Day One: Still
a poem a day in the month of may
Oh friends,
We are here. We have arrived to May 2025, to this moment, to an entire month of writing poetry as a spiritual practice, and we need it right now, maybe more than we’ve needed it in a while.
When times are heavy and challenging, we need poetry. We need words to ground us, to hold us, to cloak us in kindness and care, even to express our rage safely. This is that space for you, for me.
I can’t wait to read your poetry, I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on this process. Please make good use of the comments section this month—we are a community of spiritual people, exploring together, holding care, listening, and entering into our own heart spaces.
Welcome.
Quiet in the Chaos begins with stillness.
That’s today’s word. So let it sink in. Stillness.
TS Eliot once wrote
about being still
but still moving.
I think of this
nearly every day
of my life as I tend
to its dusty corners,
as I ask my soul how
to be in a world that
demands constant
movement and a bit
of surrender here and there.
I am still,
But still,
I move.
There is something there,
some quieting down to be done
while some inner dancer proudly
proclaims a holiness to this life.
I lay still on the hammock today,
at least still enough to hear the cars
pass on a nearby street,
still enough to feel the sunlight
pierce through my skin, still
enough to let my thoughts float away
for once in their life.
And twenty minutes later, I move,
and if I'm honest, I was moving
all the time on that hammock,
shifting and swaying, practicing
presence even as I planned what
was coming next in my day.
The beauty is in the way
the stillness provides the movement.
The beauty is in the way
the stillness meets me where I am,
and, after some time together, I return
to myself in all the ways I know how:
I am still,
But still,
I move.
Enter into your stillness, calm yourself amidst the chaos, and see what shows up there.
it might be greater
than you think,
that small still space
within you.
what if
that elusive speck
is a door opening
to such inconceivable
whirling beauty,
all space becomes an altar
upon which you fall
to your knees
before yourself.
I wake each morning before dawn.
It is dark and still. Nothing moves outside my windows - at least, nothing I can see.
I move slowly, greeting this new day with coffee and silence.
Slowly, subtly, the dawn starts to flow over the treetops, starts to fill the sky with pink and blue.
Slowly the birds begin to chirp and sing.
I look again and the trees are green, the sky is blue.
No breeze this morning.
Still. Still. Still.