Bilingüe/Bilingual

The cars 
             zoom 
                    zoom
                           zoom
past the dentist’s office window
in a rush of Dominican traffic— 
we are but guests
in my motherland.

“Otro carro!” she says
in the giddiness
that accompanies toddler recognition. 
Except her ca–rro
sounds more like ca–row.

No sign of the r’s on the tongue
that embraces español.
The kind of letter that should rooooll... 
like all those squealing tires
going round
                and round
                            and round outside.

“Mi vida, it’s ca–rrrrro,”
but again, she says, “Ca–row.” 
Does it take a culture
to learn a language?
To truly know it by heart?
How do I submerge her
in a country she’ll never call home?

Still, I insist—
because one day she will thank me 
for not letting her r’s die.
She will say, “Ca-rrrrro,”
with enough fuerza to jumpstart
a dead engine.

Her tongue will twist and turn
in ways those of her monolingual peers
never will.
And, yes,
her heart will feel divided.
Two sides threatening
to pit themselves,
one against the other.

Soon enough,
she will learn she doesn’t have to choose. 
Her tongue will tell her mind
to tell her heart
(in English and español):
Car y carro.
And one day she will thank me: 
“Grrrraaaciaaaas.”

SOME EXCITING NEWS! Under the Samán Tree: Poems on Home, Longing, and Belonging was recently the winner of a Silver Nautilus Book Award. Feeling so encouraged and grateful! Thank you to everyone who has purchased, read, and shared this collection. I’ll soon have signed copies with the winning seal for sale. If you want a signed & sealed copy, you can purchase at the link below.

buy signed + sealed copy

Sehnsucht, they call it. A longing, a yearning, a something-beyond-this-world kind of feeling.

Yes, there is the homesickness for the here-and-now country that I am far away from. Missing an earthly place to which I belong, a place I can hop on a plane and visit, a place I can touch, smell, feel. But, Sehnsucht goes deeper than that.

It was there, in la República Dominicana, that I first sensed the ache for that other place. Even while in this most beloved of places, it was the far-off country that gnawed at me. And it continues to show up everywhere I go.

Samaná. One of a few northern provinces in my home country. Grandiose mountains that spill into the ocean. Thousands upon thousands of palm trees growing wild, bursting from the ground and covering hillsides. Larimar blue waters. Warmth. Calor. Vibrancy. Intensidad. Life. Vitalidad. Ultimately, beauty. Belleza.

When I am there, I am always looking out/hacia afuera, or up/hacia arriba. There is so much to take in. And always outside of myself. Afuera de mi misma. Toward something farther away, out of reach. I remember once, standing on the rocky edge above the shore, plotting impossible ways in which I could attempt to bottle it up; the feeling, the sight, the landscape.

“Surely, this/esto is paradise/paraíso,” I thought to myself, half prayer, half question.

But now, I’ve essentially ceased trying to capture it. Every attempt a failed one. A camera roll full of pictures that never encapsulate the slice of heaven hidden in between the foam of each wave. But the feeling...

I know how I feel here/aquí. Like reality is made thin, rolled out flat. And suddenly, earth and heaven meld ever so slightly, ever so gently, only long enough for me to catch my breathless breath. Only long enough for me to realize there is so much more beyond this present moment/más allá de este momento en el tiempo.

Writing about places like Samaná is especially difficult, because words don’t seem to fit the feelings, fit the mysteries. But when I finally sat down to try, an ode seemed to me the only way to do it. So, here’s an ode to one of the places I love most.

ODE TO SAMANÁ

Samaná, your mountain range splits
in two, hugging the bay.
Your coasts spill—
almost trip—
over your seas
of Larimar.
Waters that shine
in the splendor
of a burning sun.

Samaná, your fresh coconut bread
melts with every bite—
my mouth's delight—
and your palm trees sprinkle
the land with their first fruits.
Your towering humps
in Los Haitises reach upward,
almost touching God,
showing us
our own smallness.

Samaná, your hidden and pristine beaches,
mostly untouched
by mankind’s soiled hands.
Still pure.
Still beautiful.
Still whispering
of every kind of mystery
yet to be revealed.

Samaná, what about your whales
that return to your waters—
year after year?
They recognize the color of hope
in your face.
They know a place
of refuge and rest and relief
when they see one.

Samaná, a province cradled
between outstretched, mountainous arms.
Covered by the shade
of all that grows,
hidden in the hollow
of the bay,
rocked back and forth
by the shore’s siren song.

Samaná—blessed of the motherland—
because of you
I dream of another land
not on this side
of eternity.
Of another land
not yet here,
but already mine.

///

ODA A SAMANÁ
a translation of ODE TO SAMANÁ

Samaná, con tu cordillera que abraza
apasionadamente a la costa
y montañas que rebosan,
hasta casi tropezar, con el mar.
Mar de apatita,
que ante tantos destellos de luz
brilla.

Samaná, con tu pan de coco fresco
que se derrite
con cada bocado en mi boca.
Con tus palmeras
que hacen salpicar a tu tierra
con su fruto.
Con tus Haitises,
que se extienden,
queriendo tocar a Dios,
y nos recuerdan
nuestra pequeñez.

Samaná, con tus playas vírgenes y escondidas,
que casi no han sido tocadas
por las manos sucias
del hombre.
Tan puras y hermosas,
susurrándonos
de los misterios que aún nos quedan
por descubrir.

Samaná, ¿y tus ballenas?
Que regresan, año tras año,
a tus aguas.
Ellas reconocen en ti la esperanza,
de que existen aún,
en este mundo,
lugares de suspiro.
De alivio.
De refugio.

Samaná, provincia acogida
entre dos brazos montañosos,
cubierta por la sombra
de todo lo que crece,
acunada en el hueco de la bahía,
mecida a la canción de la orilla.

Samaná, tierra bendecida.
Tierra que me lleva a soñar
con un lugar
más allá,
al que nunca he ido,
pero al que iré
en otra vida.

This poem, and its Spanish translation, were first published in my debut poetry collection Under the Samán Tree: Poems on Home, Longing, and Belonging. You can purchase a signed copy below!

buy a signed copy + bookmark

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: POEMS ON HOME, LONGING, AND BELONGING

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

p.s. Happy Independence Day to the Dominican Republic! ¡Feliz día de la independencia!

