So much of poetry is naming things.
We would say it without worrying about whether or not it came off to anyone within earshot as romantic. As you say it to your family, so we said it to each other.
Outward Bound, Super Camp, tutors, counsellors, mentors—my parents spared no expense in trying to figure out my 2.33 cumulative high school GPA. Nothing worked.
There’s more to the books, of course. But after all this, do you care?
Lights shine along Seattle’s hills, illuminating all the homes where everyone no one knows eats, sleeps, listens, and loves.
Maybe it’s the state of my own fractured life that allows me to listen past the fractures in the composition of Bon Iver’s latest offering, 22, A Million, to see the transcendence hidden inside.
Because I am, and “I AM,” and love is, and there must be more love out there—“the greatest of these.” For these reasons, I follow in the long tradition of abiding with God in silence.
Its branches bloomed with little white, fuzzy pearls that I thought were baby rabbits being born.
You stopped listening to Relient K after 2004’s Mmhmm.
Listen, I get it. I was in the same boat.
My mom refers to Cedar as a “thin place.” She means that whatever barrier keeps humans at a distance from the Spirit is measurably smaller.
I was not just leaving behind a friend, but someone who loves the parts of me I don’t. Sometimes adulthood just feels like a dawn of frequent partings.
I don’t like planning anything. Plans may have good intentions, but they always end up a little too strict. Like Professor McGonagall.
My sister owned a copy of Hanson’s first album, “Middle of Nowhere,” that I loved to steal, along with her cream-colored boom box, and play on repeat while I circled the garage in rollerblades and sang along to words I didn’t really understand.
One of the pleasures of listening to a new band is creating an image of who the singer is. What do they look like? What kind of life do they live when they’re not playing?
In the tops of the leafless bushes that stood shoulder height along the path, a sea of spider webs swayed in the soft wind—hundreds and hundreds of webs, perfectly spun and glistening with dew in the morning light.
Frankly, if I didn’t have neighbors, I might open the door one morning and yell it into the sky. It might feel liberating, like skinny-dipping in the Pacific or popping a balloon.
This year I’ll sleep in a guest room, maybe on an air mattress. It will be a normal night of sleep. I won’t be waiting for the rumble of the Polar Express, watching for its headlight to flood the walls of my room in a gold glow.
I am speaking of all my relationships, but I’m mostly speaking of love. It’s when I share something with someone I hope to love, or do love, that I’m left wondering if it has always been so dark here.
I first had sex when I was eighteen years old. It was very unromantic. We had to be quiet and careful because her parents were rustling around in the downstairs kitchen.
Strange how things happen. You can put all your effort into living well only to find that you were living just fine the whole time.
Sometimes I Google search Emma Watson, just to, you know, stay in touch. She’s this contemplative introvert who values privacy, thrust into a world of celebrity.
For the first time in my life, I walk out of a church service, driving in silence back to my parent’s apartment. The next day, when I get home from work, I collapse wordlessly in my mom’s arms and sob into her shoulder.
I can’t stand Chuck,” he told me, “I don’t even like being in the same room as him. I’ve tried being nice, but I find everything about him…repugnant. It’s been a struggle for me. I try to love everyone. He makes it hard to love him.”
I think in each of us there’s a deep well with love like water at the bottom, but if only the crawl down wasn’t so dark and our hands could carry more.
Take a breast. Its nipple is sore from just feeding the baby—who gummed it like she was trying to rip it off—now slumped against the belly, a limp part of a limp, tired body.
Of course, when you’re actually Ryan “Hey Girl” Gosling, and you’ve got Nicholas “I’ve Never Written Two Different Stories” Sparks writing your script, you have that luxury.
When the professor starts class, I finally take a breath again. I’m free. No pressure. All I’ve got to do is sit here and not fart.
At the end of the day I’m lying in bed feeling poor and stressed because I somehow wasted all day not feeling correctly. I was too sad, or too lonely, or too indifferent.
The title is self-explanatory. You may feel the need to argue with my list. That’s fine, but this is the final word. And the final word does not include the Pentatonix.
Those old haunts the heart still goes to—even daily comforts brought me to them. That all might not seem like much. It isn’t much. But my heart is still a broken thing. My odd heart.