“I am not hiding anymore. and I will be fully alive, right here.”
Orange:
“While the worry of falling again is present, my resolve to try to rise again is present, too.”
Yellow:
“The parts of my joy that went quiet to avoid being ‘too much’ are remembering how to move again.”
Pink:
“I’ve learned much about love, but then there is also what I’ll learn next: love is vaster still, in ways I never could expect.”
Green:
“While the tendency to stay hidden is strong, my need to lean toward the sunlight is strong, too.”
Brown:
“This living process will often feel slow, but I must remember: the ground is still shifting, and I am still growing, anyway.”
Blue:
“The river-like rhythms of peace moving deep under my worry still remember their flow: a deepening aliveness I can meet again and again.”
Purple:
“I have cared more deeply than I’ve let myself say. And yet, in a beautiful honest way, I am not too much. I am still worth knowing, too.”
–
For all of the many ways aliveness can be noticed and embraced within a day, a season, a life, or within a single hour, may there be room to meet moments of aliveness again and again through change, as you shift and change, in whatever room or color of the day you find yourself in. – Morgan Harper Nichols
perhaps, after all the hiding away, this landscape still remembers you: and the parts of your aliveness that went quiet to avoid being “too much” are remembering how to move again… you are noticing the pulse beneath the surface-level. the liveliness you thought you had lost forever ago is something you can still build upon today.
so here’s to slowly tracing the return of capacity for movement joy growth …something living still exists. here is the ground. start here.
-Morgan Harper Nichols
–
Thank you for reading! Feel free to save any of this for personal use, if you’d like to carry it with you (I’m okay if teachers/practitioners/groups would like to share them, too!).
an ekphrastic poem (inspired by shapes), in 8 parts
A.
a thick, dense perimeter, overlapping lines… may you find the kind of shape where…
after everything, you feel free to seek that necessary experience of grounding. you are allowed to name the need for a place that feels steady…a place where the ground feels like the ground. may you start to notice where the ground feels like the ground. return there as often as you can.
B.
two very faint oval lines sit close together. there is space between them in some places, but then they meet again in other places. there are shapes in this life where you find…
a little space may remain between intention and result. that space can feel too small, too imperfect, too unfinished. it can also leave room for what can be learned moving through cycles, and these lines grow stronger with time
C.
a wide ring made of several loose passes that sit at slightly different distances from the middle. at times in life, you may begin to feel the shape of how…
there are moments when you need more room than you expected…and what if needing that room did not make you “too much”? what if it was okay to acknowledge how much it matters to need and to have a little more room to breathe now?
D.
many thin lines overlap, the center remains open…
there are shapes of things in life where…
no single part of this carries the whole form…and that can feel scattered. and at the same time, the many parts still gather into a whole shape that can hold what matters.
E.
two uneven oval lines overlap, meeting in some places and leaving room in others. at times in life, you find a shape where…
sometimes what mattered most may be the part that was hard to understand, fully notice, or know how to measure. depth can be hard to show, but it does not mean it is not there. it can still be fully there, fully real, in layers, revealed with time.
F.
a second line makes a crescent shape as it makes its way back into the rest of the circle for perhaps, there are shapes in life where…
after everything, you are free to let what feels like love, support, presence, matter to you…and even when it is subtle at first, you can let yourself notice the difference. you can slowly but surely let yourself consider, perhaps, this is a rhythm that grows with time.
G.
a rounded line gathers around an open center, widening in a few places. here is this life, you might encounter shapes where….
sometimes you can become so good at making sure everything worked that there was almost no evidence of what it required from you. being reliable costs a lot of you, and the cost stays hidden because the result comes out smooth. what it took was real. the reliability is very real too, and you are allowed to acknowledge what this has required of you. you are allowed to recognize the human being behind it all. you are allowed to be the human being behind it all.
H.
around the circle, another line travels beside the main line, becoming more noticeable in an unexpected place… at times, in life, you might encounter a shape where…
a path may look different from the one that was originally imagined. it may lean, curve, or take longer than expected. a changed route can still carry a meaningful direction.
these words do not lead anywhere other than the bottom of the last line. this is just a little space for you to move through something slowly amid the rush of everything else.
okay, so I know I contradicted myself. I said the last few lines were not leading somewhere, and then they did… but, I promise I was not trying to make them go somewhere as I was writing them. I was simply writing them and they became something.
and it became something. became something, became something… what does it take for something to become something some times it takes a lot of something other times, very little
very little very little little steps down down down to the bottom of the page down down down to the river
maybe to write a little poem line by line is to go step by step down to the river
river river river I just want to go down to the river
page page page I just want to go down to the end of the page
I feel very different and very much the same very different and very much the same.
