You could be soft instead.

You could be patient instead.

You could see that you are doing it.

The latch in the door that won’t close

could be something you now fix—

a sign of your attention, and willingness to mend—

instead of more evidence of your failings.

You could be sweet instead.

With all the missteps and the falls.

You might kiss the bruise on your knee—

or tend to the scar on your arm, with a bit of balm, and soft touch—

instead of hating it for the way it does its job.

You might see that these scars make you interesting—

that you quite like the scars on others,

because they tell stories without needing to speak.

You could be firm instead.

when you want to slip into ease,

instead of doing the difficult work that might change you—

instead of shattering that comfort that constrains you.

You could move just a little

in the direction of your freedom,

knowing the resistance is

only serving to build your bones.

You could be soft instead.

The way you would with your baby girl, or the feather that stuck to your pants,

or the tide that hasn’t yet come in—

because you trust it will come, as it has, as it always has—

every day around 2.

As long as you stand there waiting for the water to kiss your feet,

it will greet you—

it greets you every time you show up to the shore.

You could be kind instead.

You could love yourself into a new way of being.

Since there never seems to be enough hate

or blame, or shame, or punishment

to get the job done anyway.

You could run toward the world you want,

instead of escaping the one you don’t—

even as your eyes are blind, even though you cannot yet see, or feel, or touch—

what is waiting for you there.

On Changing and What Other People Will Think

On Changing and What Other People Will Think

Now, for various reasons, I’m not sure I want to do it anymore. I’m not sure it’s a good fit, and I feel like other things are becoming more important to me. But I’m afraid to stop because 1) what will God think? And 2) what will other people think? I have many religious friends an I worry that they will judge me if I leave. I also hate calling attention to myself and change will do that. But I don’t want to be a prisoner of other people’s judgments.

We Are The Luckiest

We Are The Luckiest

I believed the ones who didn’t have to do this—who could drink or not without much care or consequence—were just so damn lucky. They’d never have to fight this particular, stupid war. Shit, they didn’t even have to be aware it existed!

40 Things at 40 Years

40 Things at 40 Years

A few things I'm thinking about this trip around the sun.

    The Truth About Lying

    The Truth About Lying

    Your goodness doesn’t cancel out your darkness nor the other way around. As Thomas Lloyd Qualls says, “Believing you are good is like believing in the half moon.” The unlit side of the moon is always there, whether we see a sliver or full, creamy sphere. 

    The Pain of Too Much Tenderness

    The Pain of Too Much Tenderness

    This kaleidoscope of things. Sometimes all the pieces come into focus in a way that’s so beautiful it hurts—like the plastic bag at the end of American Beauty. The ordinariness of life. The bigness of it, too. When it comes into focus, everything is clear and felt at once.

    Getting Drunk on Judgment

    Getting Drunk on Judgment

    It took him a moment to speak and when he did I realized he was drunk. Really drunk. I looked at my phone to check the time: 7:12 am. He’d been going since the night before.



    All around me, I can see the unmistakable beauty in all the seasons that have passed, especially the really difficult ones. I can honor the one I am in. This is the season of my adult aloneness. The season of writing my first book. The season of goddess friendships and living in my body. The season of mothering and becoming an aunt. The season of my 39th year.