“How do I know who I am?”

“How do I know what I want?”

“How do I trust myself?”

People ask me these questions all the time. I ask me these questions all the time. And answers always come from getting to the bottom of how you feel. Sorting through the mess of voices to get to the truth.

Knowing doesn’t come from the anxious mind that’s asking. You have to feel it. So I wrote a poem because I genuinely think that’s the best way to arrive there. Poetry is the language of feeling. It uses words to knock on the door of the Soul. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t want to meet their Soul.

Look for the room where the candle is lit, 

where you see the flame

and there’s no mistaking the heat. 

Wander until your feet feel the Earth,

where there’s life underneath you

and there’s no mistaking your own.

Don’t get lost in thoughts and words,

growing taller and more out of reach.

Stay close to the spirit and learn how it likes to speak.

Listen for the voice that doesn’t talk down,

need proof or want someone to blame.

Listen for the voice that isn’t wearing anyone else’s skin.

Listen for the voice that’s naked, 

and always speaks up for your heart.

Don’t worry about seeing miles ahead.

Fire only illuminates the next step.

If you plan the rest now, 

you miss where inspiration wants to guide you,

where there’s no doubt your Soul is home. 

It’s December 27th. Which means a lot of conversations about the NEW year. What do I want? Who do I want to be? What are my goals?

I like self-reflecting and setting intentions. It’s clarifying, organizing and empowering.

AND, it can be a lot of pressure. To wrap up the past, leave old ways behind and write the future.

A fresh start is REALLY appealing. Like peace and satisfaction are on the other side of a comprehensive list, or a perfectly worded intention. And hey, sometimes, they is.

Personally, I visualize myself meditating on a mountainside like a little Buddha. Nothing bothers me because I’ve found the solution to all my problems. “This year, I’m going to be completely present and stop setting impossible expectations I can’t meet.”

. . . mmkay

How do I observe the new year as a marker of change, without the pressure to magically be perfect?

After asking a big, honking question I don’t have the answer to yet, I’ll start with, “What’s true?”

It’s winter. It’s cold and dark out. It’s ‘the holidays.’ We might be on break, traveling or outside our normal routine. Some of us are with people that stress us out. I’m going to take a big swing and say, some of us are tired. There’s a lot going on.

I’m struggling to generalize about who you are, what you’re experiencing, what I’m experiencing and offer answers.

I want to be able to tell you one thing. I want to give you whatever you’re here hoping to get. And yet, I’m just another human person on the other side of a screen riding the waves of whatever the hell this all is.

There is no ‘one way.’ No new year’s resolution to save us all. No permanent arrival. There are moments of clarity. There are moments of connection. There are moments when we recognize the absurd truth and just laugh.

That feels good.

To open up and let all the messiness, imperfection and incompleteness breathe.

There’s no one way. But there is a little freedom at the bottom of the truth.

More of that, please. More laughter. More truth. More closeness. Okay?

I woke up today with a plan for what I was going to write. I made myself breakfast and sat down at the table. Looking at the computer, my stomach dropped. My plan didn’t match what I felt.

When I came up with it, I was excited. But now, it feels like a chore. And forcing myself into a cage is not why I write poetry. I write poetry to find magic in the truth.

I write poetry to guide me toward flow, even when it isn’t what I expected when I turned on the tap.

This morning, turning on the tap, I am in an apartment I’m moving out of, surrounded by objects I have to get rid of in the next ten days. I am overwhelmed by the life my past self created. I’m ready for what’s next. Pero bueno…

I had a whole plan

for what I would write.

But now I feel, “fuck it.”

I’m less than alright.

I don’t want to make something

that misses my pain.

I don’t want to ignore

my stress and my strain.

My stomach feels icky,

my head is a mess.

I’m doubting myself.

I’m afraid and depressed.

I want to write freely,

from the nowest of nows.

And in this very moment,

it just feels like “ow.”

I could push it aside.

I could press on instead.

But that’s what I used to do.

I ended up dead.