Here where I live, even without the political chaos, this time of year is a liminal space. Mud season. Or as I’ve heard it described, winterspring. It is after winter, but before spring. It is brown. It is confusing.

I try to tether myself by looking for the tiny evidence of change: the first snowdrops, the first crocuses, the day the front snow pile melts, the day the maple buds seem to pop. Right now, we are between the late crocuses and the early daffodils.

I recently noted that basically all my poems are about the weather. I didn’t think this one was. How silly of me.

Collecting Change

No one picks up pennies anymore.
Once lucky, now no use
bending for a piece of change
as imperceptible as the curvature

of the earth. Oh that I might
notice slim shifts like I notice
new cracks in the drywall, thinning
sock soles, when sarcasm has gone

sour. Count them now: one
absence of eggshells, two
bids accepted, three
more minutes of daylight. A quarter

has fallen behind the couch–
I move the couch, remember
that negative acceleration
is still forward movement. Still

adds up. When metal plinks against
metal I’m drawn to plunge my hand
into the coin jar–I want to feel
its cold, dusty weight–
sift its worth through my fingers

Credit for this prompt goes to Donna from my writing group. It’s a simple yet profound one.

1. Think of a person in your life who is struggling, or has struggled in the past. This can be in any realm of life: physical, mental, social, spiritual, etc.

2. Next time you talk to them, ask them this question: How will I know if you’re not okay?

3. Our goal is not to pathologize, or judge, or solve the problem right now. But this question might help them zoom out, look at themselves from the outside, and make note of how their internal challenges tend to manifest in the world.

4. Have a conversation. Write down the signs if you need to. Reassure this person that you’ll be there for them.

5. Consider doing this exercise for yourself—asking the question in reverse: how will the people in my life know if I’m not okay?

With life, light, and love,

Devon

The bottom line is that as much as I love writing, I find it very, very hard. And sometimes my brain wants to do literally anything else. Cold coffee cheers to you if any of this sounds familiar.

So this week, you get a list—something I clearly enjoy making. And of course, a list can be a poem, so I’m not going to feel bad about it. I’m just adding all of this—the procrastination, the simplistic format—to the list of things I’m not going to worry about today. It’s another form of permission slip.

Make your own, and share it in the comments!

Leave a comment

Things I’m Not Going to Worry About Today

The balance in my bank account.
How heavy my body is (no one is lifting me).
What anyone thinks of my silly poems.
Whether AI is smarter than the humans yet.
Whether rogue federal agents will try to kidnap my sister’s family at the airport.
Fixing the hole in the slip cover on the terribly uncomfortable love seat.
Replacing the love seat.
Making meals that even two out of three family members will like.
How much therapy my child will need to process my parenting.
Hanging artwork on the walls.
Whether the snow will ever melt or the sun will ever shine.
Whether my marriage will make it.
Finishing any of the four books I’ve started.
When this apocalypse will end.

Things I am going to worry about today:
Love.

Today, my friends, your prompt is to sweat together.

I mean that literally. Do something where you get embarrassingly sweaty, or dirty, or winded, together.

Maybe you like to work out. It could be an exercise class, going for a run, swimming laps, or lifting weights. It could also be dancing. Something outside, like skiing or hiking or biking. A sport—soccer, pickleball, ultimate frisbee.

But there are other ways to get sweaty, too: doing a house or garden project, chasing kids on a playground, sitting in a sauna.

However you do it, the point is to be moving your body, side-by-side, not too concerned about what you look like. “Together” can mean with someone you know well, but it can also be a stranger or an acquaintance. There is something about letting each other see that sweat that makes it very difficult to deny one another’s humanity.

Let me know how it goes. Let me know if I should start a sweat-based nonprofit and what I should call it.

With light, life, love, and an extra dose of punchiness,

Devon

Thaw

After five and a half years
of torture claims, my child
asked me to brush her hair
for the first time this week.
This week, too, I heard
a yes just when I’d learned
to braid raw courage from only
noes. This is also the week
I dragged a dining room 
chair to the porch to write
serenaded by the syncopated 
drip of snowmelt and time. 
When I stepped outside 
it was only as I felt my face
unclench that I detangled
the truth: I’d been bracing 
against a cold that–
at least for this week–
never came.