I feel like a rock and the river beside it I feel like a fear and a dream beside it there’s yesterday and today beside it there’s today and tomorrow beside it there is a page written and a blank page beside it now there is this page written, with a new page beside it
it’s the first of the month it’s the first of the year for someone it’s the last of something for someone lives lived lives that could be we move through
down down down we go to rivers mornings and told you so’s, to midnights storms and I don’t know’s to bottom of articles essays texts we go to the bottom to the end of months and months and then their beginnings beside them to the end of pages we go we go to their ends and new ones beside them
I wrote more lines than I meant to. this is fine.
line
lines
line by line
down the page down to the river life has been happening the whole time
MHN
Thank you for reading! This is an excerpt from the final part of my 30-ish minute free writing session this morning…at first, it was meant to be a little humorous to myself, as I was just trying to stay “creative” and write for 30 minutes, but it ended up becoming something where that has some lines in it that I thought might be worth sharing. So if you happen to find any of it meaningful, I hope you feel free to carry it with you. – Morgan Harper Nichols (MHN)
the act of doing something that makes room for a little delight, curiosity, whimsy, play, surprise, joy…even when there is no knowing whether anything else will come of it: the act of enjoying is allowed to be the point.
storysprout (noun)
the first sign that an experience may eventually mean more than it does now: a new way of making sense of what is beginning underground
littlemore (noun)
the small amount of possibility still lingering at the edge of things: subtle, but still enough to continue from here.
latergarden (noun)
a place where delayed ideas and hopes continue developing: somewhere good things can take their time growing.
wonderlater (noun)
something not understood yet that may become meaningful with time: a mystery still gathering its story.
newnessspace (noun)
a small, low-pressure place for trying something unfamiliar: somewhere beginners are allowed to begin.
smallshine (noun)
a small but meaningful sign of aliveness: brightness that might not be filling the the whole yet but it still matters
notsosmallshine (noun)
a brightness that first seems easy to overlook, then keeps reaching farther than expected: subtle, but already becoming part of the whole.
morearound (noun)
the possibility that the current view or perspective is not the whole landscape: other routes, meanings, and good things still nearby.
notyetknowing (noun)
the state of being partway to an answer, an understanding, a sense of things…an actual stage rather than an empty gap: an often liminal, yet real place to be that is allowed to be named even before the pieces come together.
I hope what is beautiful to you can still be beautiful to you even before the rest of the story makes sense to you. I hope you can notice what still shines, anyway, even when it feels far away. For all the things August could be, and for all the waiting and anticipation it may bring, may there still be a possibility of at least one full-color golden hour or a bright blue above the trees (whether literally or metaphorically). Or a constellation of stars. Or maybe even just a handful of stars. Whether it’s right in front of you or a memory held in your heart, may what is beautiful still be beautiful and alive from where you are. Somehow, after everything, still within reach.
may you always be the one to notice when what is beautiful is within reach even if it’s the smallest thing, even if it’s the smallest thing, may there be room for you to let it mean something to you let it mean something to you
after all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, (and even as the questions still find you)
however you need to, may you let a new month a new day a new hour a new way of being here mean something to you.
you are allowed to do things differently where you need to
you are allowed to be excited about what a new journey could be, even while you are still beginning
may you let yourself have wildflower-seed-starts: beginnings small enough to scatter and alive enough to bloom far
may small joys and sudden blooms become recurring motifs… foreshadowing moments that were worth waiting for
may you listen to the album all the way through again and again, whenever you can. let yourself feel the story of something becoming even before you fully understand
even when it’s the smallest thing, the smallest thing, may there be room for you to let the small things mean something to you
not everyone has to understand the way things are being woven together in your life right now before you can consider this process as valuable and worth of being present to
may there be golden hours, bright blues and night skies worth being present to
…worth being present to worth being present to…
may there be golden hours, bright blues and night skies worth being present to
a process, a wildflower worth being present to
a song, an album worth being present to
even before the whole story makes sense to you
recurring motifs, good-foreshadowing-like-things, after everything, within reach
the waiting changes things the waiting changes things the body feels the way the waiting changing things the heart knows the way the waiting changing things
the waiting changes things when you are moving the waiting changes things when you are still the waiting changes things when you have no idea what will happen and when you think you know what will…
even when you said “it’s okay, it’s okay, I promise I’m okay with waiting” you can still name the waiting as hard you can still name the waiting as waiting
for the waiting is made of many parts long and short and confusing and clear stretched over minutes and hours and years years and years and years,
yes, waiting is a part of life, a lot of life, and then there’s all of life, all of your life you have been alive all of your life all of the waiting, all of your life
the waiting changes things. it changes your sense of your time. and for all of the waiting that has happened inside your life, life has been happening the whole time, even as the waiting changing things even as the waiting changing things
-Morgan Harper Nichols
Thank you for reading! This is a script for a video poem piece you can find here on YouTube:
before july makes sense and august becomes what it becomes one breath after another can still become a way for you to become fully alive in the middle of it even before it all makes sense even before it all makes sense
it’s the last week of july it’s the last week of july and during this time it may seem you must try to make sense of july before the start of august and the rest of august and before september and before october you try to think it all over you try to think it all over you try to finally be over it finally be over it
but what if you’re not over it what if you’re not over it and you’re still in the middle of it, in the last week of july:
a rainy, heated sigh, but something in you still tries to take this next breath
a breath a breath
the smallest thing the smallest thing
a breath a breath
the smallest thing not everything
but it is still a breath.
