There are many worthy causes out there right now, but one that is so close to my heart at the moment is the loss of farmland to data and distribution centers being built across the country. As I say in this week’s bonus poem, we need more land that’s left wild, more land on which only food is grown, and we need peaceful warriors to tend that land, and keep fighting to preserve it. In that spirit, I also want to share that my husband Brad and I are raising money to start our own farm and retreat center, and to preserve a piece of Vermont farmland forever. Many of you already support me, and please know that every dime will go toward this intention of Peaceful Warrior Farm. If you feel called to offer more support, however, we have launched a fundraiser to close the gap and ensure that this dream becomes a reality. Every little bit, even sharing with friends, will help us fulfill our vision.

Growing Hope

Hope grows in the spaces between

each wild daisy beside the dirt road,

each pink clover flower sweetening

its nectar when it senses a bumblebee

drawing near. Hope grows in a field

allowed to go feral—purple asters,

rye grass, and goldenrod reaching upward

to feed the monarchs passing through.

We need farmland that will never be

a data center, never buried beneath

a silencing strip of blacktop or concrete.

We need peaceful warriors to tend

and protect these acres against the

encroaching hunger for more and more,

the creeping disease of greed. We need

the hope that grows tangled in the legs

of sweet carrots, inside the many

eyes of potatoes we wipe clean as soon

as we pull them from the earth.

If you’d like to support our vision for a farm and retreat center, you can give here, or share with others. Again, for those of you who already support us: we can’t thank you enough!

Cutting Peonies

He slips on his flip-flops

and with an injured knee

hops down the porch steps,

gripping clippers in his hand.

Without a word between us,

I know what he’s about to do

and dig out a few Ball jars,

fill them with cold water

then go out myself, ready

to receive the blowsy pink

peonies he cuts, one by one,

trimming off their leaves

before passing them to me.

I lean in, and for the first time

this spring, breathe in the

subtle perfume that will soon

soften every room of the house.

A storm is brewing behind

the lid of gray clouds piled

above us, a pummeling rain

about to reduce each blossom

to a bare green nub. But we

are busy down here, gathering

evidence, building our case

for a beauty that saves

simply by existing.



I don’t know why I had resisted cutting any peonies this spring. I’ve been down with a cold for a week, and was about to head out of town for work as soon as I felt better. I think I saw the mess of those pink petals scattered on the window sills and floor, waiting to be cleaned up when I returned, and told myself not to bother. Luckily, one morning, Brad grabbed his clippers and stepped outside before the approaching storm. Knowing without words what he was doing, I dug out a few Ball jars and filled them with cold water, then followed him outside. He cut the huge exuberant blossoms, one by one, and trimmed off their leaves before handing each one off to me to place in the jars. Shaking out any stray ants, I buried my face in each one and let myself awaken to their sweet perfume. It was as if I’d forgotten what it was like to breathe, and then suddenly remembered. I thought about how my best friend had just messaged earlier that day, asking me to send some photos of the garden. “We only get so many springs,” she wrote. Now, each time I come into the kitchen to make coffee, I’m greeted by the sight of the peonies, having opened even wider than before. Now, when I carry bags of groceries up from the car, I remember to stop and inhale the scent of spring, the brevity of another season on Earth. I no longer worry about shriveled petals littering the floor, or seeing bouquets of bare, nubby stems sticking out of jars of murky water. Only so many springs, I say to myself, as I step outside in bare feet, across the warm mulch, to hold one more peony up to my face, breathing them in before they’re gone.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Write about a moment you surrendered fully to beauty, even if you felt resistance at first. You might borrow my friend’s line, “We only get so many springs . . . “ and see where that leads.


If you enjoy these free weekly emails, please consider making a donation here, or become a paid member below and support this offering on a monthly basis.

I have an online retreat coming with the wonderful Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer for 2 weeks in June, meeting 6/23 and 6/30 at 12pm ET. Please consider joining us if you are looking for a refuge for writing this summer, exploring the braided nature of gratefulness and grief. We have a few half-off scholarships still available as well for anyone who might need some help attending. More info here

The Sacred Grove

We can’t help turning into each other

at our common center. Often mistaken,

we grow like a single tree, reaching

for light and the touch of rain, thinking

this is what makes us separate, unique.

Only to find later that, like the aspens,

we share the very same root system—

only to learn that we were built to pass

nutrients back and forth to those who

need them the most. Kindness moves

through us like sap, like blood, until

our limbs rub up against each other,

and we remember: We are not one,

but part of a sacred grove.



