In between

 I am enjoying a moment where almost everything important is in motion and needing very little from me. The right things have been started at work, at home, at church. Relationships are stable (I think). Life generally has balance. (I could use a little more exercise, but ... all things never being equal, it's okay.)

And so, I am breathing. Shaking my shoulders down. Letting breath get to my belly. Using my "floodlight" mindfulness (*) to absorb my surroundings just as they are, accept my internal landscape just as it is. And feeling grateful. Thankful. Full. 

And for everyone I am failing by not knowing how I'm falling short of your expectations, I say sorry and ask for your grace. Speak up! My cup is full; I can give more. 

So I remember later: Peak Mind by Dr. Amishi Jha

The Three Systems of Attention

• The Flashlight (Focused Attention / Orienting System):
  • Narrows your mental energy to highlight a specific object, thought, or location (like a beam in a dark room).
  • Used when reading, looking for your keys, or tracking a single sensation like your breath.
• The Floodlight (Open Monitoring / Alerting System):
  • Provides a broad, open, and receptive state of awareness to the present moment without focusing on anything in particular.
  • Used when scanning your environment for hazards while driving or noticing background sounds.
• The Juggler (Executive Control / Goal-Directed System):
  • Directs and manages your behavior, keeping your long-term goals in mind while coordinating actions and resisting distractions.
  • Used to stay on task or adjust your behavior when plans change.

Chestnut (poem) by Rebecca Baggett

I touched a chestnut sapling
in the Georgia mountains.
My friend writes of the great trees and their vanishing,
but I have seen a young chestnut,
tender and green,
rising from its ashes.
I, too, write of loss and grief,
the hollow they carve in the chest,
but that hollow may shelter some new thing,
a life I could not have imagined or wished,
a life I would never have chosen.
I have seen the chestnut rising,
luminous,
from its own bones,
from the ashes of its first life.

Joint Custody (poem) by Ada Limón

Why did I never see it for what it was: abundance.
Two families, two different kitchen tables,
two sets of rules, two creeks, two highways,
two stepparents with their fish tanks or eight tracks
or cigarette smoke or expertise in recipes or reading skills.
I cannot reverse it, the record scratched and stopping
to that original chaotic track.
But let me say, I was taken back and forth
on Sundays and it was not easy
but I was loved in each place.
And so I have two brains now.
Two entirely different brains.
The one that always misses where I'm not,
the one that is so relieved to finally be home.

Forgiveness

 On the eve of Yom Kippur, I'm thinking about the ways that I've "missed the mark" when I've aimed at connection, respect, and love for those around me.

• For the anger and betrayal I caused my mother when I took her car
• For my impatience and dismissal of community members who operate out of fear, greed, and exclusion
• For not following through when I've made a commitment
• For not loving first before judgment and rejection when someone fails me

I'm left thinking about the difference between forgiveness and restoration, forgiveness and rejection, forgiveness and reconnection. 

How can I ask for my mother's forgiveness when I have no intention of returning her car?

How can I ask for forgiveness from community members who have no intention of operating out of love, abundance, and connection?

How does forgiveness work now when those commitments are so far in the past and no way to follow through now?

The commitment to love feels ever-present, and maybe that commitment is enough for me. And for those who don't know (or care) that I've judged them, what responsibility do I have to call it to their attention? Is praying enough?

And so I atone alone, which is not recommended and feels like cheating, or at least hiding. 

What is hell?

As a Unitarian Universalist, I do not believe in heaven or hell. But as a Buddhist-curious, I do think it's worth contemplating what hell I keep myself in with my striving, what hell I condemn others to with my judgment and indifference. 

What I believe first and foremost is that connection is the purpose of life, connection to each other but also to the larger universe, with its light and dark and mystery. The planetary bodies teach us the power of pull, the wisdom of drawing to a point of balance of our own trajectory with the gravity of those that need us. In those orbits, we are both free and bound. Better than bound, dedicated. Calm and kind. We gather in the commitment of love that will not let us go. 

Yes, that's all very well and good (and hard enough!). But what keeps us from this planetary dance with each other?

Boundaries too brittle. Collapsing into atmosphere and burning up. Indifference that doesn't even bring us close enough to be in orbit, to care enough to circle, to do-si-do before spinning off on parallel adventures. Trajectories so self-willed that we rocket past worlds unexplored. 

And what is cruelty? Pulling others into our control without honoring their own paths. Or worse, cheering when chance or poor choices or past patterns beyond their control catapult others into burning suns, endless cold beyond inhabited galaxies. 

For myself, the work of keeping a soft front, hard spine, or to continue my extended metaphor, holding my path with ease, open to influence yet arcing toward the justice and love I want for myself, for my family, for the communities of which I am a part, and those beyond my sphere of influence. 

Kelsey Atherton, member of my church who just preached on "the hell of the world is more than enough," tells us to love the hell right out of this world. Yes and yes. 

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.