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1. In a comfortable position, close your eyes. Tune into your body. Are there places that you are clenching or bracing that don’t need to be? Let your mind’s eye travel from head to toe, melting away tension as it goes.

2. Now think about what’s on your mind. What are you bracing against? What are your perpetual worries? What fight are you already armored for?

3. Some of these fears and fights might be real. But it’s worth checking in. Is your defense proportional to the threat? Or have things changed, and your posture has yet to adapt? Are there shafts of light that your impermeable walls are not letting through?

Welcome the melt.

With lots of light, life, and love,

Devon

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I’ll keep it brief except to say that as of this morning, this poem didn’t have a title. Certain parts of it were giving me an Emily Dickinson vibe, so I decided to name it after her line “I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.” Then I went back and Dickinson-ified a few other things, but please know this: I am not a scholar of her writing and in no way intend for this to be an accurate impression of her style.

It’s just a little toast. A salute.

Out with Lanterns

Burn, candle heart, Burn–
Light my way home, you
Organ of Instinct!

Show me how you beat
Drums of Time without guilt–
unafraid of Going On.

Sing to me a lullaby
of Beauty and Grief–
each valve synchronized 

in your melody of Ache.
Oracle of Oxygenation–
if you can’t fuel my Why,

Tell me–will I ever find–
written in your ardent Pump– 
the riddle of my Who?

Today’s Conspire and Connect is inspired by this valentine from my five-year-old:

In case you didn’t catch it, “cotl” is cuddle, and I can’t stand the cuteness. Anyway, here’s your assignment:

1. Think of a person in your life right now who could use a little extra love.

2. Choose your own adventure: hug, cuddle, or read to them. Chances are, there a million other ways you could show them love, but we’re all overwhelmed with decision fatigue. See if you can pick one of these.

3. Notice how it feels to reach out.

4. For a bonus challenge, think about how you would fill out this valentine. What are three actions that make you feel loved?

“i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)” —e.e. cummings

With light, life, and love,

Devon

Held: Navigating the Journey into Motherhood starts March 8th!

Many of you are familiar with this course, but if not, here’s an overview:

Rewriting the motherhood paradigm–and rediscovering yourself–begins with one thing: coming together.

What if you could transform your frustration, fear, and grief into creativity, power, and compassion by gathering with other mothers who are going through it too?

Now you can.

Join a circle of peers, led by a peer, to dig deeper, unpack the hard questions, and. reclaim motherhood’s changes and challenges for good.

Held: Navigating the Journey into Motherhood is a 6-week course designed to help those in the first tender years of motherhood to restore, reclaim, orient, and integrate in the face of this dynamic life transition.

Part gentle yoga, part women’s circle, Held uses Jessie Harrold‘s Four Elements of Radical Transformation as a foundation to understand the journey into motherhood and takes an embodied approach to rebuilding the lost art of “the village.”

Registration for the Spring 2026 cohort is now open. The schedule is:

Sundays, March 8-April 12

2:00-3:30 ET

In-person at Blossom Wellness in Montpelier, Vermont

Sliding scale $125-175

Please spread the word if you are not local but know someone who is!

Learn More and Register

In that vein, here is this week’s poem. It may help to know that Groundhog Day (February 2nd) falls on our around the halfway point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox, also known in Celtic culture as Imbolc.

Groundhog Day

Can’t stop admiring the smooth, round
mound of porch snow, glittering
in the yes, that much stronger

February sun. And though there’s
never not six (realistically ten)
more weeks of winter where I live,

I still find meaning in this hump day:
like we’ve been duck-walking our way 
to the top, heads down, and now we pause

turn to face the sugar-dusted high peaks
wiggle the blood back into our toes
and ski down from here

I have valued breathing together with my yoga classes so much over the last few weeks. Here is an exercise we did together this week that you are welcome to try:

1. Sit comfortably, or stand. Hold your hands in front of you like you are cupping an imaginary ball—or balloon, or orb of light. Close your eyes.