I paused on the path back to my cabin that day, feeling like someone was following me in the empty woods. Was it a stranger, the bear I’d glimpsed a few times feeding on blackberries? When I looked over, I saw only the flashing, trembling leaves of aspens, the silence and privacy of those trees calling me closer. And stepping among them, I felt the same intimacy I sensed before, as if standing in the rustling presence not of many living things—but a single conscious being. I’d been staying for the summer at an off-the-grid Buddhist monastery called Arrow River, not far from Thunder Bay in Canada. After so many hours of solitude and meditation, I must have been more attuned than usual to the world around me, because I seemed to feel the pulse and presence of everything—spiders, ants, even the orange and yellow flowers of hawkweed that closed up each evening. I was not surprised to find out later that quaking aspens share the same vast root system. In fact, one tree called Pando (Latin for “I spread”), found in the Fishlake National Forest of central Utah, weighs in at a staggering 13 million pounds, consisting of 40,000 individual trees, and spanning over 106 acres. Scientists surmise it is the largest living organism on Earth, dating back all the way to the end of the last Ice Age.


That afternoon I stood inside what I can only call a sacred grove, and I felt like a guest in that open-air cathedral. I knew I had entered a place that moves at its own soulful pace, that breathes outside of clock-time. We can sense this same timeless quality in any forest, even in our own backyard, when we go quiet enough to let the human self fall away. Then we see the mistake in our thinking all along, believing that the point of life is only our own individual well-being. While we exist as unique expressions that must be honored, we come to see that our true purpose is maintaining an undeniable connection with each other. We were built, like aspens and other trees, to pass messages back and forth, to share nutrients when we have an excess with those who may be suffering, who may be doing without. Paradoxically, we become more ourselves when we find our common root with each other, allowing surface differences to fall away. Like sap, like blood, kindness and compassion move freely through us. We recall this each time our limbs rub up against one another, each time we reach toward solid ground for the wisdom we need. We access this common center by going still, even for just a few minutes, and entering a different world that lives inside this world we think we know so well. When we dare not to know for a little while and become more curious, it is then that the path opens into our own sacred grove, where we sense the undeniable aliveness of everything.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: You might borrow some version of my phrase, “We can’t help turning into each other,” and explore the many ways we all share a common root and center. How are we alike as humans, and what brings us together even at a time of seemingly deep division?


If you enjoy these free weekly emails, please consider making a one-time donation here, or become a member and support this offering on a monthly basis below.

This coming Wednesday at 1pm ET/10am PT, the wonderful poet Elise Powers will join me as the June guest for my Monthly Pause Writing Community on Zoom. You can subscribe to join us, and cancel at anytime. Your subscription also unlocks access to our archive of interviews with amazing poets from the past 2 years.

https://www.themonthlypause.com/

_{Photo credit: Photo by Steph Wilson on Unsplash}

Dear friends,

I’m working on a new book of short essays about the small moments of everyday awe that end up saving us. I wanted to share an excerpt of that book with you this week, inspired by a quote from one of my favorite authors and a dear friend, . If you haven’t gotten a hold of her newest novel yet, Life: A Love Story, please do so. Elizabeth writes with a poet’s heart about life, love, and these memories that filter through the years and won’t let go of us. Her novels and memoirs are intentional in the best sense of that word, so often uplifting kindness and connection at a time when we all need to be reminded such qualities are not only still possible, but happening every day. In this new book, I promise you too will fall in love with 92 year old Flo Greene, her infectious voice, and the way she sees the world.


Chapel

And all the way home, I felt like watching that child had let me build a little chapel inside myself, and I’d watched that little girl like she was a living prayer.

—Elizabeth Berg


I am making a chapel inside myself to house the moment that young family made it to the top of Haystack Mountain in Vermont. My husband and I had already been there for a while, taking in the 360-degree view of the Mettowee Valley and the Bald and Middle Mountains when they finally joined us, out of breath from the steep climb. Yet what stays with me now is not the striking view, not the fall asters blooming along the path with their soft violets and whites, thriving in spite of a long drought. What I want to remember is the careful way the mother unstrapped the infant from the carrier across her chest, and then how her other daughter, no more than four or five, came up and cradled her sister’s tiny head. “Hello, my little girl,” she said, briefly closing her eyes to relish in the affection. That same little girl then went around giving some love to her father and older brother, pointing with a little yelp of surprise toward a junco that fluttered up out of the brush and into the clear blue sky. What brings us wonder is so often smaller and more slight than we expect, entering the side door of our consciousness and suddenly taking hold. Yet a scene like this, when brought to life again within us, carves out a sacred space we can revisit again and again when our world turns too frightening, flavorless, or gray. Just today, when I found myself disturbed by headlines and politics, I thought of that little girl, the shared tenderness, and her obvious love for her world. And it was as if that little chapel of memory lit up inside me again.

