In truth, writing about our lives, if done with sincerity and a devotion to reality, is the wellspring from which the particular gifts of humanity flourish. When we write about ourselves deeply enough, we write the world, and when we enter the world fully enough, we write ourselves. In this way, we live out the paradox of being both unique and the same.

By trying to create, we are created. By trying to express, we are expressed. By trying to discover meaning, we become meaningful. So the measure of great art can be understood, not so much by the singular beauty achieved in birthing a piece of art, but more by the power of transformation it births in us for the journey of creating it. It is not the thing created, but the creative act—whatever form it might take—that restores us to our place in the Mystery.

Cracked or Healing

CRACKED OR HEALING

On the other side, everything,

from the quick song of birds

to the peace trapped within

a brook’s fresh gurgle,

everything is rare

and uncertain.

Now I want to stand naked

before every wind, though

I fear I will break.

And all the warrior selves

stand guard, well-trained

for the next crisis: the fingers

search the glands during winter colds,

the eyes trace scars for irregularities,

the heart tightens like a lip

when entering a hospital,

where the unfelt part of my

journey cries like a babe

wanting its strange milk

when seeing needles

hang from brittle arms.

But underneath, the oyster

of my soul lives like a Queen

dethroned and exiled for her softness,

though everything that matters

seeps into her cell.

I wait for her to send the guards

away, but with a sort of pity

she lets them occupy their time.

What else would they do?

I have given up the world

through her. It peels

like bark.

Through her

I imitate the moon,

lighting the night

with reflections

of my craters.

Survival is the standing watch.

But living now is blessing every crack

as an opening, treasuring the song

that whistles through as God, praying

the break to let Him in

won’t end it all.

For Nur

FOR NUR

I’ve been terribly busy since

you died, fingering my list of

things to do like a rosary, veiled

in a shroud of activity, afraid to

let it in, afraid your death means

I am dying too, and when that’s

passed, sad to think I might

go on undaunted

without you.

After months of furious doing,

of painting and planting, after

mornings of pondering ancient

philosophy, I had my own checkup

and in brief moments feared I was

you, but as the CAT scan whirred,

I knew I was well and strangely

let you go, your presence

drifting on its own in the

sea that holds us both.

Now your father calls.

He’s packing up your things

and says you wanted us to choose

something you held close,