It’s chilly outside even though it’s mid-July. It’s only my second day here, but I've quickly come to learn a good summer day in Northern Ireland equals no rain, partly cloudy skies, and a sprinkle of rays providing just enough sunshine to ease the soul. I did just arrive from 100ºF weather in Madrid, muuuy caliente, so the coolness is refreshing. I take in the crisp air, letting it fill my lungs with excitement, as my sister-in-law and I leave the hotel lobby and begin the two-block journey toward the Assembly Buildings.

Home to the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in Ireland, the building is covered in multicolored brick and large stained-glass windows. My eyes travel the height of the gothic-style clock tower, squinting and trying to make out the ornate stonework and pinnacles that decorate the exterior. In the midst of a bustling city square, this historic building takes my breath away. The conference hasn’t even started and there is already so much beauty to behold. The doors to the main room swing open as volunteers welcome us in. I can hear the organ playing the beginning of a hymn I can’t quite make out. I step inside, into another world.

Present — Seattle, WA

It was the theme that truly drew me to The C.S. Lewis Summer Institute a few months ago. A call extended to me from across the world.

Returning Home: C.S. Lewis, Roots, and Transformation.

I had been down that road for a while, the one that promised a return home, and had found it wanting. I was also in the middle of writing my debut poetry collection (literally centered on my own longing for home) so naturally I couldn’t resist the invitation.

Northern Ireland shaped Lewis’ imagination like no other place in the world. This didn’t surprise me. By the time I arrived at the conference, I was well aware of the power that culture and place had to shape the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of an individual. An immigrant and wanderer of a country not my own, I was acquainted with the homesickness that came to those who chose to leave a place of belonging behind. But, what surprised me most was Lewis’ unique ability to hold two tender realities at once.

It was the towering, green cliffs of the Irish countryside that inspired his creation of other worlds. It was a doorknob he saw as a child at his grandfather’s house that gave life to the lion we all know and love, Aslan. It was also in Belfast that Lewis first recalled feeling the ache that would run throughout his work—a longing for a far-off country.

I, like Lewis, have been shaped and formed by the roots that anchor me. By the vibrant orange mangos that grow every summer in the DR. By the sound of merengüe and bachata playing well into the night, causing hips to sway and colmados to shake. By the roll of the Caribbean Sea and the accompanying smell of salt that punctures the air. By the warmth of the family table, la mesa familiar, with enough hugs to go around for days. Enough love to last a lifetime.

I, like Lewis, have sensed the ephemerality of these things. How beauty dissipates before we’re ever able to truly grasp it.

Mangos fall and rot on the ground. The songs on the radio turn to static. The sea fills with rage when a hurricane hits. La mesa familiar is not immune to complications, hardships, fights. We cannot survive on crumbs and there is enough ache to leave us hungry for a lifetime, too.

But, I find strange comfort in knowing the longings that weigh my heart down are not mine alone. I am not the first person to feel, express, or write about this return home we’re all desperately waiting for. I also know I will not be the last. Lewis taught me that.

We are all returning. We are all on our way. We are all home in each other.

Thank you for lending space to my words and story over at . Our conversations further enriched my understanding of my own work and I’m so humbled by the way you thoughtfully interacted with my poetry collection. Thank you for joining me under the samán tree. I’m glad the C.S. Lewis Summer Institute brought so many of us together, to remind us we are not alone on our pilgrimage.

Dear Reader, querido lector, if you missed this interview series and would like to catch up, below is a good place to start!

Listen below as we dive deeper into this truth, how it has impacted both of us as writers, and how—through the influence and impact of other writers and thinkers—it has made its way into our own writing!

Next Wednesday, and I will be sharing a reflection article on each of our Substacks, thinking through some of the themes we covered in these interviews, with a particular Christmas Eve flavor.

I’d love to know your thoughts: Have you ever felt this homeward longing? How have you experienced it? Have you sought to express it or write about it? Share below!

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: POEMS ON HOME, LONGING, AND BELONGING

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

purchase a copy below!

In this third installment we discuss The Humpback Whale’s (Im)Migration, a special poem from Under the Samán Tree, precisely on the subject of crossing oceans and making new homes while missing old ones. Even if you’ve already read this poem, what’s special about this conversation is the unique perspective Andrew brings as the reader. You’ll even get to hear him share a bit about his time spent living in Perú with his family.

Also, guess what? This will actually be my first Christmas back in the DR since 2020 and both my husband and daughter’s first Christmas in my home country, ever. To say I’m excited is an understatement—to share noche buena with them (because Dominicans actually celebrate on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day), to enjoy sunshine and warmth when most of the world is covered in snow, and to spend the holiday season with all of my extended family.

So, as I settle back into the rhythms of the island/la isla, I hope you enjoy this latest installment of my collaboration with .

I’d love to know your thoughts: Did anything resonate in this poem? Have you ever crossed an ocean to make a new home, or have you ever had to make a new home in an unfamiliar place even if within your own country? How did it feel?

If you missed last week’s installment, be sure to watch by clicking on my previous post below.

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: POEMS ON HOME, LONGING, AND BELONGING

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

purchase your copy here!

In this second installment of our conversation, Encountering Poetry & Place, you’ll get a deeper dive into my humble beginnings as a writer and my journey as a poet of faith. You’ll also get to hear us discuss how and why writing from a place of uprootedness impacted my debut collection, Under the Samán Tree. Scroll down to watch part two and stay tuned for part three coming next Wednesday.

I’d love to know your thoughts: have you ever used your writing as a means of mapping out your life/important experiences? Do/did you ever struggle reconciling your faith and your artistry? What resonated most form this part of the conversation?

If you missed last week’s installment, be sure to watch at by clicking on my previous post below.

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: POEMS ON HOME, LONGING, AND BELONGING

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

grab your copy here!

I met Andrew this summer at the C.S. Lewis Summer Institute in Belfast where I got to partake in a poetry workshop he was leading titled The Lasting Roots of Poetry. As you’ll hear me say at some point or another in this multi-part interview, this workshop not only strengthened my craft as a poet, but also validated the project (which is now my collection) that I was working on. During the 3-day workshop—focusing on how our roots affect/should affect our creative endeavors as seen through several Irish poets—I gained further confidence in the fact that the poems in Under the Samán Tree, though they felt so specific to just me at times, were the poems I needed to be writing.

