How the Worst Day of My Life Became the Best (Poem) by Andrea Gibson

When you are trapped in a nightmare, your motivation to awaken will be so much greater than that of someone caught up in a relatively pleasant dream.

—Eckhart Tolle

When I realized the storm
was inevitable, I made it
my medicine.

Took two snowflakes
on the tongue in the morning,
two snowflakes on the tongue
by noon.

There were no side effects.
Only sound effects. Reverb
added to my lifespan,
an echo that asked—

What part of your life’s record is skipping?
What wound is on repeat?
Have you done everything you can
to break out of that groove?

By nighttime, I was intimate
with the difference
between tying my laces
and tuning the string section

of my shoes, made a symphony of walking
away from everything that did not
want my life to sing.

Felt a love for myself so consistent
metronomes tried to copyright my heartbeat.

Finally understood I am the conductor
of my own life, and will be even after I die.
I, like the trees, will decide what I become:

Porch swing? Church pew?
An envelope that must be licked to be closed?
Kinky choice, but I didn’t close.

I opened and opened
until I could imagine that the pain
was the sensation of my spirit
not breaking,

that my mind was a parachute
that could always open
in time,

that I could wear my heart
on my sleeve and never grow
out of that shirt.

That every falling leaf is a tiny kite
with a string too small to see, held
by the part of me in charge
of making beauty
out of grief.

From You Better Be Lightning (Button Poetry, 2021) by Andrea Gibson

Complainers (poem) by Rudy Francisco

 

The following are true stories.

May 26th 2003 Aron Ralston was hiking, a boulder fell on his right hand. He waited four days, then amputated his arm with a pocket knife.

On New Year’s Eve, a woman was bungee jumping in Zimbabwe. The cord broke, she then fell into a river and had to swim back to land in crocodile infested waters with a broken collarbone.

Claire Champlin was smashed in the face by a five pound watermelon being propelled by a slingshot.

Matthew Brobst was hit by a javelin.

David Striegl was punched in the mouth. By a kangaroo.

The most amazing part about these stories is when asked about the experience they all smiled, shrugged, and said “I guess things could have been worse.”

So go ahead.

Tell me that you’re having a bad day.

Tell me about the traffic. Tell me about your boss. Tell me about the job you’ve been trying to quit for the past four years. Tell me the morning is just a town house burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher. Tell me the alarm clock stole the keys to your smile, drove it into 7:00 AM, and the crash totaled your happiness.

Tell me! Tell me!

Tell me, how blessed are we to have tragedies so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues?

You see, when Evan lost his legs he was speechless. When my cousin was assaulted, she didn’t speak for forty eight hours. When my uncle was murdered, we had to send out a search party to find my father’s voice.

Most people have no idea that tragedy and silence have the exact same address.

When your day is a museum of disappointments hanging from events that were outside of your control, when you find yourself flailing in an ocean of “Why is this happening to me?”, when it feels like your guardian angel put in his two week notice two months ago and just decided not to tell you, when it feels like God is just a babysitter that’s always on the phone, when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life, remember that every year two million people die of dehydration so it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty, there’s water in the cup.

Drink it, and stop complaining.

Muscle is created by repeatedly lifting things that have been designed to weigh us down. So when your shoulders feel heavy, stand up straight and lift your chin – call it exercise. When the world crumbles around you, you have to look at the wreckage and then build a new one out of the pieces that are still here.

Remember, you are still here.

The human heart beats approximately four thousand times per hour.

Each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy engraved with the words “You are still alive”.

You are still alive.

Act like it.

Mercy (poem) by Rudy Francisco

She asks me to kill the spider.

Instead, I get the most
peaceful weapons I can find.

I take a cup and a napkin.
I catch the spider, put it outside
and allow it to walk away.

If I am ever caught in the wrong place
at the wrong time, just being alive
and not bothering anyone,

I hope I am greeted
with the same kind
of mercy.

50

Before this year, there haven't been many reminders throughout the year of my actual age. This year, there have been almost daily reminders. As though I am supposed to be realizing something. Arriving somewhere. Preparing for something. 

I feel balance. Most days I remember to feel grateful for all that I have, for the ease that comes with privilege, for the commitment to use that privilege to help others. Most days I find moments of play between the hard work. 

I find time for the unpleasant tasks that help clear away the real and mental clutter: weeding, poop pickup, dishes, laundry. I sewed on a button for the first time in decades! 

I give time to the church. I take time for yoga. I have had lunches with friends. We take time for Sunday night dinner with my mother. 