a small amount of wind over and over again through deserts of things summers of things
a small amount of wind is still a story* unfolding,
one breath at a time is still a story unfolding
*a story, a sequence of events a story, is a sequence of events
unfolding unfolding a sequence of events,
through the storms and sunlight of may, june, july:
a story not easily written and filled with “I-don’t-know-why’s”
a story not easily written, but also a story no longer hidden,
over half a year gone and you are still here,
among music, mountains, valleys, joys, angers, dreams, and fears
breath by breath you are still here.
breathing through it all, air moving through it all and where air moves is nothing small.
where air moves through space nose mouth throat lungs space is nothing small.
many words scribbled through. whole pages scribbled through. many plot points not carrying out like you were told they were supposed to but a breath is still forming that seems opposed to saying that was where the story ends.
you keep breathing over and over again so maybe at least one breath can believe this story is not finished yet
sunday monday tuesday wednesday thursday friday saturday by saturday, it will be august
and if you run out of time to explain july before july ends please remember the winds of a thousand little breaths a sequence of events a full life a moving life a breathing life even before it all makes sense
Here are 12 images that feature prose for each month of the year using the same lines throughout. This series started in October. October was the most popular month-poem I wrote this year, so I thought it’d be interesting to explore making a prose-version of it for each month of the year.
The main reason I wanted to make a version that repeated the same words month by month is because, for me, it’s never about trying to forecast some perfect, ideal aim for each month. Instead, my hope is that these words can function as small seeds planted in the soil that can grow in different ways and timelines, and to show how the same text can feel different at different points in your life.
We never know how each month will play out, and this is true in many directions: we can be surprised by what gently unfolds and also surprised by what arrives all at once. We can be surprised by grief and we can also be surprised by joy.
In October, I called the poem “possibility of surprising encounters,” which is what I hope carries through each month. My hope with these poems is not to give advice or tell you how things are going to be (because just like anyone else, of course, I don’t know…) but to use what I’ve learned to do as someone who tries to use creative language to navigate experiences, memory, and story. And in that way, I hope this kind of “month writing” can offer a small place to pause and notice what’s shifting using a recognizable frame of time (i.e., a month).
And also…something to remember is that a month is just one way to measure time and meaningfulness. In a literary sense, a month is a framing device, a narrative marker, but experience rarely fits such a neat frame. That’s okay too. Wherever you find yourself with these poems, with each month, I hope they can function as small prompts for noticing and imagining, whatever your timeline looks like.
Here’s to one month at a time, December, January, and beyond.
-MHN
Feel free to save these images! Scroll to the very end for the wallpaper versions.
