I held the mirror up to myself
and what did I see,
but mirrors upon mirrors upon mirrors
a thousand arms of kali suffocating and tearing
I see and see and cannot see behind the veil
layers of reflections
they speak to me,  and out of my mouth comes others' voices
I cannot hear a thing
I must be must be must be must be
something else
what, I do not know
in the eyes of those who aren't watching

I need the phantoms to see
what I cannot:
me.
I forget
I can see myself
without my eyes.

What’s the point?
The point is that
I’m here, I’m alive
to do the work
even if I never finish.

The point is
the doing
the being
and that this, in itself, can be enough.
It is enough.

Stopping a run to talk to the neighbor,
Ninety years old and still saying she wants to
just be alive, every day-
petting the dog
smelling the barbecue
(and trying a bite)
feeling the velvet smoothness of those flower petals, oh so gently
wishing upon a star
falling into a romance, written on pages that fit in my hands yet hold a world so large it becomes a novel
laughing at the comedy
crying with a stranger
comforting a mother
being proud of a father
waving at a child, as he giggles-

The point is
that there is no point to be defined,
no finish line to be reached.
The point is
to be alive, every day.

Who am I?
I am the dark.
I am frantic hands grasping for the light switch
I am the inescapable dreams sewn into your pillow
I am the shine of stars through leaves above
I am the sound of water trickling over riverbed stones
I am it all

Who are you,
to call to me
in all that I am?

Are you, also
one of
everything?

Since we first spoke, we spoke of our own end.
We know to treasure that which will be lost
for in the shortness of its life, we find its meaning:
and yet, we are shocked by it.
We mourn. Because we are filled with pain.
We wish for more time,
when we knew all along
it was the lack of time that made it so important,
after all.
After all there had been
there is nothing but what was -
and doesn't that make it more beautiful?

It doesn't stop being horrible, no.
I cannot ease your suffering in this moment
I wish you could see how short this pain will last,
how little time all of this will take to pass, but
I can only turn the lights on for you, and wait -
I will sit with you, and wait
for you to open your eyes.

And you will rise, as even I did:
We will continue to walk this path together.

I would never wish pain on another
let alone the one that I love
Yet, I wish
you would tell me “I miss you”
so I know
we both miss us.

At first, it feels devastating to understand
how easily you yourself can be devastated

but don't we find the flower
all the more beautiful
for its fragility?

The oak who weathers the storm
may be battered and bruised, stripped, with its broken branches
but in its resilience
it has become an inspiration.

You can be beautiful both for the strength you've built
and even more so for the gentleness you've preserved.

You can be beautiful
for both, and for all
that you are.

So much of life is avoiding the loss of time, because to pay attention to it is to notice when it is gone, to notice that the beautiful moment you’re in is at the same time relentlessly slipping away like waves washing away from the shore, and to see this loss happen right before your eyes is the most painful thing one can allow themselves to see.
And yet, to avoid the reality, to look away, is to miss all the wonderful details, to do a disservice to creation itself: it is to dismiss the reason for having eyes to see at all, to see every bit of beauty for the time it is here.

I can feel my self,
my grip on reality
slipping, melting
like Salvador Dali's "Persistence of Memory"
I can't find which way is up
what direction is forward in time
unless it really is already over -

what time is it?

asks the mad rabbit
in this hellhole of a fun-house mirror-maze
I am a child, sprinting into the unknown, and
slamming into every obstacle
I cannot seem to perceive
it is funny to everyone but me

what time is it?

I don't mind that I've lost my phone,
and they don't keep clocks up in this bar

what time is it?

the nightstand is too blurry to see

what time is it?

is it already over?

I feel
powerful.

Not in the way that one does
holding a gun, or once onstage
but in that quiet, receptive way
the way that even still water holds itself
knowing there comes a moment
when it will pour over, reaching across
all the vast land the eye can see.

I am
powerful
in my own becoming,
not yet changed
but in the very transformation, I find
peace uninterrupted.

Is this
acceptance?
What a strong,
kind, quiet, thing.

Foreign to my tongue, it settles in my bones
it seeps into my blood

how could anyone withstand this horrible,
tumultuous, conflicting, way of life
without this calm?

