Words like honey

My beloved and I

we share a secret.

Our gift is language

fluid, fiery, rowdy and wry. 

Words spun between us

silken and impossibly strong

delicate, invisible, lighter than air,

are but vessels

carrying dutifully the finery of our love

upholding the essence of all

our eyes would say

if only we had ears to hear them.

These words,

these potent, holy morsels

are like honey:

When hot

they flow like water

running over skin bare and enlivened

making everything sweet

and sticky

and satisfyingly messy.

Our words;

they are colored by the flowers 

in the fields 

from which that sweet nectar was harvested.

From deepest amber,

to golden and fair

but always fragrant

and forever sweet

and always produced in the purest intent

by the humblest of makers.

Faces on the Street

When one carries within him

the fragments of a broken heart

every face he passes on the street

is at once as intimate as the pallor

of his deepest sorrow

and as foreign as the joy of love

transformed in the ordinary instant

from something tangible

to the shadow of a fantasy. 


But what is really interesting

is that when he carries instead

a heart blooming with the fruits of passion

he experiences the same paradox.

And so perhaps love hits us the same

whether we’re falling in

or out.


Perhaps – perhaps – love

simply helps us to see the ways in which God

has made life



and therefore beautiful

beyond measure. 

An Open Door

They lived in neighboring towns spaced just far enough apart that regular visits could be won only with careful planning.

He had first seen her walking down the cobbled streets in the district of shops where the wealthiest families procured their necessary provisions for home, travel and leisure. She had accompanied her father on a business trip and happily agreed to peruse the local makers while he attended to his secretive, professional matters.

When he approached her his words to her were brief, but laced with the intoxicating poison of love. “I knew at once when I noticed you that our fates were destined to be intertwined. In what way, I’m not sure. But I had to open the door.”

Months later, after they had become lovers, they used to go for long drives around the city in his immaculate black coach pulled by the most carefully curated pair of matched Morgan horses anywhere in the region.

They would depart their lovers’ roost late in the afternoon and explore the streets of their two towns until the sun hung low, and while they drove, they’d often talk about many of the same topics. But their conversations progressed alongside their love and slowly, almost imperceptibly, he felt her guarded nature yielding to his persistent attention.

She would ask him questions – and it was always her doing the questioning – and he would respond simply, but truthfully, allowing her to experience first-hand the beauty of being allowed into one’s soul. To her he opened the door, so she could step inside and recognize that no one had to die in the process.

As weeks went by and more drives gave way to more words and more questions and more answers and more knowing of each other’s most intimate details, the shape of her questions changed and he began to recognize that though her words were nearly identical to those she’d wielded in their early talks, they now held quite a different meaning.

In the beginning, her words had held the guarded curiosity of a wounded child who still longs to discover the world for herself, but is afraid at what she might find. Beneath her hesitation, she desired – with a desire beyond even her own comprehension – to know every minute detail of him.

But in time, the posture of her asking changed such that he could see she was, instead of constructing an image of him in her mind, trying in earnest, with a courageous heart, to assemble some concept of what their future could look like together.

One day she asked him, with all the innocence and unassuming passiveness of a complacent woman, whether he loved his town. And he understood it as a test, one in which he held in his hands the opportunity to demonstrate that he, too, longed to put an end to the distance between them and live, one day, in one home, in one town, and in love with one woman.

She had opened the door, and all he had to do was step inside.

In Darkness

In Darkness lies a fertile breath of promise.

It is said that comfort is the killer of men. If you ask me, we live in order to grow so that we may die better men and women than the circumstances into which we were born.

In Darkness we find our challenge.

David Deida proclaims “Every moment is either a test or a celebration.”

Darkness holds our potential because it holds our greatest test.

Perhaps we fear darkness because it is where our shadows merge – become indistinguishable – from the shadows of the world.

But with everything in this life, whatever is true, the counter is also true. Our world exists in a space of perfect harmony, balance and paradox.

The shadow which drives you to seek your vices wants to destroy you. But it also wants to deliver you unto the threshold of your tomorrow.

That darkness which aches and beckons you to seek respite in those destructive behaviors is aching because it can still feel. With a vengeance, it goes looking for that which is responsible for its aching. You.

And so yes, the darkness wishes to consume you, the shadow complicit in the premeditated unbecoming of all you’ve worked for.

Or perhaps it wishes only to be seen, felt, heard, allowed. Perhaps it is the feeling part of your being offering you brief insight into where you need to put in the work.

Like a lighthouse shining unapologetically across a tumultuous ocean amidst the raging tempest, your pain serves to guide you home.

Our bodies – physical, emotional and spiritual – are incredibly adept at muting that which we are incapable of addressing. This protective amnesia allows us the opportunity for bite-sized processing. Which means that whatever you’re feeling, you’re ready to work through.

Wherever you’re hurting, you are ready to heal. Not fix. Heal.

Healing is a comprehensive process aimed at causes. Fixing is meant as a temporary repair focused on symptoms.

So sit for a while in your darkness, give yourself the opportunity to ache long enough to find the lighthouse, and then start rowing to shore.

I’ll meet you there.