Being on Earth Right Now

Galway Kinnell said once that poetry is somebody standing up and saying as openly as possible what it is for him or her to be on Earth at this moment. 

What’s it like for you to be on this Earth at this moment? 

Perhaps it’s frantic and full of angst. 

Or perhaps it’s quite peaceful. Maybe your life has evolved into a quieter place where you’ve done your inner work, let go of achieving, and found acceptance. 

Kinnell’s words caught my attention.

I have loved poetry since I was 10 years old. 

I found as a young child it gave me a way to process grief, joy, and confusion—to transform my experiences into something I could hold. 

How about you?

How do you express what it’s like for you to be here at this moment? Are you sharing your real experience in some way, or do you keep it locked up inside?

There are a million different ways to share what it’s like for you in this moment: Some people process life through social media. Some through kneading bread dough, or through the repetition of woodworking. Still others experience what it’s like to be here in this moment through dirt under their fingernails in the garden.

I recently started singing again in a church choir and remembered instantly how much I love to sing. There’s magic in music—being with lyrics and melody, parts breaking out into harmony, and playing with rhythm and rests.

It is one way I can process what it’s like to be on Earth right now.

And writing, always writing of course.

One thing I notice about these practices is that solitude or silence often accompanies them. I think we need solitude in order to do this processing of our world. And silence has its own inherent gifts. It offers a beautiful space where we can meet ourselves, a room where our conscious self can reconnect with our soul self. 

Persian lyric poet Hafiz wrote a beautiful poem back in the 14th century called “A Still Cup.” Even back then, Hafiz knew the power of silence for reconnecting humans to ourselves. He said, “For divine alchemy to work, the pitcher needs a still cup.” 

Hafiz knew what we’re still learning: Our cup must be still for transformation to occur.

So, I ask you: Is your cup still enough?

This week, as you process what it means for you to be on Earth, I invite you to find both solitude and silence. This could be five minutes in your car before walking inside, snow under your feet as you walk in the woods, or your held breath between musical phrases. 

Meet yourself there. 

Your soul is waiting.

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