I see now
the ripples I once thought waves
lapping quietly against my knees as I move on,
wading deeper into the sea.

Three raps on the door
Why not four?
Who comes to knock at this hour? they say
But is it late, or early?

What are you wearing?
How is the weather?
It doesn’t matter much, if you’re under a stoop
you will be sheltered from the rain
Unless, of course,
the sky is clear
But if sunlight or the moon is at your back,
I have no clue.

But you do.

Who comes to knock? they say
Who are you?

Are you merely the name you are called to?
If that, then what else are you?
Besides the names, the words,
the thoughts
others hold inside their heads

Refracted reflections of
fleeting conversations,
like passing notes
Only mere simple impressions
of the very person you spend every day,
every hour,
every minute walking alongside.

The knock comes again,
at your door.
Who are you?

Somewhere in between sky, and sorrow
I keep coming back to gratitude
that I can still feel anything at all
to let me know I’m alive
and there’s more to come.

Both the good and the bad is temporary
it flows with the currents of the rising moon,
and with every sunrise
a complete, new day, is born
for me to unravel, and relish, and
Love.

This moment is everything in the universe
can’t you see?
nothing exists out of this
room, this conversation, this moment
is all there is and all there will ever be

this time, this second, is outside of time:
I can’t fathom leaving this room
I can’t fathom leaving this minute
this is all there is

I wish that I could bottle it
to keep it safe, to watch it back
rewinding the tape again and again

I know time is passing. It must be, of course-
but I can’t understand how time could let this go
I don’t understand how the world could let this pass
instead of pausing in this scene
until all the LEDs in the tv burn out

It is incomprehensibly sad, to know
this cannot stay.
Even as we sit here
it is ending
don’t you find the ending sad, that this will never happen again?
There really is no rewind-
grasping time is like holding water
it leaves droplets clinging to my skin
but the moment itself is gone.

Isn’t it unbearable?
But doesn’t it mean we must
cherish even more so,
relentless pursue the life we have
for the spare moments we get?

To relentlessly pursue that which we love:
overcoming the fear of loss, in loss of time
to **** the marrow from the bone
is this not, in the end, the highest aim
of a life well-lived?

I cannot explain my fear
of what you must think of me,
because I don't know what you're thinking
when we are not speaking.
so the void is filled with
all those old sayings,
cliches and paraphrases
of what I've heard before.
even after all this,
I am still surprised, every time, when what you say
pushes those voices away
I wish you could wrap me in your arms
so I never have to hear their words again.

The quiet tapping of small bare feet echos from the hall,
as the door creaks open and
the smell of pancakes follow.

It's the holiday season, and later
cookies with prints from children's hands
will be baking in the oven.

The dog will need to be bathed
after rolling in the mud and snow outside
but dad will do it for me, while the kids laugh.

Morning kisses and
"see you later" hugs and
"I love you" looks and
all the little things
lying around the house
create a living scrapbook of what our family has made,
how we have grown
to fill this house, and make it our home.

She remembers how the coffee smelled in the morning,
and the hugs her father gave her.
Little things
like the pitter-pattering of dog paws
on linoleum floor.
It is perfect in the memory, in its simplicity
the repetition part of its beauty
and she misses it
though she knows it is a place
she cannot return to again.

There's beauty, a peace
in discovering
tiny steps

Satisfaction in the small goals,
the close goalposts
the list of checkmarks

There is peace
In lowering the expectations
but not the goal
In lessening the pressure, the blame, that
cycle of shame
So that even if the speed slows,
it never fully stops moving

Progress
Healing
is not linear

Tiny steps
That never quit
Will overcome every setback,
Every rewind,
Every mistake
Tiny steps are what keep us moving
And faith is what takes us to the end.

Sometimes, as I walk
I pick up a piece of the earth
to carry it with me
mere dirt, and yet
I hold it so
carefully
as if it could break if I dropped it.

I measure its weight in the palm of my hand
and wonder if anubis would find my soul this light
and let it crumble between my fingers
and watch it stain my skin.

I wonder if, in my life
I have left any mark
as significant as that.

Wisdom is in lacking,
in the empty space that you can look into
without flinching

In the understanding that
you can't understand,
you won't be able to reach the top shelf
you can never calculate the answer
and finding that, really,
that's okay.

