Rest, Gratitude, and the Poetry of Belonging

Dear friends,

Amid all the heaviness of the last few weeks, I've been reminding myself to breathe. To find small moments of rest and reflection. This holiday season—so often framed as one of gratitude, coziness, and connection—offers an opportunity to pause and reconnect with what matters most.

At the heart of this newsletter is the belief that stories and rituals help us make sense of ourselves and our world—and no other time in our calendar is as rich with holidays and the stories embedded within them as this season. The holiday season is often seen as a time of joy, family, and celebration—a season of mirth and connection.

But for many, this season also stirs feelings of loneliness, strained relationships, or the weight of shorter days. Even amid its brightness and coziness, the holidays can bring a quiet heaviness.

And yet, perhaps the most enduring thread of this season—what holds it all together—is gratitude. Not as a way to bypass the complexity, but as a practice that allows us to hold it all: the beauty and the difficulty, the light and the shadow. Gratitude reminds us to pause, to belong to ourselves and the world. It doesn't deny the darkness but invites us to let it be our companion, pointing us toward where we need to grow, heal, and find meaning.

In that spirit, I've gathered a small collection of poems that reflect these themes—gratitude amidst complexity, solace amidst struggle, and connection amidst isolation. These poems, crafted by poetic masters, are treasures offered to us with care and attention. I invite you to consider picking one (or more) and really letting it in. Perhaps you might read it slowly, savoring its words with a warm drink in hand, or share it at your Thanksgiving table. Maybe you'll carry it with you on a brisk walk through this autumnal season, allowing it to deepen your connection to the world around you.

May we internalize the quiet beauty and wisdom of these poems, letting them nourish us in this quiet, complex, and beautiful season.

A reflection on finding solace in nature when the weight of the world feels overwhelming.

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

From nature’s peace to our own wildness, Oliver reminds us that belonging to this world is our birthright.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Gratitude for life’s visitors—even the difficult ones.

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 whatever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

A prayer of connection, holding us in a “true circle of motion.”

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

Whether you're gathering with loved ones or finding quiet in solitude this week, I hope these poems can be faithful companions. They’ve reminded me to find beauty in stillness and to embrace the complexity of this season. May they offer you peace, connection, and, yes—gratitude.

With care,
Andrew