James Crews

*

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Instead of AI

Let’s use our hands to do

real things—whisking eggs

for banana bread that rises

in its pan like a miracle,

the teeth of a serrated knife

cutting each perfect slice.

Let’s write our own sentences,

stringing together words

as they come, bead by bead,

to make a necklace that fits.

Let’s pause on the forest trail

when we come upon a flock

of finches gathered like

parishioners around a patch

of open ground, worshipping

seeds exposed after a season

spent smothered by ice.

Let’s watch when they fly up,

flapping all at once, with a

sudden flutter of wonder

no machine will ever know.


We live in a world where meals, groceries, anything we need, can be delivered to our doorstep with the tap of a few buttons. We can ask machines to write, read, and (most alarmingly) think for us. We live at a time when actual intelligence is seen not only as a threat but as an afterthought, even a weakness. We are being asked to embrace a life, made simpler and easier—we are so often promised these days—by the proliferation of AI, two letters we may be weary of hearing about. I’ve heard from many friends and fellow artists over the past few years who say they are making a turn back to the tangible and actual in their lives, finding greater and more lasting pleasure—true joy—in doing real things for themselves and others, whether baking a loaf of banana bread or building a wooden bench by hand. The world being shaped for us, which we never asked for, has made us more susceptible to manipulation and control by outside forces, since this false reality leaves us lonelier and more depressed, longing for any scrap of connection, no matter how dissatisfying.

Yet perhaps the antidote is what we have possessed all along—an embrace of the innate, divine intelligence that lives inside each of us, that dwells beside us no matter what we do. If we can accept and access that intelligence, then when we feel the call to whisk those eggs for a new recipe, when we feel the drive to protest injustice, when we come upon that flock of finches in the forest and feel the flutter of wonder—we will receive the holiness of such moments of presence. We will know ourselves as holy as well, not needing some outer machine-intelligence to tell us how to live our days. It is a sacrament, and we are transfigured, each time we make something on our own—a poem, a painting, a garden, a struck-up conversation with a neighbor—that never existed before. AI is being hailed as a future-altering miracle, but these everyday creations and interactions are the true source of awe for us humans.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Write your own “Instead of AI” poem, borrowing the form I used here, or creating your own. You might start with a refrain of “I want . . .” and “I don’t want…” to truly articulate your own power over what is admitted into your life and mind. What are the physical acts of observation and creation that bring about your own “flutters of wonder?”


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Friends, my husband Brad Peacock and I are so honored to have won a gold medal Nautilus Award for our anthology, Love Is for All of Us! This is so affirming for us at a time when LGBTQ + voices are being suppressed, and we have witnessed the ways our own book has been kept out of search engines and pushed out of people’s feeds. We hope this book will reach even more people as a result of this award, and will keep doing its healing work in the world, as it has healed us, too. I’m also beyond pleased to say that my own book of poetry, Turning Toward Grief, was awarded a silver medal for poetry as well by the folks at Nautilus!

Dear friends,

This week’s bonus poem came as an invitation from fellow poet Kaitlin Curtice at the Liminality Journal, where the poem was featured today. The prompt was simply to write a poem using the word “ancestor,” and this is what emerged for me. Below, you’ll find two opportunities to work with me this summer, alongside my dear friend Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.

Mother Maple

I call the old growth maple beside our driveway

both mother and ancestor, her gnarled limbs

still reaching upward, still studded with buds

come spring. Her wide trunk ripples out where

the heartwood had to grow around barbed wire

embedded in her body, remnant of a fence,

evidence of some now useless border. But see

how the wound became a blessing, became the thing

that saved the tree from the blade and teeth

of a logger’s saw a century ago. We breathe

that mercy still when the lime-green beginnings

of new leaves begin to exhale into our world.

Ancestor, mother, teacher: Teach me how to turn

what hurts, what cuts, what stings into that

which also brings life.