JANUARY And for all you know, January could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in January be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, January could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let January be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
FEBRUARY And for all you know, February could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in February be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, February could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let February be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
MARCH And for all you know, March could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in March be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, March could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let March be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
APRIL And for all you know, April could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in April be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, April could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let April be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
MAY And for all you know, May could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in May be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, May could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let May be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
JUNE And for all you know, June could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in June be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, June could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let June be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
JULY And for all you know, July could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in July be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, July could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let July be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
AUGUST And for all you know, August could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in August be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, August could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let August be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
SEPTEMBER And for all you know, September could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in September be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, September could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let September be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
OCTOBER And for all you know, October could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in October be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, October could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let October be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
NOVEMBER And for all you know, November could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in November be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, November could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let November be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
DECEMBER And for all you know, December could end up surprising you in a really good way. Even if it’s something as small as the right moment the right song plays, the flickers of sunlight through branches at the end of the day, or little chances to feel grounded and alive, anyway. So, as you imagine every possibility, may there be room to imagine the good ones, too. Let what is beautiful in December be beautiful, even before everything else makes sense to you, because for all you know, December could end up surprising you in a really good way. Not because you’ve suddenly arrived at some perfect state, but because you’re still here, and that matters, even as you wait. After all the mountains and valleys you’ve traveled through, you’re still free to let a new month mean something to you. Let December be a horizon of yet-to-be-known moments, stretching beyond the mountains you’ve traced, valleys you’ve crossed, carrying onward what time carries: a chance to go on, a chance for something still to matter, even here.
for December: everything may not change at once, but that doesn’t mean nothing will change at all…
you are allowed to acknowledge the possibility of something good starting to shift, even if it begins small.
for perhaps, after all the Decembers you have lived through, you are still free to consider how this December can be different for you.
whether this year felt different from others, or more like the same old thing, or some tangled and turning path in the wildwood of the between, you are free to have hope for things that hold, wonder that knows no end, timing that works out, and good songs worth playing on repeat, again and again. if something in you dares to even consider it, you are still free to have this hope.
beautiful new beginnings can start later than you thought.
small shifts can have a larger impact than you realized.
honest, grounded hope can return where you thought it was over.
you can still experience the sense of possibility you once thought was only possible for other people.
yes, you can be surprised by grief in this life, but perhaps, you can also be surprised by joy.
everything may not change at once, but that doesn’t mean nothing will change at all. you are allowed to acknowledge the possibility of something good starting to shift, even if it begins small.
and even if it is in the most subtle way, you are free to think of December as a place where leaves part from their branches and make room for you to come into the forest’s clearing and let yourself breathe again.
–
for all that comes next, may December breathe slowly in ways you did not expect. may you meet this month with both curiosity and gentleness.
make space for moments of clarity where you need to and create room to simply be where you need to. let December be what it needs to be.
Different seasons have rhythms. Others may be slow or uncertain, where instead of a clear change, there are only small shifts…spaces where you may not always even be sure what the season is trying to show you.
However, much like physical seasons such as autumn or winter have markers of gradual change that we cannot always understand in real time, perhaps the same is true for us, as we navigate seasons of change in our own lives.
A mindful pace doesn’t have to look like feeling sure or feeling organized every day. Instead, it can be the brief moment that helps you stay steady in those quiet, in-between times when you can finally notice what you need right now.
It might not always feel clear in the moment, but it’s in spaces like this where you can start to realize that you have been pacing yourself through the seasons, learning your way through whatever this time is revealing, one day at a time. Every time you pause, or even feel the wish to pause to think, to rest, or just exist for a moment, is a small act of noticing yourself.
This is the mindful pace you are likely already beginning to build without even realizing it: the ability to sense where there might be limits and respond to them with awareness of what you can do right here, even as you hold the reality of what’s ahead. In other words, the small, simple, easy-to-overlook moments where you have paused long enough to notice what you actually need matter more than you know.
Even when the season feels uncertain, pausing long enough to notice what you need is a meaningful act. An act of slowing down that helps you recognize rhythms of where you are and what this time is asking of you, even here. – Morgan Harper Nichols
Cultivation: When you’re ready to bring something to life, you might discover that you’re deep in the cultivation phase, not yet at the point of planting. Cultivation is the phase where you prepare the ground, which is crucial for nurturing any future development. This preparation is about enriching the foundation with care and attention, allowing for a richer yield down the line. During this phase, you’re actively setting the stage, turning the old to make room for the new, and preparing conditions for what’s to come.
At times, this phase may feel a little slower, but it is still active groundwork. Use this time to weave the insights you’ve gained. Let them enrich the soil beneath you. Let the process of cultivating be dynamic and transformative. Trust: even when it seems like nothing is happening, the time you take to cultivate is not in vain. Cultivation involves an engaged effort where the application of your accumulated knowledge has profound effects on the eventual outcome. Creating space to cultivate is more than just staying busy, but an investment in the process. It’s a way of ensuring that when it’s time to transition into the next phase of action, you’re prepared to nurture those efforts in the best way you can. Through cultivation, keep making space to apply what you have been learning in this life. It matters more than you know.
I look for places in life where I can audaciously practice saying: “Seeds are still being sown, good change is still possible, and there are still many encounters with fulfilling love, joy, and peace waiting to be discovered, nurtured, and shared. Even here, there is more to come.”
