Nothing made into something else.

Gifts for the Tired Heart.

Some changes come suddenly—
made on your behalf,
like a whisper wiser than the noise,
laying a bridge
for tired feet
to float up and over.

For the sake of this offering: I’m thinking back to July 2020—

I didn’t know how tired I was,

until I stood in the sun again,

ate slowly, cried—

not from pain,

but because beauty had returned.

I’ve noticed,

Tenderness comes quietly,

in unremarkable hours.

Sometimes it’s a rescue.

Sometimes it’s just a Tuesday that didn’t ask too much of you.

Or a quiet arrangement

made on your behalf—

Every year,

a friend plants sunflowers

in the hidden corners of his garden—

gifts for his love

to discover

one by one,

as the season allows.

I’m learning that softness is subtle,

often found in the subtle too—

The long lunch.

The long shower.

The longer walk home.

Letting wine be wine.

Coffee be coffee.

To stop making everything

into something else.

To be held

without earning it.

To be tired

without apology.

To be here

without needing it to be anything more.

To have enough time,

to light candles

and live in the company

of softer things—

be it dimmer lights,

unclenched hands,

unfinished prayers,

and in turn,

become

a softer thing.

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When the storm comes, where do I run?

Lately, I’ve been schooled in every inflection of this question. This is part one—a piece written from the middle, not hindsight. Part two is still unfolding in real time.

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Thank you for being here. Paid subscriptions allow me to keep writing these love-letters and maintain a writing practice. Choosing to sow into ‘Catching Shower Flowers’ as a paid subscriber is a generous acknowledgment that you value what you read here, that you are not just an audience to the work, but a contributor to the making of it. I am so grateful for this opportunity to do the very thing my heart feels called to do—to take notice and make art of it.

Love and caught flowers