When I read your poems, I am always hesitant to send a reply. I feel like my words will not convey the deep appreciation I feel in the way your words convey exactly what my experience has felt like. It’s magic. Thank you! Keep writing!
Your 3rd poem reminds me so much of the interview with Ruth Ozeki--if you haven't already listened to it, I feel even more confident you will enjoy it. And I would love to hear the story of meeting Padraig O Tuama! I am completely green with envy.
Congrats on the growing Substack! And welcome to Sundays! It is the best day to publish here. I might be a little biased ;)
How often our worry is misplaced. I think your first poem is touching on something different - the consequences of believing that we are responsible for saving other people, but I can’t help think about just how in our own lives we worry about so much that doesn’t really matter and we don’t worry enough about things that do.
I just finished reading Tiny Beautiful Things, and this is one of the many topics Cheryl discusses in this beautiful book
Yes I’m joining the Sunday morning bandwagon with all the cool kids 😎 and I just got an email that Tiny Beautiful Things is waiting for me at the library ❤️❤️
May we make tally marks back into Tallys and Marks.
We need to see people for who they really are and that is our brothers and sisters. In every sense of the words.
But we are scared, scared of our own lines and wrinkles on our faces and hearts. Judging and pressing our own sandy imperfections into glass and forming a dark mirror blackened by unrealistic standards.
Standards born from a frail ungodly human mind. Standards that are made to tear and break, not to rise and restore.
These standards plague the mind with numbers as worth. Money. Likes. Things.
Stretched by opinions of people with a wider imagination. Higher standards. More things.
Stretching further and further until our arms and bodies can no longer embrace. Can't feel. Disjointed.
It seems the only choice is either be torn apart by expectation or let go, stuck amidst many numbers but absolutely alone in the end.
You decide to let go.
The pain doesn't leave. The wrinkles get worse. The party you never asked for ends and you are left with a messy house to clean up alone.
And your stretched out limbs can't clean. They can only hang drooped like your soul on the couch.
Will they ever get back to normal? Will you ever get back to that normal person with normal standards and normal life?
And the doctors say it's normal. Normal to feel not normal. What does normal even mean to doctors? Numbers? Statistics? Not them again.
You are unique. You are not a number. You are a soul. A droopy soul that needs its original composition restored. To be firm and steadfast. Loved and un stretched by the wicked standards of the world.
God is a carpenter. His trade is to take broken pieces from nature and make strong and polished works of art. Every work he makes is unique and invaluable. There is no number that interests him in negotiation. His trade is that of merely putting beauty into the world free of charge.
I hope we all find this same peace by removing the price tag of the world and enjoying the freedom of the gifts we have and the life we enjoy.
Thank you for your words. Advice on finding refuge in the company of those who understand? Faith transitioning has been very lonely.
Hi, Kimberly. Not sure if this is what you're looking for, but this link might help in finding like-minded people: https://www.mormonspectrum.org/msip-map-directory
When I read your poems, I am always hesitant to send a reply. I feel like my words will not convey the deep appreciation I feel in the way your words convey exactly what my experience has felt like. It’s magic. Thank you! Keep writing!
Oh my gosh how kind! Thank you so much Emily ❤️❤️❤️
Great poems! ‘Reason for Worry’ explains much of my indecisiveness.
Faith transition poem offers blessings of freedom!
‘Search for Nothing’ reminds me of my favorite Tao te Ching verse 11- Thanks 🙏 for the reminder!
“30 spokes converge upon a single hub;
it is on the hole in the center that
the use of the cart hinges.
Shape clay into a vessel;
it is the space w/in that makes it useful.
Carve fine doors 🚪 & windows 🪟 ,
but the room is useful in its emptiness.
The usefulness of what is
depends on what is not.”
Yes! Thank you for sharing that verse from the Tao Te Ching - it’s perfection 👌
Your 3rd poem reminds me so much of the interview with Ruth Ozeki--if you haven't already listened to it, I feel even more confident you will enjoy it. And I would love to hear the story of meeting Padraig O Tuama! I am completely green with envy.
Epic writing. So meaningful and inspiring and honest and real. Love tuning in to your content 🥰
Congrats on the growing Substack! And welcome to Sundays! It is the best day to publish here. I might be a little biased ;)
How often our worry is misplaced. I think your first poem is touching on something different - the consequences of believing that we are responsible for saving other people, but I can’t help think about just how in our own lives we worry about so much that doesn’t really matter and we don’t worry enough about things that do.
I just finished reading Tiny Beautiful Things, and this is one of the many topics Cheryl discusses in this beautiful book
Yes I’m joining the Sunday morning bandwagon with all the cool kids 😎 and I just got an email that Tiny Beautiful Things is waiting for me at the library ❤️❤️
"The tenderness of a thousand Oprahs". Well put. Thank you for your writing. It is cathartic. Bless you in all the best ways.
May we make tally marks back into Tallys and Marks.
We need to see people for who they really are and that is our brothers and sisters. In every sense of the words.
But we are scared, scared of our own lines and wrinkles on our faces and hearts. Judging and pressing our own sandy imperfections into glass and forming a dark mirror blackened by unrealistic standards.
Standards born from a frail ungodly human mind. Standards that are made to tear and break, not to rise and restore.
These standards plague the mind with numbers as worth. Money. Likes. Things.
Stretched by opinions of people with a wider imagination. Higher standards. More things.
Stretching further and further until our arms and bodies can no longer embrace. Can't feel. Disjointed.
It seems the only choice is either be torn apart by expectation or let go, stuck amidst many numbers but absolutely alone in the end.
You decide to let go.
The pain doesn't leave. The wrinkles get worse. The party you never asked for ends and you are left with a messy house to clean up alone.
And your stretched out limbs can't clean. They can only hang drooped like your soul on the couch.
Will they ever get back to normal? Will you ever get back to that normal person with normal standards and normal life?
And the doctors say it's normal. Normal to feel not normal. What does normal even mean to doctors? Numbers? Statistics? Not them again.
You are unique. You are not a number. You are a soul. A droopy soul that needs its original composition restored. To be firm and steadfast. Loved and un stretched by the wicked standards of the world.
God is a carpenter. His trade is to take broken pieces from nature and make strong and polished works of art. Every work he makes is unique and invaluable. There is no number that interests him in negotiation. His trade is that of merely putting beauty into the world free of charge.
I hope we all find this same peace by removing the price tag of the world and enjoying the freedom of the gifts we have and the life we enjoy.