–
The key word here is “practice.” You are allowed to practice continuing when things still feel in-between. Even if it only begins with a few words uttered or written down on a piece of paper, it still counts as movement: a small act of staying in conversation with what is still taking form.
Continue to name possibility.
Let it be a record of engagement with what’s right here.
Let your attention toward what could be emerging stay in motion.
May you know that even here in November, you are free to begin again.
As the days grow longer and you begin to wonder how to live inside what has already changed, may you know that each sunrise is still a sunrise.
The small rhythms you create here still matter.
Even when there are slow starts to the mornings and days that feel left unfinished, may you know that inhale after exhale, you are still part of the day turning.
You are learning to stay near what continues, however subtle.
You are learning to notice what shifts with what stays steady.
And as blades of grass still lift under the sun in winter and rivers still move when the days shorten, you too are free to move in ways that reflect the shape of the day.
You are slowly but surely discovering, perhaps, after everything, this is what it can mean to begin again:
continuing to breathe deep amid the change, and remain present, anyway, however you can.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed by an unknown future, you’re not alone. And here’s a little something I learned from my acoustic guitar about facing an unknown future:
Once, when I was playing my guitar and I noticed how the music that comes from this instrument doesn’t just come from the guitar’s body itself, the part that I can see.
The music actually rises from that dark hollowed out place behind the string, the place that I can’t see so well.
This caused me to pause and wonder:
What if it’s okay if the future doesn’t always feel bright? What if, in the darkness of the unknown, I could trust: the music will still rise up the way it was meant to?
Perhaps.
the hollowed-out
shadowy heart
of the acoustic guitar
teaches us this:
even when we feel overwhelmed
by a future that seems dim,
right here, in these unknowns,
melodies can still have their say.
From the darkest place of the instrument, the music plays.
Dandelions can grow in a variety of climates and terrains, showing a kind of attunement…a way of noticing and responding to what each place offers. Their steady continuing, wherever they land, reflects how learning often happens through everyday experiences. Perhaps, dandelions in their own way remind us that continuing is a kind of noticing…being here long enough to feel the day as it is, and being gentle with yourself through all that is discovered. When we pay attention to the small and changing details around us, understanding begins to take root, just as the dandelion keeps finding ways to bloom. 🧡
Letting Go is lie-awake kind of thing, born of a midnight hour, felt in a feeling body, like an endless pool of questions, with ripples of things not easily fixed, a visceral pull of gravity on grounds that wouldn’t shift, a long reminder, after everything, that you tried everything. You tried everything.
And through all of the trying, you are now in the stillness that follows all of your effort. You wonder what comes next, and against time, you wait. Through time, you wrestle, and around time, you wonder. But perhaps, with time, you begin to sense: morning is still coming, and maybe, after everything, that means something.
The air is changing around you… Not everything is suddenly “fixed” nor conveniently makes sense, but with dawn, there is the faintest sense of something starting to loosen. Your new set of wings are still coming in.
And even though Letting Go still has questions of its own, the colors that fill the early-day sky are not tricks of light, no, they are not tricks of light but flickers of possibility, release, and finally flying free.
To fly free, after everything, high above the trees, is how bravery opens up, like the brightest chord rising up from the shadowy center of the guitar, like a vibrant sunrise, unapologetic after a night that knew no stars, like a hope that feels slow, yet is still observable even before it travels far, like a Yesterday giving in just enough for you to become a little more of who you are.
Letting Go feels different on some mornings, and surrender becomes a song you can breathe.
And I hope it is here that Letting Go does not make you feel weak, but brave, hopeful, and free.
I hope letting go does not make you feel weak but brave, hopeful, and free.
Let the process of honoring your capacity become a meaningful experience all on its own:
There will be some days where your strength is stronger than others, and you will feel like you can take on more than ever before. There are some days where you might feel much more courageous or maybe even willing to take a leap of faith in some way. There are times where you might be keenly aware that you just have to focus on being gentle with yourself. There are days where you feel a greater capacity for patience. But on all of these days, no matter where you find yourself, it is still meaningful to be here at all. You are still uncovering many layers of who you are and how you are learning to stay connected and grounded amidst it all…even if you don’t feel like you can do everything at once.
Perhaps the reason why we may not feel like we are able to do all of these things at once is because even though words like “patience” and “courage” are big and can feel overarching, they are words that we can also see as layers, layers that we may move through. There may be days or moments where we feel strong, courageous, patient, and gentle all at once but if we don’t feel all that at once, maybe that’s okay too.
