Come with me into the woods where spring is advancing, as it does, no matter what, not being singular or particular, but one of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

You must not ever stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.

I climb, I backtrack. I float. I ramble my way home.

it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.

Praying It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.