I am very aware that we live on a knife's edge; car trouble, health issues, the miraculously still-working washer and dryer finally falling prey to their age... stress will come tumbling down to knock me off my balance and feeling of well-being. Still, I know I live more often in balance than in my younger days, and that feels like growth. 

I race toward the end trying to integrate the first instinct toward breath when stress comes. I try to practice trusting others (even when I could do it better, even when they don't do it the way I'd prefer, god forbid). I try to show gratitude toward my partner (he's my partner; he's my family) more often (and focus less on     all that he does that ANNOYS ME). 

It is a blessing that more awareness of my age keeps the imperative of growth in front of me. I must make space to keep grounded, stay balanced, be able to breathe and play and support others.

My Name Is (Poem) by Marek Desai, age 11

From Skipping Stones
July-August 2026

My Name Is...

My name is Marek and I am in fifth grade.
My name is Marek and I am Czech,
With Czech grandparents and a Czech class grade,
With Czech relatives who I know by name.

My name is Marek and I am Nepali. 

I love the momos our family friends make, 

The curries, the meats, the vegetables with rice. 

My name is Marek and I am Indian. 

The poojas, the colors, the dosas are great. 

My name is Marek and I am American, 

I like high fives and ten-lane freeways. 

My name is Marek and when you look at me, 

You might not see much of the cultures that are mixed. 

But when I start talking, what’s hidden comes out. 

Then you can see who really is ‘me.’ 

So when I watch other people, I like to think: 

‘Who really are these people all the way in?’ 

What cultures, interests, and ideas do they keep within? 

I like to find out, to ask them and see, 

And that way they can also learn about me. 

—Marek Desai, age 11, grade 5, California

Exit Velocity

It's been a slow but expansive 4th of July weekend. I've prioritized yoga and reconnecting with a dear friend. The house is clean. Washing the towels now (once every 2 months whether they need it or not!). I've weeded. Watered. Finished a puzzle. Cooked a backup meal for next week. 

I still need to go grocery shopping, and this afternoon is drinks with a friend from out-of-town. And time to journal. (What?!?)

At the end of a yoga class last week, a woman told the instructor that she appreciates that the teacher "creates time" in her class. And it's true. Her classes are not long, not short, not slow, not fast. There's just a sense of present, presence, now that stretches far longer than it possible can. "You're bending the 4th dimension!" the student complimented. 

This weekend feels like that. Puttering and accomplishing one thing after another when there's nowhere to be stretches time. 

I've been focusing in yoga on finding ease in the poses once I've reached my edge. I want to push myself to grow, but I have more to learn about relaxing and letting joy find me (or rather feeling the joy that has been there all along, waiting for me to notice). 

My kids sometimes tease me when I'm in a good mood: "Oh, it's FUN mom." As though she doesn't show up very often. Usually on family trips after we've escaped the chaos of exit trajectory, achieved escape velocity, and reached the Kármán line. We escape the atmosphere of home and enter spaaaaaaaaaaace. And I find my smile.

End of Life

My mom seems to be in late stages of dementia. My sisters and I are in high gear trying to prepare to move her to memory care (her worst nightmare). In the meantime, we're problem-solving what's not going well. An auto-feeder for the dog (despite Mom feeding the dog whatever's lying around anyway because she can't remember the feeder is feeding the dog). Unplugging the stove after she poured boiling water on her arms while preparing pasta. An auto-pill dispenser. We've called to start Meals-on-Wheels. Homecare will start soon. My sister will "work from home" from Mom's house 5 days a week. 

I'm finding moments to grieve what once was. What she once was. What she once was to me. 

She hates losing control. She has little to hold onto. Her friend comes to puzzle with her multiple times a week. I have her over once a week for dinner and card games with the grandkids. 

I'm thinking about what furniture might move with her, and what needs to be offered to family. She has many pieces that are more tied to my dad's side of the family, and I want to make sure they have a chance to keep it in the family before we try to sell it or give it away. 

The house has a new roof and otherwise may have to be sold as-is. 

And for me? My love for my mother also feels as-is. I will never love her better. She won't ever love me better. And in fact, my existence fades ever more in her memory. She talks to me of her "adult daughters" and the bullying decisions that they keep making to complicate her life. 

Oh, oh, so is life.

Oh, oh, so is life.

A good dream

 Last night, I was in bed by 8 and asleep before 9. That's a good night. 

And as a reward, I had the BEST dream, long and detailed, about a weekend getaway with Matthew McConaughey. It was really him (although very sane), and it was really me (although very cool, calm, and confident) in the dream (and our spouses were conveniently not an issue, and we were in Maine). But otherwise, very realistic. 

