A(nother) note:
I am so grateful for how many responses came in to my follow-up poem last week, and for the generous reflections many of you made in your assessment of both the finalized version and the draft that came before it. For the past 21+ years, the weekly poetry practice I started on a random Tuesday in June of 2005 has offered me a dependable landing spot to share something new I’m working on. Sometimes (read: rarely), that work comes out feeling nearly complete, but plenty of times (read: almost always), the poems are really at the beginning of their journey toward wherever it is they might be going. For me, the exercise of sharing my poems—whether they’re finished or not—is driven by the commitment I want to keep making to my writing life, at the core of which is the belief that creativity does not have to be a solitary experience. And that in fact, the less solitary it is, the more I learn about what I’m doing and why, and the more risks I feel safer in taking, and the more alive the conversation becomes between me and you. Every week, I gift myself the chance not just to hold up my end of that conversation, but to deepen it. I am always delighted to hear from you about what your take is on what I’ve shared. It is a treasure trove of inspiration, a way to keep uncovering and discovering, and a reason to put my pen to the page and keep at it. Thank you.

11.3.26 **

square one

I don’t know what to say about cleaning up the garden, especially
in the face of so many scars. But I do know we have to gather the strands,
make them into something useable, even in our disappointment—and
especially then. Because what is out of our control does not mean
there’s no message. What seems nearly impossible can’t keep us
from working on the next draft. Yes, it might feel like we’re back
at square one. Yes, the tiredness and discomfort, the switching gears
and questioning. But let’s not be slaves to confusion. Underneath, like
a faithful bulb—eloquence. Flow and truth. The realness of being connected.
The ability to say “wholeheartedly.” How lucky, to try again and this time,
with permission. It makes all the difference, to imagine at the far end of any
unknown—a lighthouse beam. The nest of our own courage, waiting to hold us.   

** This poem was assembled, in large part, from snippets of the responses I received from last week’s poems. It was a special delight to create a new poem from your feedback!

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