In a gentle way, you can shake the world
A love letter to those who rage and rest
I’ve long been fascinated by opposing forces that need each other.
Growth and rest.
Expansion and contraction.
Stillness and motion.
Creation and destruction.
Strength and vulnerability.
Independence and belonging.
Order and chaos.
Speaking and listening.
There’s a piece of art that’s followed me through multiple moves that says, “In a gentle way, you can shake the world,” a quote attributed to Mahatma Gandhi.
Every time I see this piece of art I feel my breath again. Yes.
Change happens through softness, not just force.
Love dances through release, not just control.
Our world loves a good polarization. We love when someone is right and someone is clearly wrong. And sometimes they genuinely are. But our obsession with the binary misses nuance, depth, the messy liminal middle where all growth actually happens.
So when it came time to choose a name for my next collection of poems, two words bubbled to the surface without much effort:
Gently Fierce.
More than ever before, we need gentleness. And we need fierceness.
A word on faith, rage + holy imagination
I cycled through multiple taglines trying to capture the energy of the collection. Faith, rage, and holy imagination have come in clutch in this season.
I have a complicated relationship with faith. The life of Jesus hums in the foundations of my identity and guides much of my moral framework. The rhythms of life, death, and resurrection have grounded me more times than I can count. The church has been a (mostly) positive place of belonging and acceptance.
But I spend the majority of my professional work with people who’ve been profoundly harmed by people of faith. So I walk quite gently around language of faith and theology. It’s complicated. And I think Jesus still offers something in this cultural moment that breathes people home. The way of Love might just be the thing we need most.
I heard from multiple friends how grateful they were to see the word rage in the subtitle. We’re so angry at the flood of injustice and unspeakable harm. We must carve out spaces to show up with compassion in this moment. We cannot let the stories numb us into apathy. We rage. Then we act. Then we rest and play. Then we probably rage again.
“The best activism is equal parts anger and love.” This sentiment is loosely connected to the word of Audre Lorde, writer and civil rights activist. It’s our invitation.
When it comes to holy imagination, we’re invited to build and welcome alternative worlds. This is the work of beloved community. Each of these poems aims to move tiny needles toward more love, compassion, empathy, courage, and justice. We do this by being honest about where we’ve been and where we’ve now arrived. We repair what’s been been broken.
Together, we dream. We listen deeply to each other. We wonder out loud. We come alongside those who’ve been organizing for a long time. We raise our hand and say, “I’m in. Let’s go.” We let other lead. It’s uncomfortable as hell sometimes. But it’s worth it.
The resilient zinnia
I chose an orange-pink zinnia for the cover because of their resilience in tough conditions. Certain Indigenous siblings consider the zinnia one of the sacred life medicines. It represents wisdom and joy.
Zinnias are an annual flower that doesn’t come back every year. They must be replanted each spring. The zinnia invites us to reflect on how we nourish and nurture ourselves in tough conditions. It takes effort and intention to root deeply and stay connected to what keeps us most alive so we can be a part of justice movements in our communities.
Maybe there ways of being we’ve inherited asking to be released so we can take on new forms in this next season.
Zinnias are heat-tolerant. One might suggest we are all learning how to survive this season of life together.
On the terrible awful days, may the sight of a simple flower bring you into the present moment with the reminder that resilience is a practice.
I’m delighted to place this book into your hands next week! I’ll send a note your way when it’s ready. Much love, my dear friends. What a gift you’ve been in this corner of the internet.
Wishing you gently fierce days ahead,
Jenny
Still Here: A Poetry Memoir on Grief & Love
Still Here is a poetic companion for those navigating the first raw year after loss. Written by a poet and pastor grieving her younger brother, it tenderly names the shock, ache, and strange beauty of living with grief. Through honesty and hope, Jenny reminds us that while loss reshapes us, love never dies—it lingers, breathing softly through our every moment.
There She Is: Love Notes on Finding Home
There She Is invites readers on a tender journey of self-discovery through poems written amid personal upheaval. With honesty and grace, we explore what it means to find strength and love in unexpected places.
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The Thread
The Thread is a weekly-ish newsletter where we untangle the stories that make us who we are so we can show up to our lives with spacious presence, brave honesty, radical love & wild curiosity.
Ahhhhhh!!! I am so excited about this. What a gorgeous cover. And, wow, I need to take some lessons in book photography from you!