Thank you, Andrew, for taking such time with my work and for collaborating with me in this way. It was such fun and a pleasure to sit down with you and discuss not only my collection, but how the places we live in, visit, and move to shape the core of who we are.

Y sin más preámbulos, without further ado, here’s part one of our conversation: Life, Language, and Identity. Click on the image or button below to watch the video. Stay tuned for part two coming next week.

watch part one here

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: POEMS ON HOME, LONGING, AND BELONGING

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

grab your copy here!

shared a picture of Under the Samán Tree recently that made me stop and think about all of this. In the picture: her hand holding a copy of my book against the backdrop of her backyard turned to rust by autumn’s touch, so vivid you could almost see the leaves falling to the ground. It struck me as a wonderful juxtaposition that the cover of my collection, a watercolor rendition of a vibrant Dominican landscape, was held out in front of a quintessential autumn scene.

And it got me thinking: should it be a juxtaposition? To flourish even in the midst of fall and winter? To flourish even when our hearts are shedding and laid bare? I don’t think it should be. Rather, I think it should become the rhythm we learn to embrace—to recall life even when everything around us feels like death. I won’t pretend to have cracked some code or to have a step-by-step on how to do this, but I can say the last four years have taught me this: even in seasons of longing, displacement, and uprootedness we can remember, podemos recordar, seasons of blooming and deep belonging. Maybe in doing so, we’ll flourish. Floreceremos.

Keep scrolling for a poem from Under the Samán Tree and its Spanish translation.

REMEMBERING 

The flamboyán was starting to bloom 
on the day I left the island.
The mangos were ripening too. 
And so, I would miss
seeing the orange petals and auburn fruit 
set the trees on fire.

          (Because even when I leave, 
          the land never stops 
          thriving.)

And so, when I’m gone and tempted
to wither up, to break off like a tree does 
without roots, yo recordaré—
I will remember the flamboyán,
and the mangos. Yo recordaré—
I will remember the ache
of a goodbye said prematurely. Yo recordaré—
I will remember any excuse to flourish.

// 

RECUERDOS 
a translation of REMEMBERING 

El flamboyán comenzaba a florecer
el día en que me fui. También los mangos 
estaban a punto de madurar.
Así que ya sabía que no llegaría a ver
esos pétalos y esos frutos anaranjados,
que encienden a los árboles como en fuego.

          (Pero es que esta tierra, 
          aun en mi ausencia, 
          nunca deja de brotar)

Así que, cuando esté lejos y me tienten
las ganas de marchitarme—como suelen hacer
los árboles sin raíces—recordaré a los flamboyanes 
y a las matas de mango. Recordaré el campo
en su explosión de colores. Recordaré con añoro 
los adioses prematuros. Recordaré, y me permitiré, 
cualquier excusa para nunca dejar de florecer.

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: POEMS ON HOME, LONGING, AND BELONGING published with THE WAY BACK BOOKS

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

purchase your copy here!

Let’s flourish together. ¡Juntos!

Rosa Lía

So, although Under the Samán Tree just made its debut, the truths it encompasses, of home, longing, and belonging, have been true long before I ever wrote about them. A longing for home, for a place of belonging, has existed since the dawn of time, and I am merely another individual contributing her own retelling. I understand not everyone will relate to every single part of my story—maybe some readers have never experienced physical uprootedness or maybe others have never married outside their culture or had children—but I believe we’re all, in our own way, in search of a home, un hogar.

It’s to that ache in each of us that I hope my poems speak to. We’re all pilgrims on the way, and I’m calling for a meeting under the samán tree. Will you join me, as I bring you along my immigrant experience, my nostalgia for a motherland left behind, and how God continues to use these longings to point me to himself and the home/hogar he is preparing for me (and for you, too)?

buy on amazon

buy a signed copy + bookmark

Who is UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE for?

• Anyone who has experienced or is currently experiencing a move, homesickness, or nostalgia.

• Anyone who feels the tension of living in the “in between.”

• Anyone who wonders if and where they belong.

• Anyone who longs for a sense of belonging.

• Anyone who is on a journey toward a true home. Un verdadero hogar.

• Anyone who’d enjoy some vibrant tropical imagery to carry them through autumn.

• Anyone who’d enjoy bilingual/Spanish poems.

• Any and all poetry lovers!

ABOUT UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

If you’ve already gotten a copy, but didn’t get a chance to sign up for my launch team, be sure to send me proof of your order and I’ll send a special poetry-lovers freebie your way!

¡Gracias!

Rosa Lía

p.s. Want to read more about Under the Samán Tree + some preview poems? Check out these previously published Substack posts:

My Way Back

Under the Saman Tree: Book Launch Day and Preview

Something to Celebrate…

Read more

8 months ago · 31 likes · 9 comments · Kimberly Phinney and Rosa Lía Gilbert

Behind our desire to travel and see the world is a deeper desire to experience the beauty in other cultures and landscapes. Behind our desire to stay rooted, unmoved, is a deeper desire for building (and finding) a permanent, beautiful home.

I think God hardwired us with an ability to long for and recognize beauty because it’s exactly what he does. He delights in creating beauty and sharing it with us.

Shell-searching is one of the earliest memories I have of intentionally hunting for beauty. I remember being mesmerized by shells as an island-child. Every trip to the beach, a la playa, meant a bucket full of shells in hand when returning home. Round, spiral, fan-shaped. White, pink, orange. All different, all beautiful.

There was always a deep sense of satisfaction when finding a perfectly scalloped shell, or a spotted conus shell. But shell searching was often full of dissapointment, too. On days when the shore offered up only its broken, shattered shells—remnants of those that had once been complete, completos—I felt as though I had failed at finding beauty. I rejected this idea that it could coexist with brokenness. Fast forward a couple decades and I’ve come to find out, that on this side of eternity, it always (siempre) does.

I am like those broken shells. 
Shattered, but beautiful. 
My life is like those broken shells.
Shattered, but beautiful.
Our world is like those broken shells.
Shattered, but beautiful.

We went on a family trip to Whidbey Island last weekend and stayed at an airbnb by the water. I spent those early mornings taking my daughter down to the pebbled shore. We quickly slipped into our habitual playa rituals: playing, splashing, and searching—for shells and beauty, broken or otherwise. I’ve taught her to do that. To find beauty amidst the brokenness. To hold on to it. To feast on it. To let it lead her heart toward a longing for a beauty unfailing, unwavering, unbroken. The kind we are one day promised.

