.

No.
It has always been awe.

Awe was the first church.

Before steeples.
Before committees.
Before men got involved
and started making rules about skirts.

Awe was there
with its wild hair
and muddy feet,
saying:

Look.
Look again.
Look until looking
becomes love.

Awe, and soup.

Awe, and someone rubbing your back
when you are sick.

Awe, and old couples at Target
arguing gently about avocados,
as if marriage is not one vow
but ten thousand errands
performed beside the person
who knows exactly
how you like the cart pushed.

Maybe gratitude
was never meant to sound elegant.

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Damn.
That woodpecker is trying
to beat that tree from itself.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you, body,
for continuing to drag me through this world
despite the many slim jims
I have done to you
at gas stations.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you to the dogs
who lose their entire minds
when we come home
as if we have returned from war
and not Walgreens.”

For me, that might be my gospel.

That joy that does not wait for us
to be impressive but only needs us
to come through the door.

Because the truth is,
this life is devastating.

And ridiculous.

One minute you are 22 and invincible,
driving too fast,
eating gas station nachos
with the confidence of a Greek god.

The next minute you are googling,
“Can sneezing cause a hamstring injury?”
and the answer is,
apparently,
“Welcome to the second half of your life.”

But even now—

even tired,
even grieving,
even emotionally held together
by iced coffee, playlists,
and one very specific wolves hoodie—

we keep finding reasons
to stay soft.

We plant tomatoes
even though grief is real.

We bake bread
even though the news is on fire.

We send photos of the sky
to people we love
with captions like,
“LOOK,”
as if beauty is an emergency
and we are all volunteer firefighters.

We keep saying,
“You have to see this,”
because wonder
is the oldest form
of resurrection.

So here’s to the believers
and the atheists
and the agnostics
and the people whose entire theology
is just trying not to cry
in the DMV line.

Here’s to the people clinging to faith.

Here’s to the people clinging to Xanax
and oat milk
and the one group chat
where nobody pretends to be okay.

Here’s to the tender-hearted weirdos.

The accidental mystics.

The ones who can contemplate mortality
for six straight hours
and then become emotionally attached
to a perfect peach.

The ones who know
despair has a mouth,
but so does laughter.

May we never stop being drop-kicked by beauty
in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

May we never become so polished
that we forget how to stand
in the Starbucks line of existence
with our dumb, gorgeous hearts open,
feeling the enormity of it all
rattle around in our bones
like thunder
looking for somewhere to laugh.

And may we remember:

whatever else this is,
whatever mess,
whatever miracle,
whatever cosmic group project
no one was prepped for—

all’ve it is astonishing.
that we are here.
that we have loved enough to be ruined.
that the moon keeps showing up.
that bread exists.

So pass it on.

Tear off a piece
with your bare hands.

Take it in as you take it down.

And then go outside and look at that moon.

I’ve become the person who talks to avocados.
Oh, look how ripe you are!

The one who talks to dust bunnies under the bed.
Oh, my goodness. How long have you been there?

I’ve become the person who narrates wind as it gusts,
the one who composes out loud while writing poems.

In short, I’m the person who once mystified me.
Does she really think lettuce seeds can hear her?

And I love being this woman who converses with stars,
with shadows, this person who notices feelings that rise

as I move through a day and takes pleasure in greeting them.
Hello shame. I say. Hello fear. Hello embarrassment.

How much easier life is when I join in the big conversation.
Then I am never alone. Not that the bananas talk back.

Neither does the mop. But that doesn’t stop me
from being curious about my connection with all of it—

the stain on the dishtowel, the pond as it melts,
the broken pot, the robin in the yard, the highway trash.

It’s not the talking part I love, but letting my attention
touch everything. Cracked glass. A lost glove. Tire tracks.

Mostly, I love the listening for what isn’t said back.

Why so many forms?
Why not just that one
hydrogen atom?

The creator goes off
on one wild, specific
tangent after another,
or millions simultaneously,
with an exuberance
that would seem to be
unwarranted, and with
an abandoned energy sprung
from an unfathomable font.

What is going on here?
The point of the dragonfly’s
terrible lip, the giant water bug,
birdsong, or the beautiful dazzle
and flash of sunlighted minnows,
is not that it all fits together
like clockwork – for it doesn’t,
particularly, not even inside
the goldfish bowl – but that
it all flows so freely and wild,
like the creek, that it all surges
in such a free, fringed tangle.

Freedom is the world’s water
and weather, the world’s nourishment
freely given, its soil and sap:
and the creator loves pizzazz.

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

We live on a planet
where trees whisper
to one another
through mycelial networks.
Where octopuses with nine brains dream,
and whales with hearts the size of small pianos sing,
calling each other by name.
Where elephants mourn their lost,
standing in silent vigil
over the bones of their kin.
Where bees dance
to the flowers,
and crows remember faces
never forgetting a slight.
Where ants build vast metropolises,
cats purr at the exact frequency of healing,
and the forest’s first breath after a fire
is a bloom of flowers.
Beauty and wonder are everywhere.
Life far more then we can imagine
Far more than we can even dream.
Walk softly upon this earth
There is room for ever more miracles.