Hello beautiful human,
Life is such a mixy business.
Just when I’m coming off the high of the International Listening Association’s conference, ramping up for the start of another school year, and dreaming what I want to build in this Space…just when I feel, in short, like I’m getting my groove back…we get some troubling health news close to home. Within my most intimate circles, the C word has been mentioned, the scary one, but at the moment we’re in the painful place of questions without answers, too many unknowns and might bes and did you hear about. Dr. Google is no one’s friend. To be frank, we’re human. Which means we’re mostly sort of losing our shite at the moment, waiting for the next appointments and more definite information.
And so another journey begins, and where and how it leads through the dark, scary forests of Yet To Be, we can’t tell. Everything softens around the edges. Calendars slip. The routines we wanted to rely upon and lean into begin to blur according to need, to energy, to moment by moment: one thing, one task, one word at a time. Life says, Oh, you thought this was the plan? Now there’s a different plan. Adjust. Move over.
We all react differently. Some of us buckle down and make lists and plans. Some of us stay in bed longer than we planned to. Some of us cry. All of us cry.
And I spent the morning, out of all the things I might have been doing, working on a poem about a stapler.
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To be a writer is to be pretty much inexcusable on a good day. How do we understand, out of all the shoulds and maybe ought tos, the considerable list of tasks in front of me, that I chose to spend some hours with words about an office supply, a desktop implement? There’s no excuse for it. There’s no explanation. I can only shrug helplessly and say, when I am in the place of exhaustion, poetry restores me. The focus and quiet invitations of language, rhythm, metaphor and image give me not so much an escape as a way more deeply in to the myriad emotions all currently aswirl.
I can’t control anything happening outside of myself but I can change one word for another, shift a line break, print a new draft. Entering the flow of writing grounds me in the immediate present. Here. Now. This.
I’m only thinking of a stapler at all because I got to play around for a few minutes the other day, when Elizabeth Shepley and I led a brief, 5 minute exercise for a TLAN Virtual Salon. Reach for the things most immediately to hand, Elizabeth instructed us. Allow yourself to get playful.
Listen for the messages, I added. What do you hear?
Inspiration is always as close as our fingertips and sometimes a playful exercise or prompt moves our focus long enough that we can approach from another angle. We have to trust in the truth of play, and curiosity, to show us a path through the tangle and the unknown Here There Be Dragons areas on the maps. At least, that’s where I’m putting my faith.
And so it looks like there’s a chance a new strand will weave itself into this Space, a record of illness and the tolls it takes, for a time at least.
And with it, a few first drafts.
The Stapler My stapler has one basic sentiment— which it repeats and repeats. Let no one put asunder. Marriage of true minds. And you. And you. It’s true the stapler is very good at what it does. What he does, let’s say. Now that we’re talking, I feel we’ve moved past subject-object into I-thou and complication. I’m in a relationship with this stapler, which is to say, we’re arguing. Loosen up, I tell him. Not everything needs to be tied so tightly, does it? So permanent? Irrevocable? But then I remember we’re none of us reliable narrators. My native tongue is looseleaf and what if my stapler simply loves the world, loves the world and doesn’t want anything to change? To fix and affix against entropy and chance and the odd bad star surprising the horizon? What if my stapler comes by his issues honestly? It has to hurt, at least a little bit, I know it does, to repeat one message over and over, helpless to change or alter the makeup of the self. And so familiar. I need. I love. I need. I love. And clench. And clench. And clench. August 27, 2025
xo
S
I believe our world needs new stories. what if those stories lie curled within us like seeds? This is An Inviting Space to experience where and how we might discover, recover and nurture the secret, magical gardens of soul day by day. Starting where we are, as we are.
A Celebration Corner for sharing the Good Goodies
Summer is swandiving to a slow and lovely close. The crickets are piping up. There’s a chill in the air some mornings now that lifts my heart and quickens my step. catches it beautifully here (also she references a great book).
Children’s books are never just for kids. If you need some wisdom packaged in whimsy and color illustrations, jump over to my imaginary bookshop, Baker’s Dozen…I have a few good ones on the shelves.
What’s a book you love from your memories? Share your memories and favorites with me and if I can find it, I’ll add it to the shop!
Want to connect? Here’s where you can find me in the months coming up:
Around here, I’m in the Circle on Wednesdays, when we gather via zoom at the Well to strengthen our listening and creative practices in community. Join the Circle here. There’s more to come!
Want to write your own poem about a stapler? Or find some other inspiration through play? You can experience a playshop with me in Missouri October 3-5, I’ll be presenting “Play/Ground” with the wonderful Elizabeth Shepley at TLAN’s conference, The Power of Words.
November 13 The Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets is hosting my online workshop, “Three Questions and a Poem,” a workshop designed to generate new material and new approaches to listening, for poets and non-poets alike.
Your support is welcome, and your attention and time are true gifts. Thank you.
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