SHELL SEARCHING 

Somewhere on the shores 
of Las Galeras, Samaná, 
I teach my daughter to hunt for shells. 
To pocket the ones she likes most—
in this case pinks—
and bring them inside.
 
You’re never too young (or old)
to search for beauty in this world, 
I’d like to tell her.
But before I can, she’s off 
farther down the shore—
because the human soul 
searches for beauty all on its own. 
 
It is the instinct of our survival, 
is it not? 
 
So, we search together
for fragments of a long-lost home, 
until there are a million shells
cupped in our hands. 

This poem is one of many in my upcoming debut collection UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: POEMS ON HOME, LONGING, AND BELONGING coming soon with & The Way Back Books.

Dominican. Believer. Wife. Mother. Immigrant. These are the different labels Rosa Lía Gilbert has learned to embody, in all of their beauty and complexity. In her debut collection, Under the Samán Tree, Gilbert takes readers on a journey across the ocean, back to the Dominican Republic, where she longs to be. Along the way, she invites them to walk through the American immigrant experience with her. Written in a lyrical and bilingual voice, these poems will leave the reader nostalgic and even homesick for a place they never knew they longed for, while seeking to answer the questions, Where do we belong? Does a perfect home exist? Or is it all just a tropical dream? Full of bursts of life, vibrant Caribbean imagery, and Spanish musicality, Gilbert’s collection translates into a universal story of home, exile, and faith, as Whitney Rio-Ross, poetry editor of Fare Forward, so aptly applauds.

FYI — there’s still time to join my launch team, score some book-ish freebies, and help me share this collection with the world. If you would like to stay up to date with my collection’s release, sign up by filling out the Google form below. If you’ve already sent your form in, I’ve got you down!

Join My Launch Team!

Thank you for reading. Gracias por leerme.

In light of eternity. A la luz de la eternidad.

Rosa Lía.

Also, if you’d like to help me launch this book into the world, consider joining my launch team. It’s free and gifts are included! Fill out the Google form below if you’re interested and scroll past the cover to read about the freebies offered to all who join me on this upcoming launch!

join my launch team here!

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE COVER REVEAL

Illustration: Odette Goyco

Design:

Foreword: (whose debut children’s book can be preordered here!)

join my launch team!

I hope you journey with me to the samán tree later this fall when my collection releases. Until then…

In light of eternity,

Rosa Lía.

I never thought much about it. Except now, because I am not there, I realize it was everywhere I looked growing up.

There’s an overflow of color in the Dominican Republic—it doesn’t shy away from brightness and vibrancy and life.

You face south and a teal blanket of water extends far into the horizon. You look north to find mountains draped in all sorts of viridescent shades. And, if you happen to look anywhere, at any given moment, you might be surprised by a bright fuchsia bougainvillea bush or a blooming flamboyán tree, its orange petals blazing under the sun.

Seasons don’t deter color allá/there.

Because color is the very instinct of our survival, something by which we can name hope. Something that allows us to paint over the dark days of the soul. Color is at the core of who we are, and so we learn from the land to cling to it.

El color es nuestro método de supervivencia, como si este nos proveyera algo con que nombrar la esperanza. Algo con que pintar los días oscuros del alma. Entonces, aprendemos de nuestra tierra a sujetarnos a el.

In Under the Samán Tree, I rely heavily on color to tell my story. You’ll find that several poems in the collection are titled after colors themselves, and others are filled with colorful imagery. I find that there is no accurate way to write about my home country without an abundant use of color.

I wrote the poem below last winter when everything was dead and dull in Ohio and I clung to colors in my dreams. I chased after them in my heart until spring broke in and I could see hope again. Maybe you can hold on to these words yourself as you chase color in your own life.

Chasing Color 

I am here, surrounded 
by the smell of mud
from melted snow. 
But, the emerging greenness 
(slow to wake) 
makes me think of being there.
 
Allá,
 
the land of color.
Where God dumps paint
in big buckets from the sky 
and lets it drip 
in all shades, tinges, pigments—

            green like the palm tree
            covered mountainsides. 
            Turquoise blue and teal
            like every drop of ocean water. 
            The bright fuchsia pink 
            of the climbing bougainvillea. 
            Orange mangos, fire-dipped. 
            Purple clouds and yellow pineapples. 
            Red hibiscus flowers. 
 
Aquí, 
 
the rainbow is still bleak,
but soon it will come 
to rest over the land again.
I will wait it out, here
in a constant chase 
after hues, hope, home. 
 
And I don't ask for much 
but this: 
allá, aquí, donde sea
here, there, anywhere—
to be drowning in color.

If you’ve made it this far, here’s a quick reminder: my debut bilingual collection—Under the Samán Tree: Poems on Home, Longing, and Belonging—is releasing soon with and The Way Back Books. If you want to help me make this collection’s release a success, consider joining my launch team by filling out the Google form below!

Launch Team Google Form

Also, in case you missed the title reveal and would like to read a bit more about the heart behind my poems, click on the post below.

In light of eternity,

Rosa.

UNDER THE SAMÁN TREE: Poems on Home, Longing & Belonging

Coming Soon with The Way Back Books

It’s taken me far too long to share the title of my debut bilingual poetry collection—mainly because I wanted to take the time to go into depth about its meaning. I know many of you might not be familiar with the samán tree (monkey pod tree in English) and I think understanding it is crucial to understanding why I chose it for my collection’s title.

The samán tree is a beautiful canopy tree native to Central and South America, which means it grows and thrives in tropical climates like that of the Dominican Republic, where I’m from. They’re typically evergreen in these environments and bloom in pink, feather-like flowers several times a year. There are two of these stunning trees in my parent’s backyard—my childhood home.

En la República Dominicana, we pride ourselves in saying “we live where you vacation.” What this actually means is we experience summer weather almost all year round, with very few weeks of respite from the heat. Samán trees are particularly special in this kind of climate because their canopy-like branches—that appear to bend down as if wanting to kiss the ground—provide wonderful shade and comfort on warm, humid days.