Being "wise"
it has become such a cliche,
it's strung across the street of life we run down
like a grand, neon finish line
when it instead lies between the cracks in the cobblestones
on which we step,
if only we look closely enough.

Learning how to find inside yourself
what you have carried all along:
see the whites in your own eyes,
feel the pauses between your own breaths
and understand, this is what cannot be found anywhere else.

“You can only fracture something
so many times
before you realize it can’t
be put back together.”

And I had my hands full of glass
before I saw
all the blood. It took too long
for me to see
what it all had become.

I want the
kiss me in the elevator,
carry in the groceries for me
kind of love.

I want the
I’ll start the dishes
while you’re still making our dinner
kind of love.

I want the
“this just reminded me of you”
“this was cool- what do you think?”
kind of love.

I want the
I’m crying curled up in bed, for really no reason
and you make me hot chocolate
kind of love.

Love by any other name
than what can’t be explained in
even a thousand words
isn’t.

Because while you’re not here,
or not here yet
I can buy myself flowers, and write myself notes
I can be happy alone, watching romcoms
and reading long novels on the beach,
baking sweets I bring to the neighbors
and trying new things just for the sake of it

I am building the life I’ll share with you
when you get here.

But only you:
I’ll save your seat,
because not just anyone will get to see
the amazing performance, adventure,
experience of a lifetime
of me.

Remembering
you have a home, when you truly feel
you're all alone, is the hardest one to keep -
it slips away
like a father's voice, a mother's face,
a train ticket blowing away
you chase with haste.

Have trust, have faith, they all say,
those who have never had to keep pace
with the malicious apathetic whims of the wind,
as it sweeps away every dream within -

Alone, you run, missing every turn
the gps has gone out and the maps have been burned
all alone, you seem to be, rushing past deserts, empty of trees
and somehow every step you take
leads you along the path He made.

Sincerity is an abandoned relic
We are plagued by its scarcity,
today we cringe and shy away
from the bright light
of genuine authenticity

The shine of our own reflection
is too bright, we close our eyes
to the truth we see
in the eyes looking back
from the face in the mirror

We judge by our own standards
while judged by any but our own
We look past the tint in our own vision
unable to distinguish the vastness of colors
visible in unfurling new conversations:

We live for ourselves, selfishly
consumed by narcissistic perceptions
Perfecting our reputation, under other’s eyes
like a butterfly perfectly pinned under the glass

Yet why not live for ourselves,
but truly, as if
we were the only one left to judge in the world?
If we were freed from
this fear of sincerity-
wouldn’t you be happier, then?
Wouldn’t you
just become
you?

You owe no debts to who you were five minutes ago. One minute ago. One second ago.

There is no karmic well you need to climb, drag yourself, out of-
well, if there is, may I direct your attention to the door by your side.
You only need to step through it.

The trouble is, you must keep stepping through it:
Again, and again, and again
Unlocking this door, though really it wasn’t locked before
and step through, over the threshold
again, and again, and again.

You must choose,
every time.
And no, not choosing isn’t an option,
because deciding not to choose is a decision, too.

You must keep choosing yourself
who you want to be - even more so, who you are
right now.
In this moment,
you keep choosing, again and again
you are not changing yourself: the change already happened
the moment you truly decided.

But you prove it
you are proven, like metal forged in fire
with every decision you make.

Sometimes, you will strike the iron wrong.
So you must hit it twice more to flatten out the steel.

You keep choosing, and choosing, and choosing:
Hammering in
who you really want to be
(as opposed to who you say you want to be).
And so- in this very effort
in the drops of sweat and blood and tears

so you are.

You owe no debts to who you were five minutes ago.
Except this one: to always keep becoming better.

Maybe this will be the last time, I say to myself
and still, I wrap my arms around my chest,
palms flat against my ribs
as if I could cradle my own heart in my hands as I fall
hoping something will catch me.

While it hurts to hit the ground, unless I jump
I will remain unchanged, unseen,
unfound.
So, here I am, all that I am:
and I fall.

We ache to find the right words,
the right way to say
something which cannot be said right at all
because once it is spoken,
it makes everything wrong
the world becomes broken
and nothing can
become right again.

