Grateful to be following this as I walk in the place where everything alchemizes for me. Here in the brilliant sunshine one day and the drenching rain the next on this little island that is both the most removed place I know and the most connected at the same time.
This is so lovely. Sacred practices open the everyday moments to me with awareness of life. Imagination (poetry and art among it all) helps lift my eyes. Thank you for lifting my heart, too.
Why not let the vase fall? Is it the duty of ants and people to prop up? Broken shards of pottery are often excavated as treasures. Flowers in a vase are already cut at their stem as we gaze upon the illusion of their vitality and beauty. I live in New York but am in Kansas City this week for a Synod at which, as a small part of my duties, I will sign copies of my latest book, “The Gospel of Loneliness.” I am rarely lonely. But it was never an “epidemic” to me that needed to be eliminated, medicated, or stereotyped. Upon daring to take the journey with it as our guide to authentic self and relationships, loneliness is a portal to creativity, empathy, and community. Peace and thanks, Dwight Lee Wolter.
This whole reflection feels like a permission slip to slow down and tend to the soul with real gentleness. The way you frame imagination as a sacred practice—not just as a creative outlet but as a path to healing, remembering, and reconnecting across generations—really speaks to me. I've spent a lot of time trying to "get over" certain griefs instead of honoring them as compost for new growth.
The image of the ants lifting the vase struck a chord. It’s more than poetic. It’s a call to rebel through tenderness, to organize through beauty, and to keep showing up for one another when the world wants us numb or divided. I’m picking up David Gate’s book. If his writing echoes what you’ve shared here, I know it’s going to open something in me that needs breath.
Thank you for holding this kind of space. We need it now more than ever.
So much in this post. I needed it all. My day will enfold differently because of your words and how they landed at just the right moment. Thank you.
Grateful to be following this as I walk in the place where everything alchemizes for me. Here in the brilliant sunshine one day and the drenching rain the next on this little island that is both the most removed place I know and the most connected at the same time.
Thanks for this.
This is so lovely. Sacred practices open the everyday moments to me with awareness of life. Imagination (poetry and art among it all) helps lift my eyes. Thank you for lifting my heart, too.
Thank you 🙏🏻
⸻
The Alchemist’s Table
It is at this table I do these things—
bring grief like rust,
rage like stone,
a cracked cup of silence
I once feared would never speak.
But here,
I stir breath into dust,
words into warmth,
and what was mine alone
begins to belong to others.
Not gold—
but bread.
Not power—
but shelter.
A flame not to destroy,
but to gather around.
This is the spell:
to turn harm into harvest,
ache into invitation,
memory into map.
To build—
with broken things—
a place wide enough
for others to come in
and begin their own alchemy.
Why not let the vase fall? Is it the duty of ants and people to prop up? Broken shards of pottery are often excavated as treasures. Flowers in a vase are already cut at their stem as we gaze upon the illusion of their vitality and beauty. I live in New York but am in Kansas City this week for a Synod at which, as a small part of my duties, I will sign copies of my latest book, “The Gospel of Loneliness.” I am rarely lonely. But it was never an “epidemic” to me that needed to be eliminated, medicated, or stereotyped. Upon daring to take the journey with it as our guide to authentic self and relationships, loneliness is a portal to creativity, empathy, and community. Peace and thanks, Dwight Lee Wolter.
Really holding close this new series Kaitlin. Thank you.
This whole reflection feels like a permission slip to slow down and tend to the soul with real gentleness. The way you frame imagination as a sacred practice—not just as a creative outlet but as a path to healing, remembering, and reconnecting across generations—really speaks to me. I've spent a lot of time trying to "get over" certain griefs instead of honoring them as compost for new growth.
The image of the ants lifting the vase struck a chord. It’s more than poetic. It’s a call to rebel through tenderness, to organize through beauty, and to keep showing up for one another when the world wants us numb or divided. I’m picking up David Gate’s book. If his writing echoes what you’ve shared here, I know it’s going to open something in me that needs breath.
Thank you for holding this kind of space. We need it now more than ever.