I like to think of the samán tree as the tropical version of a cedar of Lebanon. Although they mostly look different from one another (their leaf structure and shade of green is not the same) they have one very essential characteristic in common—they are both canopy trees. The cedar of Lebanon, a majestic Middle Eastern tree which can live over 1,000 years, is very important in biblical imagery. In the book of Ezekiel, God himself brings forth its image to describe his kingdom:

Thus says the Lord God: “I myself will take a sprig from the lofty top of the cedar and will set it out. I will break off from the topmost of its young twigs a tender one, and I myself will plant it on a high and lofty mountain. On the mountain height of Israel will I plant it, that it may bear branches and produce fruit and become a noble cedar. And under it will dwell every kind of bird; in the shade of its branches birds of every sort will nest.” Ezekiel 17:22-23

The kingdom of God, the place to which all believers belong, is like a great, beautiful, sturdy tree. A tree whose branches extend far and wide to provide rest, shade, and fruit; where there is room for all to dwell. And although this promise hasn’t fully materialized yet, I believe there are places, people, and things that provide pockets of repose on this side of eternity—experiences that bubble up the ache and longing in all of us for that kind of perfect home.

This is what the samán trees in my parent’s backyard have been to me. Literally speaking, they have become a place of rest and comforting shade on days of unbearable heat. Figuratively and spiritually, they have been to me a thin place, where I’ve caught a tiny glimpse at the comfort and belonging to come in God’s kingdom. The samán tree represents both the reality of my earthly home—the peace I find in belonging to a specific country and place—and that of my true home, that far-off country, where all my deepest longings for belonging will be satisfied.

So, this debut collection is an invitation—to journey with me back home, to the samán tree in my parent’s backyard, and sit with me under the shade of God’s promise to bring us home. A nuestro hogar.

But the journey is very seldom straightforward. In more ways than one, I’ve been stripped of so much of what was once familiar to me. Under the Samán Tree explores these themes, too. It is also an invitation to wrestle alongside me through an immigration process as well as feelings of displacement, homesickness, nostalgia, and longing; feelings I’m sure we’ve all felt in some way, shape, or form.

I hope you join me and my words when this bilingual collection releases with The Way Back Books () in late September.

I’m excited to share that the talented poet generously agreed to be my foreword writer, for which I am forever grateful! Rachel is the author of Talking Back to Purity Culture: Rediscovering Faithful Christian Sexuality, Sometimes Women Lie About Being Okay, and Charlie Can’t Sleep!: Trusting God When You’re Afraid of the Dark, a children’s book releasing with InterVarsity Press Kids this fall. You can find her books here.

Also to my kind endorsers , , , , , , , , and —gracias por creer en mis palabras. Thank you for believing in my words.

Let me know below: do you have any questions about my collection? Is there anything else you'd like to know? Also, is there a place that has ever given you this feeling of home? Do you have your own samán tree? What are places/experiences that have helped you realize your ache for a true home?

I can’t wait to share this piece of my heart with you.

In Light of Eternity,

Rosa.

My family and I spent our last days as Ohio residents this past week. That state, which we never would’ve imagined we’d live in, made us so happy. I tell my husband often that in many ways I feel like what we got to experience in the Midwest was quintessential American living. Fields of corn that go on forever, land that spreads flat and wide as far as the eye can see, farm after farm after farm, foliage-filled autumns, brutal winters, soothing springs, and sizzling summers.

There’s something unique, and at times almost magical, about it that I can’t quite name. This poem is an attempt at naming some of the feelings that well up as we close this chapter and make our way to the PNW this summer.

And all I can say is: thank you, Ohio, for being lovely.

Video taken on our way home from saying goodbye to friends. Watch closely and you’ll see fireflies light up the field.

Midsummer Dance 

Who needs the city? 
When you can drive deep into the Ohio countryside 
at twilight and watch fireflies rise skyward 
one by one, slowly pirouetting to their midsummer dance. 
Flickering to the beat of an unsung chorus 
only they know. 

Sure, you get bright lights in the city—
skyscrapers and fluorescent signs
and every screen awake, awake, awake.

But what about magic?
What about mystery? 

Of how the tiniest bug can turn
on and off and on and off and on and off.
How it can make us sit with darkness 
just long enough to interrupt it. 

Who needs the city?
When cornfields light up like stadiums
and there is green and growth
spreading in our sleep. 
When there are sacred things happening 
in the quiet buzz of a summer evening. 

   - r.e.n 

In light of eternity,

Rosa.

P.S. I felt like I was channeling my inner Wendell Berry for this poem. Thoughts? I’d love to hear from my fellow Midwest poetry pals, I know there’s a few of us! Also, our collab poem on backyard therapy is coming up next. Hopefully sometime this week! There’s still time to drop a line in response to the prompt, which you can find in my previously shared Notes. Oh, and a title announcement for my upcoming collection with The Way Back Books is coming soon, too!!

I spent most of my childhood and early teenage years reveling in their bursts of color: pink, orange, purple, and even the occasional yellow. Whether it was driving through hectic city traffic in Santo Domingo, or cruising down the highway on the way to the beach, I found them impossible to miss—they added life and beauty to otherwise unassuming places.

It was my junior year of high school when I asked my mom if I could attempt to grow pink bougainvilleas in planters outside my bedroom window. My plan was simple: I’d plant the bougainvilleas, let the wonderful Dominican sun and rain take over, and eventually I’d watch as my bedroom window got covered in bright blooms.

Beautifying the landscape is what bougainvilleas do best. However, resilient as they may be, even they succumb to their immortality from time to time. I learned the hard way that they were not keen on pots and preferred growing on the ground—roots deep in the soil—where they could climb and blossom as they pleased. I also discovered that the sun shone most intensely on the side of my parent’s house where my bedroom window sat.

You’re probably starting to get the picture: my bougainvilleas didn’t last much. Soon after they were first planted, the scattered blooms on the vine withered, their paper-like petals incinerated by the sun’s (occasional) cruel touch.

Although it’s true that the sun is a source of light and life, it is also often the source of much burden and burning on our island. Understanding these coexisting realities is essential to the everyday lives of all Dominicans.

Sometimes, when I find myself longing for home, I’m tempted to remember only the idyllic parts of growing up and living in the Dominican Republic. I remember the breezy days that come along once in a while, never the unbearable heat. I remember the joy of being close to family, never the tricky dynamics. I remember the whistling ciguas, never the buzzing flies and mosquitoes.

wrote about this temptation in his book The Weight of Glory:

These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.1

You see, it’s easy to romanticize the memory of the things we long for while failing to notice their fickleness. Which is also why it’s easier for me to remember only the good when I’m homesick and nostalgic. However, when we don’t recognize these longings for what they are—a revelation of our true longing for God—we are left only with broken hearts.

