Tag Archives: kindness

The morning after the election

My phone alarm buzzes, jostling 
me from sleep. I silence it, check
my inbox: The Times’ subject line is
 a gut punch.
I want to silence this news, too.
Tossing my phone aside, I bury 
myself under the weighted blanket.
If I just stay here I can pretend that, 
for once, a woman triumphs.

Somewhere else in America 
someone else woke up, checked her email 
and smiled. In her eyes, his election is 
  a warm hug.
Where I see harm, 
she sees hope — the promise of prosperity. 
Why do we see things so differently?

“Mommy?” my two-year-old approaches 
my bedside, rubbing his eyes. “Come here,” I beckon,
wrapping my arms around his soft, warm body,
Cocooned beside me, he drifts back to sleep. 

How will I teach him to be kind in a world 
that rewards deceit and greediness?
It’s the same question I ask myself daily, yet
this morning it feels urgent, I worry
this country will become more dangerous 
for many. Holding my son close, I pray
for peace, for our leaders, for our nation.

Finally, I rise and open
 the blinds, 
gray clouds envelope the sky.
My boy rustles in the bed; soon I’ll serve
oatmeal and fold laundry, he’ll build towers
and paint pictures, we’ll read stories and find 
shelter in each other. 

No, I can’t pinpoint the Light — not today —
still, I trust it’s here, shining
within us.

Some Things You Never Forget

The first time you swam
you leaped into the pool,
trusted the strength of your arms and legs,
let the swell of water carry you forward,
triumphant in your magenta swimsuit.

The call that made you sink
to your knees in dread,
“Cancer,” the doctor said,
and your world stopped turning for an instant.

Your first big heartbreak —
dumped before senior year —
you thought he was “the one,”
he wanted to date around,
you ran all summer to ease the pain,
you grew beautiful and resilient.

Your wedding day —
facing your soulmate in the chapel,
warm, white light streaming down on you,
promising to love and cherish each other
until the day you die,
exchanging rings, kissing,
basking in his goodness.

Your first dog,
whom you’ll always adore,
how, as a puppy, he curled up
in your arms and looked into your eyes
and made you feel safe, known and loved.

The dog who bit you,
and drew blood.
You thought he was gentle,
you thought you could trust him,
but he was a wolf all along.

The one you called when you were in trouble,
who held you when you howled in pain,
who cleaned the wound,
kissed the scar
and healed you.

Fear and courage

My son declares
“I’m not scared
of anything”

Almost 7 and still a wonder
boy whose life began with a lack of breath,
who, since he found his voice
rarely stops talking, who’s made of
sugar, steel and laughter

“That’s nice, honey,” I tell him, folding
his words and slipping
them into my back pocket
like a note I want to revisit later

Me? I’m scared of all sorts of things:
Showing up late. Wearing
the wrong outfit. Singing off-key.
Saying something off-color.
My kids getting hurt or worse — dying.
Mass shootings. War. Global warming.
Cockroaches in the house and maxing
out my credit card at Target.

Scared of success
and scared of failure.
Missed naps and moldy leftovers.
Scared of parties and public speaking.
Scared of home renovations
—but also scared of moving(?)—
literally anyone who rings our doorbell.
Tantrums at the grocery store. PTA meetings.
The cool moms at school pickup. Forgetting
a deadline. Forgetting
to return a text. Forgetting.

Scared of aging. Scared of dying.
Scared I won’t ever get to the point of this poem.

Scared of tornadoes.
Scared of blizzards.
Scared of men, when I walk alone
at night, midday or early in the morning.
Scared of running into ex-boyfriends,
that band teacher who despised me,
even scarier, my ex-best friend from high school.

Scared of weight gain. Scared of wrinkles.
Car crashes. Insomnia. Cancer.
Losing track of my kids anywhere,
especially near water.
Losing my husband, mother or father.

Scared I’ve said too much.
Scared I ate too much.
Scared of all the want inside me.
Scared how much I love my children.
Scared I’ve not been a good enough mother.

All this fear inside. Where does it come from?
What I wouldn’t give to soak up
some of wonder boy’s courage

Often I feel scared of writing
especially publishing.
Scared I’ll be judged.
Worse, no one cares.
Years of writing and I’m still scared
by all the rejection.

Then I think
of my son, and the world I want
him to inherit, a society steeped
in justice, peace and kindness.

So I keep writing,
keep chasing truth and beauty,
keep confronting my fears on the page,
emerging
braver and stronger,
keep penning hope
into a world riddled
by brokenness.

Holiday permission slips

heart latte

You have permission. . .

To feast on the beauty of December. To sing carols, to deck the halls, to manifest magic. God knows we need it.

To opt out of obligations that don’t nourish you or your household. To lighten up about cards, gifts and assorted traditions. To choose presence over perfection.

To eat the whole snowflake sugar cookie without guilt. (I’m so exhausted by the idea that we need to “earn” food; let’s retire it!)

To take a nap when you’re tired.

To ghost social media for vacation or mental health or just because. (Seriously! We’ll be here when you get back.)

To embrace the mystery and gift of waiting.

To ask your loved ones and elected officials for what you *really* want this season. To be your own Santa when needed!

To feel blue about the holidays — this is a lonely, hard month for many. Accept your feelings, difficult as they are. Find peace in a quiet sanctuary and the company of those who truly listen.

To find hope in the holidays. To relish each merry moment you can muster — the sacredness of lit candles, the comfort of reunions with friends and relatives, the bliss of giving and receiving.

To expect Love in a world hungry for goodness. (To do all you can to embody it.)