Say Yes
Day 16: One Month of Magic
There are no guarantees in life--and that is what makes it so magical (and terrifying). Any day could be the best or worst day of your life. The only thing we can do is live in a way that inspires and brings peace. The sign in my house reads, “Celebrate everything until further notice.” And I couldn’t agree more.
Celebrating a life means saying yes to everything happening. To learn how it contributes to your story. That doesn’t mean you have to be grateful for every crappy thing that happens, but it does mean that you have to witness and participate in it. You must agree that every part of the story is a necessary road, leading you toward yourself.
Read the poem “Yes” by William Stafford below.
Yes
William Stafford
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out – no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
Prompt: Think about what you have said yes to—the strange and simple, beautiful and devastating. Write about how one or each of the yeses has become part of your story. How has it changed slowly and in an instant? What has each helped you learn and accept about your life? How does who you are keep changing?
One Month of Magic guidelines:
For the month of July, post a daily prompt to inspire magical thinking.
Read and respond to the prompt by writing for seven, seventeen, or seventy-seven minutes—whatever you like—exploring what it stirs inside you. That’s it. It’s easy and breezy and designed to make you consider things deeper and search for sparkle.
After you write, post your response in the comments section of that day's post (only available to paid subscribers). Offer feedback to at least two people. Celebrate and clarify what is magical about one another’s work. How it deepened your own awareness and awe.
Posts will NOT be emailed—don’t want to spam people—but they will be posted on chat. So, if you want a daily magical ping, turn the chat feature and notifications on. You can find how in your settings.
I've wanted to be a writer for a long time, but I always feel like I need to go out and make money or hustle for money. Lately I've fallen into some financial security which allows me to just write all day every day. I've been trying to say yes to this lifestyle. One way I do this is by turning off the news and taking time to read poetry instead.
Turning off the News to Read Poetry
Out there, cities full of birds go quiet during a bombing.
But inside the poets stand, between two stacks of books.
Everyone I know warns against Facists of the future
But the poets turn towards history of the human heart
Campaigning in the streets. Everyone I know is worried they will lose
Their freedom. The poets want time enough to write about all the hands
They have held. The windows they have looked through
into the faces they have loved. Outside the sun burns.
Inside every brain is a room full of stars
That may burn out before we have time to see them.
This is the reason we keep on scribbling even amidst the terror.
Like the photographer this morning who posted a single video,
We are trying to convey what it means to live
in this moment, which is every moment,
The sound of the cicadas chirping
next to a puddle of black water. Our lives like ponds
under a sky that has never once stopped spilling its narrative.
Yet here we are, making our recordings, refusing
To be still.
I have a rule at work to never make friends with anyone in management. Treat with respect, but don't think of them as friends. There are plenty of other drivers I can be work-friends with. Four years ago, I broke my own rule. Here is a sonnet I wrote earlier this year about the fallout of saying 'yes' to that friendship. I know it still suffers from i-know-what-im-talking-about-but-my-reader-does-not-ism, and I'm dithering about whether to keep working with it or not.
Sacrifice
—from a UPS driver to her dispatch guy
after breaking her own rule to never
make friends with anyone in management
Bear Gulch bends, an asphalt snake through mist
to gated blends of green. I find her ends
and she knows me. Redwood branches twist
her fog, wet as blood to my hands. She mends
me, holds my empty. I animal my trust
alone among her world, her words, her wild
branches and needles blurred in sunset rust.
She names me beautiful, untouched, beguiled.
You dangle Bear Gulch close as breath, but never
make her mine. I falter faith. Your numbers
burn me, bare and black with want. You give her
to drivers who don’t love her. Encumber
me with sleepy streets—your godship uproots
as friendship, bruised as fallen fruit.