Maybe we are allowed to pace ourselves as we move through each day, honoring our capacity. – Morgan Harper Nichols
“Discovery” is a word that could possibly carry strong connotations…. It might evoke the thrill of a treasure hunt or, conversely, the unease of stumbling upon something you’d rather not have found. However, “discovery” can also be about navigating that space in between, in the tension: it can be a moment that asks you to respond, even before you fully understand. And because discovery can take form through what you decide to do next, this can look like:
Seeking help when you need to Establishing personal boundaries when necessary Taking a break when you need to Thinking critically when required| Feeling deeply when you need to Taking the lead when it’s called for Taking your time when necessary Letting go when you must Asserting yourself when you need to
These kinds of actions become ways of learning what different moments of life are made of. They allow you to discover meaning even before things make sense. And with each new insight, consider it a brushstroke on the expansive canvas of your life: brushstrokes that show how meaning starts to form through what you do over time. Each contributes to your ongoing journey of being fully present in the here and now.
So here’s to embracing discovery as a way of recognizing what each moment calls for: curiosity and presence.
Here’s to expanding what it means to discover: as a process of participation that produces understanding through cumulative action we can take, even in small ways. – Morgan Harper Nichols
it is okay if it takes time to find your place in what keeps changing. like the sky at the edge of evening, you have been learning how to carry memory of the sun’s fire through the dark, while also allowing morning to arrive on its own time. it hasn’t been easy, for so much as been shifting, and yet, you have yet to disappear. you’re still here, slowly finding rhythms in daylight, gently remembering how to live fully again.
As you learn to let go, you are also free to imagine what you could be. Even here, in October, you are free to observe and notice what flowers still bloom alongside the changing, crumbling leaves. For after everything you have been through, and for all of the “letting go’s” and “goodbyes” that have taken shape, today, is still a brand new day.
And I know that today being a brand new day doesn’t change everything. It doesn’t make uncertainty go away or absence suddenly feel resolved. But perhaps, as sunlight filters through the leaves that remain steady on the trees and flowers appear on window sills and places you might not even expect, you are still free to imagine what continuity might mean: a way of staying with what is present, even as things keeps shifting. For perhaps, even here, you are free to consider: how change might hold more than one thing at once.
And if something in you seeks to welcome this kind of being present in any way, may you know it doesn’t have to be a grand gesture. Even a simple question is more than enough to soften into a space where imagination begins to feel less like an escape and more of an entry point into noticing what is already taking shape, even here, in the wild of October.
Perhaps, you might ask yourself…
What could begin now? What might start again? What has been here all along, just waiting to be seen?
Let this season be what it needs to be while also knowing, you are still free to dream. You are still free to notice what blooms, what endures, what returns, and what reminds you, you are free to cultivate a sense of aliveness, right here.
As fallen leaves and flowers can exist within the same landscape, “letting go” and “continuing on” can share the same space, too: what releases and what remains form a rhythm that both end up shaping you, and you discover what remains after letting go: A space to imagine what continues to take shape. – Morgan Harper Nichols
Words to repeat to yourself: Even while learning from others, I respect my unique process, too. It matters to take time to cultivate the kind of rhythms that make sense for where I currently am.
The word “learning” tends to lend itself to movement: it can feel very external, active… a way of reaching out toward others, toward what is not yet known. This can be a beautiful thing: it opens connection, dialogue, and growth. Learning from others is so central to how ideas and skills circulate. And at the same time, there may be seasons where movement turns inward. You might start to reflect on all you’ve been taking in and wonder: “Am I actually understanding any of this?” “Or am I just trying to keep up?” In this space, even when we don’t use the word comparison, there might be a tendency to measure ourselves against others, questioning whether we’re moving fast enough or doing enough. But when we arrive here, it doesn’t mean we have to shut down or start over. Respecting your own process, in this sense, means noticing how learning actually unfolds for you, even when it doesn’t match the pace or pattern of others.
Over time, that awareness can turn into a kind of steadiness, where learning isn’t just about taking in more and more, and more about understanding what has already taken root. In this way: the word “learning” can also reflect return. After years and years of listening, trying, and revising, it can be a way of taking and shaping rhythms that make sense for where you currently are. To learn is to locate. To locate, even when the map changes. To keep listening, even after you’ve heard so much. And when learning takes that shape, it stops being about arrival at all, and becomes the ongoing practice of being where you are. – Morgan Harper Nichols