2. With each inhale, let the space between your hands widen right and left. With each exhale, let your hands close toward each other, but not touch, as though the ball is growing and shrinking. Mirror this action in your torso.

3. After a few breaths, try the same thing holding the imaginary ball in front and back (palms can face the same way). Feel your breath expand front to back.

4. Now hold the ball on the top and bottom, and feel the breath expand along the length of your spine, from your throat down to your pelvic floor.

5. Whether still holding the “ball” or letting your hands rest, try a few breaths that expand and contract in all three dimensions. What does it feel like to breath this dynamically?

Mother Becoming is almost out in the world!

Thanks to the brilliant midwifery of Jessie Harrold, a new book chock-full of scholarly wisdom all about the mysterious transformation we now know as matrescence is just a few weeks shy of being born! And one of my poems is in it!

This week, we were honored to get a “blurb” from Lucy Jones, author of the seminal book, Matrescence. If you would like a copy of Mother Becoming: Reflections and Scholarship on Matrescence, you can order it directly from the publisher, from Bookshop.org, or through your local indie bookstore.

May you find your way into the sunshine you need this week.

With light, life, and love,

Devon

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Now warm up that cup of tea or coffee one more time and dive in for a little poetry.

First, I want to reshare this little poem that I wrote last January:

Inauguration

It’s five degrees
and democracy is falling
and I am scurrying home
when my neighbor–whose
name I don’t even know–
looks me in the eye,
implores me to stop
right there:
Stand still in that
beam of sunlight.
Trust me

Now, here’s the sequel to that, written this week:

One Year Post-Inauguration

It’s four degrees
and democracy is a mother
shot, point-blank
in her SUV moments
after school drop-off
so I kiss her goodbye,
uphold self-evident truths:
meet a kindred spirit
for coffee; write a poem
that can’t die

Let me know your thoughts in the comments. Have you made art in response to the horrors we’re witnessing right now? What is your medicine?

I don’t often write about technology, perhaps because I don’t feel very wise or disciplined in that realm. But here’s my prompt for this week: Plan a tech fast.

1. You choose the type of tech you’d like to fast from. It could be TV, social media, one particular app or news source, or the internet writ large. Be brave: pick the thing that tempts you the most, but leaves you with the most regrets.

2. Choose a date and a time frame. Start small. An hour without email. An evening without Instagram. Set yourself an alert or a reminder.

3. Don’t pressure yourself to do something inspiring or productive during that time. But maybe brainstorm some options: read a book, call a friend, play a game with your kid, go for a walk.

4. Check in with your physical and mental state at the end of the fast. Did it feel easy or hard? Are you more at peace, less agitated? What would you change about it?

5. If it felt good, try it again. Make it a regular recurring thing. Let me know if it helps you through the dark season.

With (a little bit more!) light, life, and love,

Devon

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And what better way to start the new year than with a little bit of poetry?

Here’s one that came together on one of my many plane trips last month.

Flight Risk

Above the clouds, there is only sunset.
Only soft. Only wisps of
pink, winged cirrus; baby
blue innocence.

Above the clouds, peering through deep
navy eyelets to the under-world,
there are no storms. No traffic,
no time, really.

Above the clouds, there is only the threat
of my gases expanding into
feeling. Of a brain uncluttered,
so close to the source.

For any friends who are new here, every other week, I share a poem and a prompt (with alternate weeks being prose/essays). The prompts are sometimes written, sometimes actions, and often somatic, or body-based. They are all inspired by my belief that our capacity to create a better, more beautiful world comes from our ability to connect to our embodied selves, our environment, and our community.

This week, whether you are ready to set a million intentions or just need a little more time snuggled up on the couch, I encourage you to take some time to notice what’s already good in your world. (Yes, it’s basically a gratitude practice, but some of us need near-constant reframes to access gratitude.)