*

If you enjoy these free weekly emails, please consider making a one-time donation here, or become a sustaining paid member and support this offering on a monthly basis below.

Regenerating Joy: A Writing Retreat in-person at the Omega Institute June 14-19

Uncover grounding ways to meet both sorrow and joy through writing as a practice for staying open with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and James.

The Blessing and the Wound: 2-Week Online Poetry Retreat on June 23rd and 30th at 12-2pm ET

Join Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and James for a 2-session retreat via Zoom in which we will explore writing as a refuge, seeing how our blessings and wounds can both become teachers. Space is limited. Some half-off scholarships available.

Photo credit: Photo by Tetiana Papilota on Unsplash

Mothering the World
for Naida Hyde

“Abundance is the word of the day,”

Naida wrote, once again saying

the thing I most needed to hear—

her wise, fearless raven spirit

shining through the tender words

of this friend I have never met

in-person, though she has

mothered me over and over

in the years since the death

of my mothers and grandmothers,

those women who raised me,

in the same way she mothers

the rest of the world, noticing

the clear-eyed server in a pub

and sliding the gift of a book

of poetry across the table to her,

or sponsoring high school girls

in Lesotho, providing uniforms

and tuition. She knows that,

like her, I was not raised to offer

or receive love freely, that it often

feels like too much, too much,

even now when my husband

holds me close. And so, she just

keeps on giving, mothering me even

by sending the simplest snapshot

of a purple and white frilly iris

in bloom, reminding me: We can’t

be touched, and we can’t touch

anyone else, unless we surrender

ourselves to the generous hours.


*


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Empathy

On the bay road once, on the way

to San Luis Obispo, I saw a sign that read:

Litter removal provided by EMPATHY.

And isn’t that how it works? Just a little

grace given, the smallest agreement to see

ourselves in the lives of others, and suddenly

the blood in our veins seems to run as clear

as a cleaned-up river, all the cast-off plastic

of lies and empty bottles of fear ferried off

on a gust of wind that reaches in through

the open car window, like countless hands

performing hidden acts of care, tempering

the hard day with a breath of hope.


This poem is dedicated to the group of women whom I call The Kindness Crew—Shelley Aleshire, Linda Keetch, Carolyn Chilton Casas, Vicki Cyr, and Darlene Tunney. They have brought me to the Central Coast of California for a reading and workshop each year for the past three years. We first connected over my book, Kindness Will Save the World, and each time I’ve visited, I have been amazed by the ways their commitment and care create a space not only for me to share my work, but also for others to create and share theirs as well. During my most recent visit to Shell Beach, this time with my husband Brad in support of our collaborative book, Love Is for All of Us, we were driving one day and I said, “Hey, honey, this stretch of highway is sponsored by Empathy.” He thought I was cracking a joke, but later saw the sign for himself on our way back through. I’ve written and spoken often about kindness over the years, but haven’t given nearly as much attention to empathy, that ability to slip into the shoes of another, however briefly, and imagine what they might feel, how they might live. Somehow, as we passed that stretch of cleaned-up highway, I saw all those countless hands picking up plastic bottles, wrappers, and cups, and was cleansed as well. We know how it feels when someone truly empathizes with us—we can almost sense that internal movement of exchanging the self for another. And we all know how those hidden acts of care, so often performed by anonymous strangers and volunteers, can transform our corner of the Earth little by little, gesture by gesture, into the world we want to live in. As Brad and I kept driving that day, and wind reached in through the open windows of the car, though I felt weary, fearful for the future of our country and world, somehow seeing that message on a roadside sign gave me just the breath of hope I needed to keep going. Someone cares enough about this place, this watershed, and the people passing through it, I thought, to give their time and energy to keeping it clean. And I silently thanked all the nameless people who keep doing the necessary, behind-the-scenes, often-invisible work in the name of empathy.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Describe a time when you felt what you can only describe as an honest empathy from someone else, when you sensed they were truly stepping into your shoes for a while. How could you tell they were empathizing with you—their gestures, the expression on their face? You might begin with the phrase, “This is how empathy works…” and see where that leads you.


If you enjoy these free weekly emails, please consider making a donation here, or become a member and support this offering on a monthly basis.

Ways to Gather This Summer:

The Monthly Pause Writing Community with special guest Elise Powers via Zoom, Wednesday, June 10th, 1-3pm ET, $40 monthly.

