NourishingPoemsI didn't write

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

There is a trough in waves,

a low spot

where horizon disappears

and only sky

and water

are our company.

And there we lose our way

unless

we rest, knowing the wave will bring us

to its crest again.

There we may drown

if we let fear

hold us in its grip and shake us

side to side,

and leave us flailing, torn, disoriented.

But if we rest there

in the trough,

in silence,

being in the low part of the wave,

keeping our energy and

noticing the shape of things,

the flow,

then time alone

will bring us to another

place

where we can see

horizon, see land again,

regain our sense

of where

we are,

and where we need to swim.

My friend and I snickered the first time

we heard the meditation teacher, a grown man,

call himself honey, with a hand placed

over his heart to illustrate how we too

might become more gentle with ourselves

and our runaway minds. It’s been years

since we sat with legs twisted on cushions,

holding back our laughter, but today

I found myself crouched on the floor again,

not meditating exactly, just agreeing

to be still, saying honey to myself each time

I thought about my husband splayed

on the couch with aching joints and fever

from a tick bite—what if he never gets better?—

or considered the threat of more wildfires,

the possible collapse of the Gulf Stream,

then remembered that in a few more minutes,

I’d have to climb down to the cellar and empty

the bucket I placed beneath a leaky pipe

that can’t be fixed until next week. How long

do any of us really have before the body

begins to break down and empty its mysteries

into the air? Oh honey, I said—for once

without a trace of irony or blush of shame—

the touch of my own hand on my chest

like that of a stranger, oddly comforting

in spite of the facts.