She knew,
and yet didn't know, in that instant
that something in her had died

She knew.
But didn't know,
yet
how much had gone.

She fled from herself,
from her own injuries
unable to see the trail of blood she left behind
unable to feel it still bleeding out

bleeding out her heart, her soul
her mind -
she was losing her mind
losing her mind
in circles
running in circles
she was running in circles
running, running, running

she knew,
and yet didn't know
in that moment
it was already over
it was already too late

I am not my wants
not even my dreams, nor my deepest desires
I am my actions
I am the love I choose to pursue, and leave in my wake, every day
I am merely
the girl, the woman
sitting on a stone, looking to the grass
listening to the world play.

That is all.
And all of that?
It is well. It is well enough for me.

I hate how I can never know the truth:
every time I trust, it is broken
every time I am found, I am lost
every bridge I cross has been burned

I don't know where to step
when all that follows my footsteps
is my own decomposition

As I pass, the flowers that bloomed
they wilt, they are contaminated
by some part of me that I can't recognize

it peers back at me when I look in the mirror

Is this wasteland following me
or am I walking further into an already broken place?

Don't forget the coffee you left brewing as you rush out the door,
don't forget to glance at the sunrise driving down the highway
don't miss the smell of the tulips and
bright marigolds outside your door;
fall will come before you know it
and frost will cover the ground

I'll drink it when I get there,
I'll take a picture and look at it later
I'll light a candle and
paint a picture
tomorrow,
this weekend,
when I have time.

Don't postpone your life in the pursuit of a dream,
as sweet as it may be
that could be ended tomorrow.

Something as simple as
a coffee,
a stranger's smile,
a moment to breathe amidst the colors of the sunset
as it dances beautifully
just for you.

Enjoy today,
for just what it is,
so you may always have something to wake up for.

There is something missing you can't replace,
something you weren't prepared to erase:
your dream is too embedded,
stitched into your pillow -

like a midnight snack,
he preys on your insomnia
finding this the most delicious
and swallows it up with your tears

he stares at the stars
from the other side of the bed
meets your eyes, and you see instead
your own. staring back at your own reflection,
you turn over, and go back to sleep.
It's all you can do,
and only hope you do not dream.

Finding love in life is like a spinning top,
your own world revolving, uninterrupted
balanced, perfect, quiet, clean.

If you introduce but a drop of water on the surface,
it may flow, it may stick, it may be flung off the edge:
and you, your life, will wobble and slow.

With some time, in some turns
maybe the top will crash as all hope burns
or maybe it will only spin faster, still
with the small stain from that single drop
marking each lesson learned.

You must have your own balance,
win your own battles,
build your own momentum
if you're moving too slow, but a single breath can
break it all down.

Once you are ready,
only once you are ready:
you can accept someone new
who will take on adventures with you
spin faster, burn brighter,
someone there to keep you balanced
as life sends storms your way.

Betrayal
when you are convinced it is you who is
the betrayer
feels inescapable,
like a jail sentence
where the jury was your own mind
the door locked by
those who came to free you
little do you know, oh powerful one
you have the key in your hand all along.

I know I’m “sentimental.”
At least, that’s what I’ve coined it
because it sounds better to a stranger than
to more truthfully admit, I’m annoying.

I talk too much and I ramble,
I’m emotional instead of careful.
I leave my wounds out in the open
and call my friends when I’m hurting,

and it drives them away.

Yes, it does.
Because despite what we’ve told ourselves
we don’t love “openness” that much.

Outside of a seminar, or textbook,
it’s like
opening a wound: the problem is,
it’s for me and not for you.
It’s aid is for me to choose

And some can’t handle the sight of blood.
As the stitches open, one by one,
those who stay let the music play
and let me bleed until it’s done.

Surgeons of the heart, they are:
hearts, minds, and souls most of all,
healed not by the works of their own hands
but by grace and patience in God’s plan.

To those whose prayers are answered with struggle: the pain is meant to be
part of the wonder.

When they reach out a hand, take it -
but not to bind their wounds and scrapes,
instead be patient and respect their space
so they can learn at their own pace
the truth behind both sorrow
and strength.

We all reap the seeds we sow
and this I pray for those who don’t know:
Share the love you wish you had
and someone, I promise,
will soon take your hand.