You could go for quantity and make a fearless and searching inventory, maybe writing the list of things that make you feel whole and human in different colors and directions over a full page of your journal. Or you could think of one thing. Maybe not even write it down. Just repeat it to yourself a few times with a hand over your heart.

The method doesn’t matter—it’s just about remembering, in this dark, cold season in the Northern Hemisphere—where the light comes from.

With much light, life, and love,

Devon

P.S. I meant to share this poem from last January on New Year’s Day, but Substack wouldn’t let me pre-schedule it, and of course I forgot. It’s all about the competing energies of a mid-winter new year.

So don’t be surprised if the next few posts from me are sparse. I do believe in the discipline of “butt in chair,” but I don’t believe in content for the sake of content. So I’ll offer what I have, and nothing more.

As a reminder, paid subscribers (Hi, Mom!) receive an extra seasonal post full of curated goodies, and the Winter Solstice Smörgåsbord will be coming your way next week. Think songs, poems, reading recommendations, and seasonal prompts for writing and reflection.

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Also, you know what makes a great FREE gift for someone who’s hard to shop for? Sharing a publication you love! Find a post you love (or click the button below), share it with a friend or family member, and encourage them to subscribe. Toward Utter Aliveness is all about conspiring for divine, embodied community, and the more conspirators, the better!

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Okay, that’s it for the spiel. Here’s your poem:

Ursa Major

Sometimes she holds
it all in, but more often
the smooth arc of her spine
tilts, pouring it all out
ungracefully upside down
that big mama bear

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This week, I am hosting a little holiday party, but I’m also calling it a birthday party for the famed song-and-dance man, Dick Van Dyke, who is turning 100. Van Dyke is one of my heroes, and I think what I admire most is his dedication to whimsy. He’s a comedian, yes, but also just a purely playful human. So in his honor, let’s make our prompt about harnessing a little bit of whimsy. Here are some ideas:

• Change up your routine. Take the scenic route. Stop to admire the stars, or some holiday lights. Do it all backwards. Skip something altogether.

• Treat yourself. Add a dollop of whipped cream to your coffee. Toss some chocolate chips in your oatmeal. Read a book for 20 minutes. No guilt allowed, because this is your medicine.

• Embrace the silly. Wear one of those elf hats with the ears. Do all the voices when reading to your kids. Do that one thing that never fails to make your partner laugh. Be the first to make a fool of yourself.

• Sing and dance. It might be in the car, or in the shower, or on the chairlift. Play that song that makes you smile, and let loose like you’re the world’s most talented chimney sweep.

As always, notice how the whimsy lands in your body. And be warned: it might be contagious. Or help you live to 100.

With light, life, and love,

Devon

So it’s a high stakes poem that I present to you today. Very much in draft form, as usual. Would love to hear your thoughts, what resonates.

Greater than the Sum

A tree without its leaves
is still a tree. Cull blossom,
seed, mossy bark, nest
nestled at its crown,
and it loses not its name.

Fallen, chopped, uprooted
eaten from within,
we know the thing–see
an essence, paste parts
together with memory
to tell the story of a whole

Still, there comes a day
when a tree is not a tree.
When disaster or decay take
us past recognition–
dissolve the very particles
of what, and who, and self.

It is then that I am the tree,
and the tree is me,
but who, together, are we?

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This week, I asked my community for prayers, good vibes, and support through a daunting event for my family. Here’s what I’d forgotten: when people conspire for you, you can feel it.

True, many of these people wrote and called to tell me they were thinking of me. And it’s probably similar to the concept of witnessing that I wrote about on my birthday. But I feel like it was something more, too. That sense of being held, buoyed, guarded by an invisible force field. Some kind of cosmic love bubble.

How can you be someone’s Cosmic Love Bubble today?

1. Who’s that one person who’s been on your mind—who you’ve been meaning to reach out to—who might need a little buoying, whether or not you know the reason why?

2. Start with the metaphysical. Place your hand on your heart, close your eyes, and take a deep breath. As you exhale, send love, peace, light, clarity—whatever good stuff you like—to that person. Repeat as long as you like, as frequently as you like.

