let everything happen to you

She solves all her puzzles,
Lives down by the sea,
Puts sugar out for the ants,
And believes, ultimately,
In a better world.
-C. Bukowski
the archives
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I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write
What I hope: I hope to feel the dew collect along my collarbones and arms in the rice paddy fields of Bali as the sun reaches up, evoking the promise of today. I hope to ride my bike through streets
If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails for hours, your imagination alighting everywhere. And if your spirit carries within it the thorn that is heavier than lead --- if it's all
Our love is like the padlocks on the Pont des Arts, in Paris— Thousands of locks, symbols of unbreakable love. Isn’t that beautiful? Apparently, though, all those locks are too heavy for the bridge. Did you hear this? I read
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My tears are like the quiet driftOf petals from some magic rose;And all my grief flows from the riftOf unremembered skies and snows.I think, that if I touched the earth,It would crumble;It is so sad and beautiful,So tremulously like a
My father is not a man of many words. And the words I do remember, the majority of them, were not kind or encouraging--they were/are often belittling, acrimonious, painful. I don't say this with anger, resentment, blame, or bitterness. I render it only as fact;
Very little grows on jagged rock. Be ground. Be crumbled, so wildflowers will come up where you are. You have been stony for too many years. Try something different. Surrender. | Rumi Image
This piece was published here, at the ever-growing Soul Anatomy. No one tells you that your boobs will grow in at twenty-two. It's the best kept secret. No one tells you that at twenty-three, you will develop cystic acne that
This little affirmation of sorts was gracefully published here at Soul Anatomy. Thanks for reading (from all my heart). Image from Soul Anatomy I believe in the long drawn out breath after a good cry. I believe in the ritual
A compilation of the dark green sea grape leaves The black soil that birthed our starfruit tree The glistening tar that marred our cul-de-sac I see her with a mason jar Collecting the rocks and leaves Pieces of the planet
I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the
This small piece was published here, at Soul Anatomy, a site created by writer Brianna Wiest, who's work I've had such a joy to read for some time. Consider more sleep. Eight hours is okay. More is better, personally. Consider
A year of filtering out friends and family that do not serve me. A year of essays and late-night library work leading to graduation (with a 4.0); a year of therapy and meditation and Hatha yoga. A year of applying