Everything That Is Divided
Planting the seeds of possibility
Everything That Is Divided
Everything that is divided, split,
must eventually reveal the softness
at its center, like milkweed pods
that seem dead at the edge of winter,
the fluff of a seed still clinging
like hope—no, like faith to the stem
of a plant that knows it will go on,
this is not the end of the story—
even if those days of monarchs
and blossoms filled with nectar
and caterpillars feasting on leaves
are over for now. The plant has
learned to see the possibility in each
small thing we offer to the world.
From Breathing Room: Poems for Rest & Retreat
Forthcoming from Mandala/Simon & Schuster, 2026
None of us knows what the future will hold, and if we feel exhausted and drained, it remains difficult for us to consider what comes next. When in a place of burnout, or hunkered down in sorrow, we forget that—like the earth in winter—we are entering our own transitional phase, a threshold moment of great possibility. In my own grief journeys, having lost my father at the age of twenty, and my mother more recently, I have learned to allow myself fallow periods when little can be accomplished, perhaps even nothing substantial. I believe we need times like these in each day, month, and season of our life—short and long stretches of rest and recharge, so that we can return more nourished to a life of intention. This agreement not to do much when we can, to let ourselves feel useless and even hopeless for a while, may be necessary, but it can feel like a kind of death to the life that was. With each new conscious breath we take, with each hour or minute we give to ourselves, free from outer distractions, we start to see the softness at the center of everything. Perhaps we become softer with ourselves as well. We begin to trust that every small, kind thing we offer to the world contains the seed of so much beauty and strength, it can’t help but ripple out, touching so many unknown lives. I often think of these lines from May Sarton’s poem, “A Thought”: “Brute power/is not superior/to a flower.” We cannot simply force or power our way through a difficult time. Instead, we can become like a flower that has gone to seed and softened completely, having agreed to embrace the rest that will help it grow again come spring.
Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Where do you find evidence of softness revealed right now, at a time when things might seem dormant and lifeless? What small things have you offered to yourself and others lately that plant the seeds of possibility, and the promise of more light to come?
If you enjoy these free weekly emails, please consider making a donation here, or become a member and support this offering on a monthly basis.
Friends, I’m delighted to have a poem in this wonderful new anthology edited by my dear friend, ZenJen Brown. You can download your own FREE digital copy of Peace, Please here.




Wonderful. Warmth at the chill, gray time of year.
Thanks for your words as always, James. They meet me in a time of much needed rest where I am doing my best to give myself space to just be 🙏🏻💛✨