Harbor
30 days of poetry
Hello Community - it has been some time since i last wrote something here. Being new to writing on Substack my intention was to write/post once a week. But here we are on June 19th and i haven’t posted a thing. So here i am leaning away from negative self-talk and embracing the chance to begin again, and again, and again.
In May i participated in Kaitlin Curtice’s 30 days of poetry on her Substack, The Liminality Journal. It became a wonderful series of days to engage with her community, sharing a poem each day and supporting one another with words. I found it a gentle challenge to write a poem a day over breakfast, no hard editing, no questioning, just going with the prompt and posting it out to the community. It was a great practice in letting go and writing to write. Much tenderness and anger arose over the month and those emotions were able to be placed on the page and released from my mind. Though i only got to around 2/3 of the days during the month it was so lovely to read each day what others were writing.
Today i am going to share one of these poems with you, my dear community. These past weeks have been challenging for me — in navigating our country and all the harm that is being done, to holding the sorrow of Gaza, to the every day of being human, getting enough sleep, feeding yourself —- All The Things. I’ve been thinking of a harbor, a place to rest, collect myself, take care of myself so that i, in turn, can continue to care for others. So i end here with this poem. Please share your safe harbor in the comments below. It seems we all may need a quiet restful place during these times.
Thank you for reading and for being here and for sharing your thoughts in the comments.
HARBOR Finding a safe harbor to rest I look around at my surroundings. The ocean tides are calm and soothing as they gently rush up to the shoreline. Small crabs scuttle across the sand. The sky is clear and a warm breeze folds around me like a shawl. I find myself sitting on a dock, though unsure of what boat brought me here. Its creaks and shifts in the currents, but feels sturdy. The wood worn and ragged in places - like me. What brought me to this safe harbor? Where do I go from here? Perhaps I can stay here awhile, settle in to safety. Find some healing in this unknown harbor.