3. I believe that that works. I think it’s enough to make a Cosmic Love Bubble.

4. If you want to foster your relationship at the same time, you can make the support tangible: Send a text. Call from your commute. Send an old-school handwritten note or card. Forward an article or poem. Send an old picture you found. Offer a hug. You may find that the bubble-making is mutual.

Radiating some light, life, and love your way,

Devon

Today, I’m going to share two poems—but before you start feeling too impressed or jealous of my creative output, I encourage you to read them. The first is one of those flash moments that I probably wouldn’t have recorded (or shared) if I wasn’t doing The Common’s Weekly Writes challenge and trying to spit out a poem every week (a couple months ago). And yet, I’m glad I did.

The second is literally the result of cleaning out some of the randomness in my Notes app. Often, there are moments that feel very special and poem-worthy (kind of the opposite of the first scenario), but I’m out and about and don’t have time to fully compose something. I jot down a bunch of phrases or descriptions with the intent of coming back to them and turning them into something pretty. Unfortunately, that rarely happens. The more distanced I am from the scene or emotion, the less I know how to make a poem out of it. In this case, I decided to see what happened if I just kept the notes as is and called it a poem anyway.

They Say it’s Important to Live in the Present

I make a conscious choice
not to retrieve a vacuum
or even a broom
I kneel down, mindfully
sweep the crumbs
of the broken cracker
under the cabinet
with my bare hand
literally 
pushing the grit
out of the path of sight
and unsuspecting feet
(for now)
and I am proud

List from my Notes App that Never Made it into a Poem

your hum; the cicada hum
just-right breeze
pat of your hand 
on the bucket bottom
three red trees
What does happiness taste like? 
Can it seep in through my pores? 
it must be this temperature 

I’m feeling inspired to make today’s prompt about our OG mission here: con-spiring. Breathing together. Here we go:

1. Hold one hand in front of your face like you’ve got an imaginary bubble wand.

2. Take a big breath in, then exhale like you are blowing through the wand to make a bubble. Think long and slow…if you go too fast or hard, you’ll break the bubble.

3. Repeat 4-5 times. Notice how you feel.

4. If you want to add another layer, imagine that bubble as something you love. It could be a person, a relationship, a project, a dream. Visualize your breath inflating that thing, then watch it become buoyant, iridescent and perfect, floating off into the wind.

Do you see yet how in breathing together, we can transform the world?

Thanks for being here. You keep me iridescent and floating.

With light, life, and love,

Devon

It is in that spirit that I submit to you today’s poem. Not because it’s about keeping going (TBH, it’s actually about stopping), but because some weeks, publicly sharing a piece of creative output on this platform is, for me, a matter of keeping going. I don’t claim that it’s good art. I do claim that I’m here, putting words together, hoping they make sense.

Forget About Work

is what the god of my
own understanding answered
when I asked her what mattered
today. She says shit
like this often, so I 
rolled my eyes and got down
to business. You see,
I think what she meant–
if I can analyze God for a minute–
is to look for the magic
amidst the toil. To center beauty,
and money will f-----
Pardon me, God here. Excuse
the interruption. To clarify,
I meant it literally.
Put it all down. Go for a walk.
I know you’re a poet, but
not everything is a goddamn
metaphor.

Now go!

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Let’s keep things simple, simple, simple today. For five minutes, try forgetting about work. “Work” can be anything, paid or otherwise. Maybe you take that walk. Maybe you lie down. Maybe you read a book.

I was going to suggest posting a picture as evidence/accountability in the comments, but I don’t think Substack lets you do that. But I’d love to hear how you spent five minutes forgetting about work, so please do share (in words) via comments or message.

Leave a comment

Remember, I hope you can keep going.

