Today I read a quote that said publishing your writing is both arrogant and generous: generous to share such vulnerable pieces of yourself and arrogant to assume anyone cares enough to read it. I laughed out loud. This is exactly the conversation I have with myself any time I think about sharing something I’ve written. Like, Jesus, am I really willing to cast these tender details of my life out for public consumption? And why? To what end? And I always come back to the same thing. The only times in my life when I have felt seen and understood and connected were when I was willing to be brave and honest. It’s never a guarantee. In fact, it has been disappointingly rare in my life. But it still feels worth the risk. So I will keep flinging those tender details out there and let them land where they may.
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Untitled (alternative title: I hate titling poetry)
When I say
In your darkest hour,
I will pray for you
I don’t mean I will fall to my knees
Small,
Supplicant
Calling in favors
Or pulling invisible strings
I mean
I will think of you as I brush my teeth:
All that love with no place to go
I will paint a landscape
Of the lake you visit every August
Where castilleja still stands like matchsticks
In the high Sierra summer
If you forget
I will water the peace lily on your desk
The one you worry you won’t keep alive
But I know you will
I can’t pray with folded hands
Believe me, I’ve tried
The only true prayer I’ve sent is in the work of my hands
Or my hand in another’s
I can only offer them to you
To fill your glass with whatever lets you sleep
To cradle your grief
In the here and now
Giving it all
Somewhere to go