my heart

a poem and reflection practice central to the heart and all it holds

Happy Wednesday, dear community.

I hope you’re giving yourself the space you need — and deserve — to honor all of you: your physical body, your somatic wisdom, your emotional layers, your energetic pulse. You, of all people, deserve the spaciousness of love, the commitment of care, and the courage to do the radical and real work of knowing your needs… and tending to them.

Lately, for me, that’s looked like carving out time for my heart — time to restore, to rebalance (or at least try to), as life keeps knocking at its door. And what I’m remembering — what I’ve remembered before and keep having to remember again — is that I’m not hollow. I’m holy.

All that I feel — the things that bring tears, the things that ask me to care more deeply, more diligently — all of it lives in this infinite portal at the center of my chest.
It’s both salve and sorrow.
And somehow, it keeps reminding me that I love.
And I love deeply.

This past weekend, I was in the car — in that liminal space between dreams, thoughts, and reality — and these words came through.
This poem is a hymn to the holy mess of the heart.
A prayer for the kind of freedom that arrives when we stop resisting its rhythm… and instead begin to welcome all that it brings: the big feels, the divine depths, the ache of wanting more — not just for ourselves, but for everyone.

As always, take what you need, leave what you don’t.
And if you feel called, scroll to the end of today’s share for three reflection questions — simple, spacious prompts to help you tune in a little more closely to what your heart might be holding.

I love you.
Thank you for being here with me —
exactly as we are.

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My Heart

My heart is a mosaic

shattered and stained —

blended fragments

fused from great hope and great pain.

Each piece and pulse

formed in the flux,

into a new fullness

all taking shape

central to my chest.

Every cycle, every circulation

murmured with mayhem and rest.

it has been the portal —

like Rumi said best,

allowing the light in

and for patterns to both permeate,

cease, and begin again.

These rearrangements strip me bare —

the way my heart holds

the contractions,

the wear, and the tear,

the collapse

as well as the fight forward

with faith unmovable

and fatigue unfathomable.

My heart is a temple

that has fallen

flat to the floor

and far below ground —

then ascended

into new formations

beyond the weight of grief

and the insistence of gravity.

My heart is a suture,

a bandage, a balm.

It has withered the storms

and broken beyond the dams.

My heart is both the paradise

and the battleground.

It is a tender wound,

a space to get lost

and to be found.

It holds complexities, contradictions,

and a compassion that alchemizes.

It adjusts and allows

beyond the limits of these lives.

It sways, it swoons,

it stings, it knows sorrow.

It is victorious, it is violent.

It is dedicated — and pure.

And every time it crumbles,

and I crack just a little more,

I am reminded — I am relieved —

to feel more of the love that is finding me,

more of the love that says,

Sweet child,

let it stir, let it shift —

and let it set you even more free.

Alright, dear one — now it’s your turn to do a little internal investigating.
These are three of my go-to questions when it comes to staying connected to my heart.

Take your time with them.
Trust what arises — what feels alive within the space of curiosity and care.
Let yourself in, even more fully, even more freely, to all that’s held within the confines of your chest — your love, your breath, your body’s wisdom.

And again and again, I love you…

my heart needs?
my heart grieves?
my heart knows?

Be with the questions.
Make space for what they reveal — the insights, the edges, the possibilities.
And keep showing up to this brave, evolutionary work of coming home…
to your heart,
your healing,
your hurting,
your whole.