Until next week—with light, life, and love,

Devon

Codependent

Poems do not get written 
because they have to.
If you care more about 
a person’s survival than 
they do, you might be a 
problem I cannot solve;
If I cannot save you to save me
then what can I do?
What is there to write, right?
Can we trust the poem to save itself?
Who will make its bed, offer it pills,
Search the thesaurus for the
perfect salve?
Surrender my ass.
I dare you to pry this pen
from my cold, dead caring.
Where is the beauty in no transformation,
in no always truisms,
in the justice of an empty page?
Was I not brought here
to write life, to right 
the world–not just stand still
as it spills and spills

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Here’s our somatic prompt for today:

1. Find an object that can easily fit in the palm of your hand—a rock, a pen, a toy, a tube of chapstick.

2. Close your eyes. Squeeze the object hard, like someone is trying to take it away and you won’t let go.

3. Now imagine that the object is something—or someone—that you’ve been trying to control. Something you want to protect, fix, heal, solve.

4. Bit by bit, with microscopic movements, begin to release your grip. The slower the better. Track your sensations and feelings as you go.

5. When you’ve fully let go, the object might fall. Or it might still rest in your hand. Notice how you feel about where it ends up. How does it feel to not be holding on to it, to just let it land on its own?

6. Repeat this practice as needed to acclimate yourself to the sensation of letting go.

With light, life, and love,

Devon

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Just a reminder: Held: Navigating the Journey into Motherhood is now open for registration. This six-week series for mothers in the midst of becoming starts October 10th, is all online, and has a new Bring-a-Friend pricing tier. I’m so excited to see this cohort come together. Thanks for sharing!

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My friends, you’re supposed to get a long-form piece today, but you’re getting a poem instead. This is a newsletter about embracing our aliveness—our humanness—and I will always do my best to let my humanness lead the way. This week, that meant diving deep on my memoir and offering my Substack readers a poem. Here it is:

How to Eat a Mango at the End of the World

You don’t have to worry if she’s ripe
because by this time, we’re all primed
to fall

Carve into her mottled skin
peeling away the last vestiges
of pretense

Scoop her flesh–glistening, the color
of marigolds–into you
with a hunger

that probably won’t die when you do

If you pause to wonder if you should
share, you might go to Heaven
unless

Heaven was that last bite

Her pit is like a slippery newborn
you’d lick clean with your rough
mama tongue

if only you could just hold on

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I know that Slow Eating is a whole movement—probably one that I should subscribe to since I always eat like it’s the last time I’ll see food—but let’s just try a micro experiment for now.

1. Do this when you’re not in a hurry. If it feels like that’s never the case, just try to isolate the action instead of multi-tasking.

2. Pick a food or beverage. It can be something familiar or new, simple or complex, especially tasty or just intriguing.

3. From preparation to clean-up, pay attention to the process of consuming this food or drink. Notice pace, temperature, tools, techniques. Notice color, texture, smell, taste, mouthfeel, sounds. Notice what it’s like to eat or drink or prepare it alone versus with someone else. Notice if it stirs up memories or connections to other issues or experiences.

4. Maybe you write about the process, or record a voice note. Maybe you just internalize what it felt like and come back to it next time you enjoy that food.

With light, life, and love,

Devon

But this week, one particular headline prompted me to respond. I decided to try, for the first time, a blackout poem. I was directly inspired by Kate Baer’s I Hope This Finds You Well, in which she makes poetry out of hate mail she receives, but she didn’t invent this style. Blacking out newspaper articles was popularized in recent decades by Austin Kleon, but it’s probably as old as newspapers themselves.

Here’s what I came up with (be sure you have images enabled):

This is the New York Times article in question.

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Then, in a process that shouldn’t be surprising by now, it turned out that officials were lying, and the Times issued a follow-up on the story the next day. I decided to make a second blackout poem.

The prompt today is a tangible one, but it takes some time. We are going to make our own blackout poems! Maybe you sit down with your evening cup of tea, or maybe you make it a group activity with friends at a local coffee shop. One of the cool things about this kind of poem is that it’s best done by hand, on real paper, so even though it’s based on the news, it gets you off the screen and into your body.