Regenerating Joy: A Writing Retreat in-person at the Omega Institute June 14-19

Uncover grounding ways to meet both sorrow and joy through writing as a practice for staying open with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and James.

The Blessing and the Wound: 2-Week Online Poetry Retreat on June 23rd and 30th at 12-2pm ET

Join Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and James for a 2-session retreat via Zoom in which we will explore writing as a refuge, seeing how our blessings and wounds can both become teachers. Space is limited. Some half-off scholarships available.

I’ll also be reading with my dear friend, Heather Swan, a wonderful poet and environmental writer, at the Aspen Chapel in Colorado on Saturday, May 30 at 7pm. Please join us if you’re in the Aspen, CO area!

Photo Credit: Photo by Mario Amé on Unsplash

Unrepeatable

Why must it take illness or injury

to make us see how precious

these hours and days can be, how

uncommon our life on Earth is?

Just a week ago, I sat on the lumpy

couch that knows the shapes

of our bodies so well, cushions

conforming to every curve as rays

of late light reached through

to shine on my face, and I shielded

my eyes, taking it all for gra…

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Open Anyway

When I have fears that what I share

will never touch this hurting world,

I turn to the wild violets growing again

from clumps of moss on the forest floor,

how they unfurl a few limp purple

petals that seem no match for spring

winds and rain, but still somehow trust

that mining bees and fritillaries will

find them and feed—the flowers open

anyway. I st…

Read more

Read more

Step Outside

Step out of the stuffy house

into the refuge of an early spring night,

snow melting from the roof, smoke

from the wood stove rising up

toward the distant explosions of stars,

fire always reaching for fire.

Look back at your life lit up

like a hearth, the whole room glowing

orange, shadows of prayer flags

strung across the windows to keep

songbirds fro…

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The Soft Way

From now on, I want to learn

the soft way, listening to whispers

of violet clouds at sunset,

light in the pines whose needles

tickle the skin. Let me step

as deliberately as the porcupine

feeding on newly unfurled leaves

of raspberries, knowing he needs

all those quills to defend

his gentleness. When a teacher

taps at my door, disguised as

an enemy, le…

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Accepting the Risk

Again, the risk when you smile

at a passing stranger who seems

to need that sudden tendril.

Again, the hand held out to someone

stumbling on unsteady feet,

about to fall from the curb.

How easy to forget that kindness

changes everything, like an open

window or the call of a chickadee

in winter, that mixture between

laughter and song. Like the me…

Read more

Dear friends,

This Thursday, April 16th from 12-1:30pm EST/9-10:30am PST, I will be sharing poems and sacred conversation with the wonderful poet, Julia Fehrenbacher. As a paid member of Poetry Is Life, you are invited to join me for this special meeting of the heart-minds (and just to be clear, you don’t have to be a paid member of Julia’s Substack, too…

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Dear Peace

You are one of the few things left

that cannot be purchased, but

must instead be cultivated and

shaped over time, like clay aching

for the touch and turn of human hands.

You struggle up like a wildflower

in the same untamed patch of ground,

needing both the light and shadow

of the understory to keep rising up

year after year. You are the single

untramme…

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Dear friends,

As many of you already know, one of my favorite offerings that I curate is The Monthly Pause, a gathering on Zoom each month of poets & writers. We spend time speaking with a guest, then write and share together during the second hour. I have been amazed in the past three years of this offering how you can just feel the energy of our commun…

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The Opening

After delayed and re-routed flights,

after seat-kicking children and an endless

airport shuttle ride that jostled my bones

and every organ inside to jelly, I stand still

on the road in spring sun, my awareness

barely skimming the surface of snowmelt

flowing through the culvert, light turning

cattails the amber-gold of clover honey—

just letting it al…

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In Wartime

I spend more time folding things,

smoothing out the creases of T-shirts

left overnight in the dryer, making

crisp edges of the fleece blanket draped

over the back of a chair. Altars appear

in strange places—peach pits and candle

in the kitchen window, dried hydrangeas

in a Mason jar, their dusty petals losing

their pink, but still catching the early

mo…

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Dear friends,

At this difficult moment, it is the poets, misfits, dreamers, and other creators who are quietly saving me each day. This week’s bonus poem was written in honor of Naomi Shihab Nye whose wide-open heart helps to heal us all. The photo above was taken by fellow poet extraordinaire Lucy Griffith who will also be the guest for the May session …

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