We must learn to view our yearnings as a means to discovering “that flower we have not found.” Only then will we be able to truly appreciate and enjoy those things for which we yearn for here on earth—without burdening them with the impossible task of satisfying us.

I'm sure this has been said a million times before, but I think I'll say it again: only God can truly satisfy our deepest, most intimate longings. I don’t say that lightly (for I know some aches can feel heavier and more painful than we can bear), but rather as a truth to which we can cling to when even those things we hold dear fail at living up to our expectations.

Was I disappointed when the bougainvilleas outside my window shriveled up? Absolutely. In fact, I still get a bit sad when I think about those big clay pots full of soil and dead flowers. But then I remember the sun burns hot over this island of mine. It might sometimes wither the flowers, but it also ripens the mangoes, grows the plantains, and gives the Caribbean Sea its turquoise hue.

At the end of the day, what I truly long for is a land with equal amounts of shade and sun, flourishing and resting. Where plants thrive and never wilt. The Dominican Republic isn’t that—it’s not the land to which I truly belong—even when so often her beauty points me there.

I continue to explore these themes of home, longing, and belonging in my debut poetry collection to be released later this summer by and The Way Back Books. I’m hoping to reveal the title soon and continue to share more about it, but for now, here’s one of the poems you’ll be able to read once it’s out.

People of the Land, which further informs this short essay, was first published as part of a mini chapbook I wrote for CHAPPED (a poetry challenge spearheaded by and of ). Although this piece came to me as a result of that challenge, I have to admit it went straight into my collection!

People of the Land 

We are people of the land—
made of dust,
from the ground brought up, 
formed and shaped 
to his likeness. 

We are people of the land—
of feet planted, 
geographically placed, 
divinely ordained 
to belong. 

We are people of the land—
cradled by lush valleys, 
lifted up by sprouting mountains, 
lulled by rushing rivers, 
moved forward by surging seas.

We are people of the land—
but what land? For certainly this land 
(the one our feet can squish and fingers touch) 
will soon fade into the dust 
that brought us forth. 

We are people of a far off land—
that no eye has seen nor ear has heard 
and here, on this land, 
we merely sojourn and practice 
the act of wholly belonging. 

   - r.e.g

What land do you long for? How has place/land/country informed who you are and what you long for? How have your experiences with the land (whether positive or negative) led you to realize you are truly longing for a far off land? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Also, just in case you guys missed it, is currently open for submissions to their upcoming summer issue: ROOTED. If you can’t already tell, I’m passionate about this topic!

Here’s to more living in light of eternity,

- Rosa Gilbert

Pregnancy Sonnet: Psalm 139

first published in Calla Press Publishing’s 2024 spring journal

On Loving My Postpartum Body

Stairway to Heaven

first published in Calla Press Publishing’s 2024 spring journal

Miscarriage

first published in The Way Back to Ourselves 2025 spring journal

Lessons From My Daughter While Strawberry Picking

Mourning Dove

Happy Mother’s Day!

Rosa.

p.s. I haven’t shared on Substack in a while, but a post on that is coming soon with a few literary updates and new poems. Yay!

Despite the irony, there was really only one answer to that (life-altering) question: Yes. Sí. For this was a marriage of true minds1, even though it was also of two people born and raised in different countries.

The truth is, I never thought I’d find my match in an American because I’ve always felt so Dominican.

The truth is, my husband never thought he’d marry outside of his culture either.

But we both did, because as our good friend Shakespeare brilliantly penned all those centuries ago, the marriage of true minds knows no impediments. No language or culture or ocean can stand between true love—the ever fixed mark2.

And yet, we live in a world were these very things shape us and make us who we are. Even when love is true, it’s hard to remain untethered to our roots. Everything in us longs for belonging. Everything in us desires to be understood, especially by the person we cherish most.

I'm aware this tension, to be wholly loved and wholly understood, exists in every marriage. However, I do believe bicultural marriages sometimes require an extra dose of patience, humility, and forbearance. It takes a bit more effort to appreciate and adopt your significant other’s differences when there are so many to learn and consider. But it is possible.

Whenever I've felt embarrassed to speak Spanish to our daughter in public, my husband has been there to speak those words to her with me. Whenever I’ve missed my country, so much so it has caused my heart to ache, my husband has been there to play Dominican music in our car and drive me to the nearest Dominican restaurant (even though it’s an hour away). Just as I’ve sacrificed familiarity and comfort to move to the United States, leaving family behind to build a new one with him, my husband has sacrificed familiarity and comfort by embracing a culture that, before meeting me, was completely foreign to him. This is the road to oneness—to set loyalties to land, culture, and language aside to embrace the other person for who God has created them to be.

Y aquí estamos (here we are), four years later: felizmente casados (happily married), raising our bilingual daughter, and loving one another… differences and all. We wouldn’t want it any other way.

The following poem is my attempt at capturing this reality. The idea that oneness in marriage requires a complete acceptance of the other, even when it includes things that are foreign to us. This poem is also part of my upcoming poetry collection which I’ve been hard at work on with the help of . It’s still in the writing/editing phase, so consider this piece a rough draft. I literally wrote it last week, but wanted to share it with you today, on the anniversary of my engagement which also happens to be two days before Valentine’s Day.

Here’s a bit more on that upcoming collection in case you’re curious…

This debut poetry collection follows the poet from her upbringing on an island in the Caribbean, to her life as a wife, mother, and immigrant in America. The pieces in this collection, many of which are written in a bilingual format, explore themes of identity, the meaning of home, and how we belong to those things that follow us no matter where we go

Sacrifice/Sacrificio
 
On the altar, as I vow to you,
      amarte y respetarte
      en la salud y en la enfermedad, 
      en la riqueza y en la pobreza, 
      hasta que la muerte nos separe,
I sacrifice my motherland. 
I lay her down, slice her open. 

She starts to bleed in el mar Caribe, 
then el Pico Duarte y la Cordillera Central spill
out from her abdomen. I watch as ciguas palmeras, 
barrancolí, and loros fly out of her head 
in an agitated flutter. I hear her cries 
(or am I the one crying?) and still I promise 
my loyalty only to you—give myself over to our love.

