In the Good Light

In the Good Light
for Andrea Gibson

I find you again at sunset tonight

while clearing a fallen sugar maple

from the driveway, moving branch

after leafed-out branch, wondering

what made the tree collapse without

a breath of wind or storm to push it.

I hear your voice when I slip off time’s

handcuffs and pick wild raspberries,

letting each one fall into my palm,

drop into my mouth. Something wise

guides me toward the ripest ones

as I remember what you said about

the moment, how it can last longer

than a decade, and if we’re lucky,

we will spend our lives praying

for what we already have.


It was one of those summer days that had gone on a little too long—muggy, relentlessly bright, and so hot I had soaked through three T-shirts with my sweat. And yet, I felt drawn outside by some force greater than myself that said: Love what's here. As sweat poured down into my eyes, and a swarm of deer flies followed me around the yard, I tried to love the act of mowing the grass, doing my best to avoid running over the leaping grasshoppers and bees that had just landed on the white blossoms of clover. I tried to remember how precious each summer day is, how lucky I am that my body still works. A few hours earlier, I learned that poet Andrea Gibson had died early that morning. My hand went to my heart as soon as I heard the news. Their poems have had a profound and lasting effect on so many, including myself, and as a cancer survivor who lived years beyond their prognosis, Andrea always brought readers into the experience not just of surviving, but also thriving with full presence and aliveness, in touch with the sanctity of each new day, each new moment spent in the good light. As Andrea wrote: “I didn’t know how ecstatic the moment is, how full it is, how expansive it is. There is so much more time in a moment than there is in a decade…”

When my husband Brad came home, he told me a tree had fallen across our long and winding driveway, blocking access in and out. We’d have to take care of it before nightfall, too—yet another chore to complete, when both of us just wanted a cold shower and simple salad for dinner. Brad had to put on jeans and protective gear before wielding the chainsaw to clear away a sugar maple whose canopy had leafed out fully again in spring, the leaves so green on each of the branches I tossed into the woods. When we finished, before going inside, I veered off into the raspberry patch, and filled my hands, feasting as I slipped out of time for a while.

Perhaps our true heart is an heirloom we are entrusted with only when we come to know the impermanence with which we must dance every day. So often, we ignore it, push it away, pretend that we are not all very temporary guests here. We never know when we or someone we love might leave us. And so, we practice aliveness in the face of it all right now. As Andrea also wrote: “Remind me all my prayers were answered the moment I started praying for what I already have.” I don’t always know how to pray, but some days, I know enough not to miss out on a feast, no matter how small or brief. And isn’t that how we keep staying in the light?


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: What would it mean for you to pray for what you already have? What seemingly small moments have stretched into decades for you lately? You might begin by saying, “I am praying for what I already have,” widening your definition of what it means to pray.


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We recently stopped by our favorite local indie bookstore, Battenkill Books, and signed a new batch of copies of Love Is for All of Us (which happens to include several of Andrea Gibson's beautiful poems). If you'd like to purchase signed copies for yourself or as gifts, you can follow this link. The bookstore will ship to you or yours anywhere in the U.S. My husband Brad and I can't thank you all enough for helping to show the world that we need love of all kinds so badly right now.