Pedestals are
no place for humans,
fumbling, fallible, fickle,
as we are.

Yes, even
your beloved grandparent,
your political party figurehead,
your religious leader,
that motivational speaker
you adore.

Pedestals can
obscure important truths,
conceal harmful patterns,
mask wayward motivations.

No one deserves
our uncritical support,
our unexamined esteem,
our unchecked admiration,
our unfettered loyalty.

Oh, the devastating
consequences
of hero-worship,
of following blindly
where another leads.

Keep showing up for work,
at school events
and the supermarket.
Keep acting like the world isn’t
fraying around the edges,
unraveling,
coming apart
in so many ways.

Make sure to put on a normal face,
because that is the expectation.

Don’t let it show that
pandemic waves and
unsustainable practices and
societal demands and
personal crises
might be getting to you,
freezing your once-easy grins
into worried eyes
and forced half-smiles.

Unless.

Unless we stop pretending,
stop letting status quo demands
keep us frozen in place
and admit that things
need to change.

Unless we make it okay
to say things like
“We’re not okay” and
“This is hard”
and work together
to find a different
way forward.

We are told not to live in the past,
or dwell on what has been,
yet our lives ebb and flow and some wisdom
is gleaned only in hindsight.

Memories, waves veining across sand
in the rose-golden light of retrospection
beckon us, carry us, navigate back to
gather in the previously unobserved.

Wandering revealed as labyrinth path,
the trivial unveiled as meaningful,
former aches and longings
rediscovered as deepest truth.

Time offers perspective, not forgiveness.
Perspective offers understanding,
shows the way to forgive ourselves
for what we didn’t know.

You don’t have to keep
wasting time in attempt
to fit in,
to conform,
to meet arbitrary expectations.

There are reasons
you are the way you are.

Learn them.
Examine them.
Take the time
to understand all their
light and shadows.

Follow the breadcrumbs
to the mysteries you haven’t
yet discovered,
the truths yet to unfurl.

Your Pandora’s box fears
are unfounded.

Your truest self is a gift of beauty
to yourself and to the world.

Sometimes I want to listen to something different.
Folk music. Indie pop.
And sometimes I do,
even though I have to pay attention to the words,
get caught up in any genius of the lyrics,
get distracted from whatever else is going on.

But mostly I listen to Claudia Berti and Hania Rani
on repeat for hours every day,
no lyrics to get tangled in,
just vibrant piano notes resonating,
tones filling chest,
clearing mind,
softening breath.

God, I’ve always loved the sounds
a piano makes.

Sometimes the music makes me think of
my six-year-old self who longed to learn all the notes
as well as the lady who played hymns on the old piano at church,
who would sometimes let me sit next to her on the hard wooden bench
and nod at me when it was time to turn the music page.

I would tell that younger me it’s okay she couldn’t make herself
sit long enough to really practice and never passed book four.

Sometimes music calls to mind my teenage self,
desperate to fit in, find her place, her people,
who learned to play music by chords on the keyboard
to join the youth group praise band.
Even then, always on the periphery.
Performing music, performing roles,
none of it coming naturally.

I would tell her it’s okay the group dynamics
always felt forced, through a mask, never intuitive.

I would tell her one day she’ll discover
she forms connections in a way that make
certain attention and certain relationships
feel just out of reach, near-misses, through a veil.

And I’d tell her someday she’ll discover
the way her mind can meander, swirl into being
a collage of words that connect, invoke clarity, resonate,
piano-music tapestry, woven by others,
the backdrop of her own expression.

Our eyes perceive only destruction
when all that remains are
remnants, desolation, isolation,
severed branches, tangled roots.

Relief, impossible to comprehend,
desperation closing in.
But Spirit whispers deliverance,
painting wild possibilities.

A new day will dawn, Wisdom’s reign,
when the poor and the meek and the child
are safe and warm and held and equal,
when harmony abounds.

Connection with the source of Love will permeate,
infusing every human and non-human interaction,
the world overflowing with collective liberation
and we will finally know peace.

–

Note: This is one of nine poems I wrote to complement the nine readings for Lessons and Carols the Sunday after Christmas. Many commentaries I read–both Jewish and Christian–cautioned against reading Isaiah as Messianic text. So, I shied away from that, opting instead to view it through the lens of hope promised to those living in times where hope seems distant.

Liminal,
the present already
shifting, slipping, fading,
yet this impulse to cling
to familiarity
pervades.

Daunted,
point of no return closing in,
unknowns creating undercurrents
of ambiguity, infusing moments
as they pass.

Bolstered,
recalling previous iterations of myself
on long past thresholds,
hesitating in-between,
stepping across despite
my fear.

Held,
sustained within my own
gentle reassurance,
yet still wondering how to bless
the ending and the beginning
in the same breath.

Last night I caught a glimpse
of the full moon gleaming through
the clouds shedding tiny raindrops
over our backyard.

I read some Indigenous folks call her
Long Night Moon during what
I’ve learned to call December,
and I like that name
because right now the night
arrives so early and it’s still dark
long after I wake up to start my day

and I feel a small bit of comfort
knowing that at her most revealed
this final month on our calendar,
she’s companioning us
when daylight
eludes.

How little we genuinely can perceive
of someone else’s experience,
our perception stemming
from our own awareness.

A cool hand may soothe a flushed cheek
or be felt as shock from icy fingers.
A nonchalant observation may be forgotten
or forever taken to heart.

Regardless of intention,
or our observed response,
we can’t fully know
another’s interoception.

Even explanations
can fail to bridge the gap,
tempting as it is to think
we comprehend.

Compassion, empathy,
involves remembering
how limited is our insight
into bodies, minds, and lives
not our own.

Gently gather in the loose threads
that came unraveled
while you were busy
trying to hold together the self
crafted carefully under
other people’s scrutiny.

Replace what no longer serves with
tenderly collected fragments
until you can explain yourself in your own damn words,
not syllables you memorized to stave off
raised eyebrows and sidelong glances.

Or maybe don’t.
Maybe stop trying to explain
and instead wrap yourself joyously
in the love you’re weaving
from understandings reassembled,
until you live your beauty and your wisdom
so fully that you need no explanation.