A good first chunk of the dream was driving through Maine on his motorcycle in the winter on snow. (Insert here that we just re-watched Pulp Fiction, or rather, showed Pulp Fiction to Umea and her boyfriend, who were both seeing it for the first time – another dream scenario! – which must have put "chopper" on the brain.) There were tunnels with entrances lined with icicles and frozen rivers and mush at roadside tavern parking lots. The pavement was dry, so no worry about wrecking. Just the cool wind on my face, tight abs beneath my palms, and a feeling of freedom and rightness. It went on and on. 

Then we arrived at the getaway site, some sort of camp/compound with lots of people convened for the weekend. We hiked into our spot – he'd reserved a cavern room just for us. He left to go to the bathroom, and I staked out the most level place for the tent. The caves were packed with snow (so maybe the realism got lost here a bit). Eventually, I wandered out to see the goings on in the rest of the compound. I ran into a good friend, lounging about with her husband and another friend. I joined them, and we got caught up a bit, me brimming over with the fun news that I was on a date with Matthew McConaughey. They were delighted for me. We all had a good giggle, and then I asked, very seriously, "What if he's never seen cellulite before???" They downplayed my worry and told me to focus on having fun. Good advice. 

In another room, UU scholars were milling about and talking shop. I met John Forrester, a planning theorist, and was delighted that he was UU (unconfirmed in real life). Matthew came in at some point, and we made eye contact, but neither of us moved to each other, so comfortable were we in our connection (or so I knew in the dream). 

Later, we got down to business, and that was also glorious and realistic. And no cellulite crisis. 

All in all? Really fun. I woke up with a big grin on my face when my alarm went off at 5:45 am to head to yoga. Cellulite be damned. 

Joy is Such a Human Madness: The Duff Between Us (essay) by Ross Gay

Or, like this: in healthy forests, which we might imagine to exist mostly above ground, and be wrong in our imagining, given as the bulk of the tree, the roots, are reaching through the earth below, there exists a constant communication between those roots and mycelium, where often the ill or weak or stressed are supported by the strong and surplused.

By which I mean a tree over there needs nitrogen, and a nearby tree has extra, so the hyphae (so close to hyphen, the handshake of the punctuation world), the fungal ambulances, ferry it over. Constantly. This tree to that. That to this. And that in a tablespoon of rich fungal duff (a delight: the phrase fungal duff, meaning a healthy forest soil, swirling with the living the dead make) are miles and miles of hyphae, handshakes, who get a little sugar for their work. The pronoun who turned the mushrooms into people, yes it did. Evolved the people into mushrooms.

Because in trying to articulate what, perhaps, joy is, it has occurred to me that among other things–the trees and the mushrooms have shown me this–joy is the mostly invisible, the underground union between us, you and me, which is, among other things, the great fact of our life and the lives of everyone and thing we love going away. If we sink a spoon into that fact, into the duff between us, we will find it teeming. It will look like all the books ever written. It will look like all the nerves in a body. We might call it sorrow, but we might call it a union, one that, once we notice it, once we bring it into the light, might become flower and food. Might be joy.

from The Book of Delights

Grown (essay) by Ross Gay

I suspect it is simply a feature of being an adult, what I will call being grown, or a grown person, to have endured some variety of thorough emotional turmoil, to have made your way to the brink, and, if you’re lucky, to have stepped back from it – if not permanently, then for some time, or time to time. Then it is, too, a kind of grownness by which I see three squares of light on my wall, the shadow of a tree trembling in two of them, and hear the train going by and feel no panic or despair, feel no sense of condemnation or doom or horrible alignment, but simply observe the signs – light and song – for what they are – light and song. And, knowing what I have felt before, and might feel again, feel a sense of relief, which is cousin to, or rather, water to, delight.

(July 27, 2019)

Pablo Neruda poems on time

 Excerpt from "Morning"

time was like never and always:
We go where nothing is expected
and find everything waiting there.

From one of his "Elemental Odes"

Listen and learn.
Time
is divided
into two rivers:
one
flows backward, devouring
life already lived;
the other
moves forward with you
exposing
your life.
For a single second
they may be joined.
Now.
This is that moment,
the drop of an instant
that washes away the past.
It is the present.
It is in your hands.
Racing, slipping,
tumbling like a waterfall.
But it is yours.
Help it grow
with love, with firmness,
with stone and flight,
with resounding
rectitude,
with purest grains,
the most brilliant metal
from your heart,
walking
in the full light of day
without fear
of truth, goodness, justice,
companions of song,
time that flows
will have the shape
and sound
of a guitar,
and when you want
to bow to the past,
the singing spring of
transparent time
will reveal your wholeness.
Time is joy.