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?


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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.