Until it’s your turn to vow
and you gather her piece by piece from the ground.
Stuff the ocean back into her lungs. Stitch her up.
I sacrifice my motherland, but you
save her, embrace her, drink of her blood.
We become one. Somos uno. 
Esto es amor, this is love. 

Spanish to English translation: 
- Amarte y respetarte, en la salud y en la enfermedad, en la riqueza y en la pobreza, hasta que la muerte nos separe = To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part. 
- El mar Caribe = the Caribbean Sea
- Pico Duarte = tallest  mountain peak in the Dominican Republic and the Caribbean 
- Cordillera Central = highest mountain range in the Dominican Republic and the Caribbean 
- Cigua Palmera = Palmchat. Endemic bird to the island of Hispaniola (home to the Dominican Republic and Haiti)
- Barrancolí = Broad-billed Tody. Endemic bird to the island of Hispaniola (home to the Dominican Republic and Haiti)
- Loro = Parrot

This work-in-progress poem is very special to me, as is this entire collection. I hope you enjoyed a little sneak peek. I’d love to know your thoughts below!

In Light of Eternity,

Rosa.

Special Valentine’s Day Offer! <3

Would you, or anyone you know, love the gift of year-round poetry prints? If so, this offer is for you!

Starting today, paid subscriptions to In Light of Eternity will be 25% off—$3.75/month or $45/year. Consider this the perfect Valentine’s Day gift to yourself or someone else you know and love. Click the link below to access the discounted rate. This offer will end on Friday, February 14th, 2025.

Get 25% off forever

When you become a paid subscriber, here’s how I say a special thanks to you:

• You become a member of my poetry penpal club, which means you’ll receive a typewritten print of one of my poems in the mail every month! These are perfect for framing or gifting.

• You’re automatically entered into a yearly custom poem giveaway.

Now, I’m sure there’s an English or American equivalent to this saying, but I couldn’t recall one. So, lo prometido es deuda.

January was frigid in Ohio. Way below freezing temperatures and whipping, icy winds were the norm. January was also beautiful in Ohio. Snow fell from heaven in a gentle, silent way and its long lasting presence meant we got to enjoy a winter wonderland for almost an entire month.

It is in the spirit of a snow-filled January that I share this poem—the perfect kick off to my collaborative poetry series and the perfect farewell to this wintery first month of the year.

With a total of 16 replies to the picture prompt I sent out at the beginning of the month, this poem was a bit intimidating to write—in the best way. It challenged my creativity and prompted me to seek out overarching themes/ideas that could bring all of these responses* together into one cohesive piece.

I hope I did all of your words justice! Happy Reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts below.

*It’s important to note that not all responses are included word for word. Some have been slightly tweaked or added to in order to create steady poetic flow.

Midwinter Day

When 
             for just a moment,
heaven and earth drape 
matching ivory quilts over 
themselves and the naked 
trees seem to me as lonely 
as soldiers in trenches, 

             I sigh. 

My breath, one dusty fog,
is no match for the silence 
of midwinter. It is not a regular 
kind of silence. It is a sacred 
silence—crystalline 
serenity—like that of walking 
into a vast cathedral.

             I sigh,

like that of my own heart.
Where snow fairies sprinkle 
their icy magic 
and my tears are but melted 
snow trickling 
through the gutters 
of my thawing soul. 

             I sigh. 

These are the peaceful days. 
The days reserved for guiltless snuggling 
beneath the weight of a thousand blankets. 
The days for wet socks drying by the fireside.
The days of rest for worn out sojourners, 
tired of the crunch of crushing steps. 

             I sigh,

notice
             marble slab skies 
overhead. The sun 
awakening again 
the dazzle of the ice. Each 
once lonely, naked tree 
now afire. 

   - r.e.g.

Contributors in order of appearance within the poem:

1. Thank you for offering the phrase, “When earth and heaven wear matching clothes for just a moment.”

2. Thank you for offering the words, “Ivory quilt.”

3. Thank you for offering the words, “Naked trees.”

4. Thank you for offering the phrase, “The trees are as lonely as soldiers in trenches.”

5. Thank you for offering the word, “Dusty.”

6. Thank you for offering the phrase, “Crystalline serenity.”

7. Thank you for offering the phrase, “A sacred silence, like that of walking into a vast cathedral.”

8. Thank you for offering the phrase, “Snow fairies sprinkle their icy magic.”

9. Thank you for offering the phrase, “Melted snow trickling through gutters.”

10. Thank you for offering the word “Peaceful.”

11. Thank you for offering the words, “Weighted blanket,” and for offering the phrase, “Snuggled beneath quilted covers.” I mixed both of your phrases in the second to last stanza!

12. Thank you for offering the words, “Wet socks.”

13. Thank you for offering the phrase, “An icy crunch beneath our feet.” I didn’t want to use the word icy twice in the poem, so I incorporated the overall meaning of your phrase in the second to last stanza and used the word crunch!

14. Thank you for offering the phrase, “Marble slab skies.”

15. Thank you for offering the phrase, “Sun awakes the dazzle of the ice: each tree branch afire.”

I definitely took some creative license in how I used all of these, but they were wonderful contributions nonetheless. I couldn’t have written this midwinter poem without the help of each of these talented individuals. Thank you!

Want to participate in this month’s collaborative poem? Check out the call below!

Special Valentine’s Day Offer! <3

Would you, or anyone you know, love the gift of year-round poetry prints? If so, this offer is for you!

Starting today, paid subscriptions to In Light of Eternity will be 25% off—$3.75/month or $45/year. Consider this the perfect Valentine’s Day gift to yourself or someone else you know and love. Click the link below to access the discounted rate. This offer will end on Friday, February 14th, 2025.

Get 25% off forever

When you become a paid subscriber, here’s how I say a special thanks to you:

• You become a member of my poetry penpal club, which means you’ll receive a typewritten print of one of my poems in the mail every month! These are perfect for framing or gifting.

• You’re automatically entered into a yearly custom poem giveaway.

In Light of Eternity,

Rosa.

I’ve always loved Monet’s work, his use of pastel colors and nature-centric paintings, but it was learning more about his style and the philosophy behind his art that stood out to me that day. I already knew he was a highly acclaimed Impressionist, but I never expected Impressionism to inspire my poetry as much as it did.

