It's okay to not know yet

A poem on uncertainty + finding home

I’m moving today from one state to another. Crossing a physical border during a five hour drive as if it’s that easy to close one chapter and open a new one. As if transition is simply packing the last box, glancing at an empty house, and driving away.

Transitions have always been hard for me. Hard in the sense that I feel them deeply. I attach to spaces and places with profound emotion. When I’m in a place, I’m really there. I notice everything. The way the corner of my bedroom window ledge is shaped. The dog scratches on my deck sliding glass door. The tree in the front yard that witnesses the sacredness of daily life. It all shimmers to me with beauty and meaning.

When invitations arrive and we discern it’s time to love new people in a new place, I go about the work of transition like it’s my full-time job. Because it is. If I don’t engage this work, I’m a miserable mess. So here’s to noticing, feeling, and expressing the seasons we find ourselves in. It’s holy and good work.

I wrote this last week and offer it to you today. Love you all!

in seasons of deep change
part of me hustles to snatch
certainty wherever she can

like a survivor lost in the waves
she clings to any life raft
floating by even if it’s
rapidly losing air

i just want to feel safe
she whispers

she attempts control
and certainty
where it’s impossible
to know but she
outstretches anyways

maybe this is solid ground
just make the waves stop
i’m sick with movement

in seasons of deep change
a wiser part of me
just wants to float
the waves with ease

she trusts this moment
and all that’s unfolding
she knows the discomfort
is to be expected

she makes her home
amidst the waves
molding her body
to each crest
sinking into the dip
with delight
and curiosity

these parts of me
watch each other
wondering who will

win

until they remember
with each swell
of fear and uncertainty
that they need each other

they learn again
to listen
trust
believe
soothe

it’s okay to not know yet
one whispers

they exhale grace
as they breathe
each other home

Photo by Chris Chan on Unsplash

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"In both love and loss, one recognizes the true voice of a kindred soul. There are no greater times when an authentic voice is needed, and in "Still Here,” Jenny Smith, invites us into personal, thoughtful moments; not as observers, but those gathered into the same room. We are taken on a journey through private moments of grief and love. In a style reminiscent of Luci Shaw, Smith's beautifully crafted words of simple verse hang on the page and you find yourself reaching for them, returning again and again, as if holding them in your hand. These poems will give you something to hold on to and remember for as often as you need them." — Ray Buckley

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