For those who (like me) aren’t art experts, here’s a quick definition:

Impressionism is based on the practice of painting out of doors and spontaneously 'on the spot' rather than in a studio from sketches. Main impressionist subjects were landscapes and scenes of everyday life.1

More than just painting outside and ‘on the spot,’ the exhibit described Monet as being ‘obsessed with capturing light.’ And to that I say: count me in!

In 2025, I want to become an Impressionist poet—to be obsessed with capturing the specks of light in the world around me. I want my poetry to be real and honest, while also pointing readers (and myself) to a better, brighter hope. To write in light of eternity is to capture reality, not always as it appears to be, but as it can be when seen through the lens of hope and light.

Yes, I know that all sounds lovely, but I also know myself. I need a plan. Or else my romanticized thoughts and ideas will remain just that—thoughts and ideas. So, how do I plan on putting this vision into action? Dear reader, I’m glad you asked! The obvious answer is by writing, but let’s go a little deeper shall we?

This year, In Light of Eternity will focus on craft and collaboration. As a poet, I want to hone my craft while also uplifting the voices of the wonderful poets around me. To grow in poetry together. To spread light.

My plan to further develop my craft is pretty straightforward (but not easy).

1. I recently purchased ’s book, How to Write a Form Poem, which I plan on going through. I’ll be sharing my progress here—my attempts at sonnets, villanelles, haikus, and all other forms explored in the book. I noticed last year that although my voice as a free verse poet was growing stronger, I had little practice in other poetic forms. The Poetry Cohort I was a part of in the fall, led by and , helped whet my appetite, but now I want to begin to master them.

2. Another big thing I’ve decided to do for my writing this year is to complete my first chapbook and (hopefully) publish it. I began compiling the pieces for this project in October of last year and in December signed a contract with as my editor. I’m excited to see where God takes it as I continue to bring it to life with her help! The project’s theme is near and dear to my heart. It felt only right to kickstart the journey toward my first published collection with a chapbook that will be an ode to my roots, but also my future. That’s all I’ll say for now!

Then, there’s my plan for collaboration!

I read something by last year that really made me think. Griffin concluded one of his essays, How to Stop Getting Jealous When Others Succeed, with this convicting thought:

All this to say, you can’t just magically stop being upset when other people succeed. You have to intentionally start cheering other people on and loosening your grip on your own success. Counting others as more significant than yourself (Phil. 2:3), as the apostle Paul said, isn’t just good for living in line with God’s will for the world – it’s also good for your mental and spiritual health. Put another way, we can only let go of jealousy when we learn to let go of the things we get jealous over.2

1. In an effort to intentionally cheer other poets on, I’ve decided to start writing monthly collaborative poems. I’ll make a call via Notes (see January’s below) and publish the piece at the end of the month. Anyone can participate! The idea is for the poem to include all the responses I receive (in one way or another). Each participant, and their Substack if they one, will get a shoutout for whatever word/thought they contributed. I truly believe this will be a fun way to connect with other poets and highlight their work. I hope you’ll join me!

2. Another simple way I plan on collaborating with others is by featuring different poets on here from time to time. If you have an idea in mind or would like to be featured on In Light of Eternity, reach out to me. I’d love to brainstorm with you!

My first collaboration is actually happening this weekend. My friend , the poet behind , sends out a sacred poem every Sunday. She’s kindly asked to feature one of my pieces this week and I cannot wait to share it with all of you. Go subscribe to Kassi if you haven’t already.

Of course—like everything in life—this plan is subject to change, but I really hope I am able to stick to it. Here’s to writing better poetry and building community in 2025!

… but did you think I’d leave you all without a poem? This is a poetry newsletter, after all. Here’s a rough draft of a piece I wrote this week

Where do you go hunting for hope? And where have you found it this winter? I’d love to know.

If you’ve read this far, thank you! I'm excited at all the possibilities this year holds and I’m glad I get to pursue writing with the support and encouragement of such a lovely community. Thank you again for subscribing and following along!

In Light of Eternity,

Rosa

p.s. in case you missed it— spring literary journal is now OPEN for submissions. Read more on the theme below and send us your best work! Submissions close March 1st.

2

Reality Theology with Griffin Gooch

How to Stop Getting Jealous When Others Succeed

Read more

2 years ago · 77 likes · 17 comments · Griffin Gooch

God of the Winter Solstice 

On this shortest day I thank you 
for the knowledge of preserved light. 
Because you do not allow your children
to be swallowed whole by the night. 

	O God of the winter solstice 

I know the sun will be poured
back, slowly, starting tomorrow morning.
And I am ok with that—
just as long as you return with it. 

	O God of the winter solstice

This is the day of your visitation, for you
are master over darkness. You set its limit, 
knowing just when the time is right 
to interrupt death with life. 

	O God of the winter solstice

Is this how you felt in Mary’s womb? 
Cloaked in black black black. Knowing soon 
you’d burst forth. What about in the tomb? Waiting 
waiting waiting and then, three days later... 

	O God of the winter solstice 

You are not able—not capable—of leaving 
us here, dimly lit. So you come, 
again. You say, “Let there be light."
And the earth and my soul make room for you. 

	O God of the winter solstice

   - r.e.g. 

If you enjoyed this poem, be sure to read my Summer Solstice and Autumnal Equinox prayers.

Here are a few other winter solstice pieces I’ve been enjoying today:

• Solstice Poem by Angela Alaimo O’Donnell via Rabbit Room Poetry

• Keeping Vigil by . This prose piece was published in latest issue—A Thrill of Hope—out today!

• Longest Night of the Year… by

• Advent: Solstice by

• Winter’s Quiet Hush by

Special Birthday & Christmas Offer

My 26th birthday was this week and Christmas is only a few days away, so I wanted to offer a special discount. A thank you from me to you for your continued support of my writing.

For one week only, paid subscriptions to In Light of Eternity will be 25% off—$3.75/month or $45/year. Click the link below to access the discounted rate. The offer ends next Friday, December 27th, 2024.

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I’m trying to make it to 7 paid subscribers by the end of the year (I’m at currently at 6) so it would mean the world if you considered supporting my work in this way! When you become a paid subscriber, here’s how I say a special thanks to you:

• You become a member of my poetry penpal club, which means you’ll receive a typewritten print of one of my poems in the mail every month! These are perfect for framing or gifting.

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In Light of Eternity,

Rosa.