1. Find an article that you want to respond to. It might be serious, but it doesn’t have to be. It might be ridiculous. Or you might make a poem that has nothing to do with the story’s original meaning. If you just want to practice the concept of blackout poetry without picking an article, the NYT actually made an interactive tool to try it on some of their past pieces.

2. If you don’t get a physical newspaper or magazine, I recommend printing out the article. Alternatively, you could paste the text into a blank document.

3. There are probably many ways to approach the poetry part, but I went through and scanned for words that caught my attention. I was drawn to words that had dual meanings that could change with context.

4. Begin to look for ways to connect the words into a cohesive idea. To me the trickiest part was to find connective tissue words in the order I needed them. It’s a good lesson in brevity and making more from less (even as you make less from more!).

5. Either physically black out the rest of the text with a marker, or use the highlighter tool in your word processor. You can decide whether to keep the headline like I did, or to black that out too. Add a title if you like. Admire what remains.

6. Check in with your body after the process is over. How does your nervous system respond to the headline or news story now? How did it feel to rewrite the narrative? How does it feel to create versus consume?

With light, life, and love,

Devon

Upcoming Events

The next session of my course for new mothers, Held: Navigating the Journey into Motherhood, starts on October 10th.

The fourth time around, all the best-loved elements of the course remain the same, but here's what's NEW this session:

• Longer 6-week format (everyone wanted more!)

• All online instead of hybrid

• Bring-a-Friend rate so everyone saves

Held is designed to help those in the first tender years of motherhood to restore, reclaim, orient, and integrate in the face of this dynamic life transition. If you know anyone this might be relevant for, I really appreciate your help spreading the word. You could forward this email, text someone the link, share my Instagram or Facebook post, or drop a DM. There is no better time to encourage the moms in your life to invest in themselves.

Learn More About Held

Thanks for being here with me, along for the ride. I’m looking forward to where this season will take us.

Here’s a little poem (from August) in which I (once again) ponder the pace of things.

Full Tilt

The sunglasses I keep perched
atop my head–partly
for convenience, partly
style choice–come clattering
to the ground as I stand
waving an upside-down broom
at the cobwebs in the cabin’s
outdoor shower, which I consider
one of its greatest features
(the shower, not the cobwebs) -
rare as my forest baths might be

I replace the glasses but
it happens again as I let 
myself lean aaalll the way back
in the plastic Adirondack chair
I’ve dragged to the dock
so I might read a few pages
and drink lukewarm Chardonnay
while my child builds a world
out of the LEGOs I had as a
kid before it’s time to pack her,
pajama-clad, into the car

Leaving the lake, the cabin,
the cobwebs for the first
week of kindergarten.
Back home, I step out the
passenger side, ready to carry
the sleeping sack of lightning
to her bed when it happens
yet again: the glasses tumble
to the asphalt as my gaze jolts 
up, taking in a skyfull of stars
I did nothing to deserve

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Today, I’m offering some writing prompts that are directly stolen (borrowed?) from The Lazy Genius. I have mentioned before that I’m addicted to her playbooks, and these are some of the questions that are offered at threshold moments between months and seasons. Write down your answers, and if you want to take it to another level, share your thoughts with a friend/partner/sibling IRL. (or me, via reply or direct message)

1. What is making you feel like yourself right now?

2. Where are you being too hard on yourself?

3. What do you want to remember on a soul level before moving on to the next season?

4. What matters most in this coming season?

With light, life, and all the love,

Devon

You may recall that last year, I wrote a poem in honor of my kiddo’s fourth birthday. Believe it or not (I definitely don’t), yesterday she turned FIVE.

I can’t promise it will be an every-year thing, but here’s another birthday—or as I like to call it, Birth Day—poem.

On Your Fifth Birthday

“Go where I can’t touch”
you insist, “and I will swim

to you.” I abide, ready to reach out
but somehow, with a medley

of unrefined paddles and kicks,
you make it to my arms, grinning

and gulping in air while I
swallow too, and return the smile

pretending I like this game too.
“Now stand still and bend your knees”

is the next command, which I readily
obey, for you are my queen–

reigning in spandex cape and goggle crown
ready to use my legs as a launch pad

to propel yourself from the womb,
just buoyant enough to prevail

You may have heard of a Heart Needs Meditation. Today, we’re trying a variation on that theme: A Foot Needs Meditation.

1. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Listen to your feet. You heard me right: listen to your feet.

2. What are they saying? What are they asking for? What, in this moment, would make them feel happier? Do they want to go naked? Do they want to be elevated? Do they want to plunge into a tub of cold water? A hot, perfumed soak? Do they want to be cleaned/trimmed/pampered?

3. Pick one thing, and take the next 2-5 minutes to give your feet what they want.

4. How did that feel? Will you do it again sometime?

With light, life, and love,

Devon

P.S. Just a quick note to say that since I have no childcare next week, and this is a newsletter all about utter aliveness and acknowledging our humanity, I will be taking the week off from posting. Take care of yourselves and see you soon!

Save the Date for Class for New(ish) Mothers

Know anyone in the trenches of early motherhood who has been wondering whatever happened to the so-called village and wavering on the edge of existential crisis? Is it you?

My class all about traversing the journey into motherhood, Held, is happening again this fall. This time around, I’m extending it to six weeks instead of five and making it fully virtual. Stay tuned for more details on what it is and how to register, but if you’re curious or know someone who might be, save the dates:

Held: Navigating the Journey into Motherhood

Fridays, 12-1:30pm on Zoom, October 3-November 7, 2025

Subscribe now

Let me know what you think.

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Eighteen Years Later, We Exchange Tornado Stories

Mom:
Sky turned from day to night-dark
You, and I, and the dog tumbled
down the stairs. I can still hear
the sound–that indescribable sound–
after it all they interviewed me for the news 
but no one believed my story

Brother:
I was playing at a friend’s house when
his little brother Greg came running:
“Mommy, the sky is green.” 
Back home, under the fist-width branch
poking through the wall, into the ceiling
“The Black Forest Polka” was open on the piano

Sister:
Just across the street, I was summoned 
to the basement by my best friend’s mom,
then a noise like being under a freight train,
or inside a vacuum cleaner–one massive enough
to pluck their giant maple up by the roots
slide it into the garage, and drop the car on top

Dad:
Couldn’t get to you; there was no way through
I trampled on foot among slow-walking suburban zombies 
gawking at cars, trees all displaced like a diorama, shaken
Woke up to the sound of a chainsaw next morning
and there was Mr. Fukui, your classmate’s dad,
dragging fallen branches to the curb

Me: 
Freshly home from a day of dance
I plunked my bag in my room, hankering
for a snack when the furies descended–or was it
Hell ascending? Head-first down the stairs,
then frozen. We managed to make calls,
discover that our house still stands

My bedroom door was jammed
behind which, a blanket of shattered glass
shredded curtains, bedspread, dresses
of American Girl dolls I could have been
playing with, but wasn’t–buying me
eighteen years to look back, and wonder

Whether or not you record or write them down, there is something powerful about being a memory-gatherer. Try this:

1. Think about a memory that you share with other people—a celebration, a tragedy, a trip, a hilarious mishap—something significant that others are likely to remember in some form.

2. If you can, collect everyone together, perhaps on the anniversary of the memorable event. Virtual counts. If you can’t all get together, reach out to individuals by call or text.

3. Ask each person in turn to recount their version of the story. Try to listen without correcting the record. Avoid looking at photos/videos until you’re done sharing from memory.

4. Notice what pops out in each version, what sticks. Notice the discrepancies. Listen for the morals, the takeaways each person has found from the event. How did this feel?

Wishing you all peace and plenty this Lammas (aka the halfway point between solstice and equinox, aka Bread Day).

With life, light, love, and loafs,

Devon

BUT. I wrote something, and I’m sharing the very roughest of drafts with you, and I can’t tell you how GOOD it feels. Need a quick high? Write a poem.1

Water Hole

You’ve told me that I remind you
of the place the wildebeests gather–
only our oasis includes
soft black asphalt turned lava in the sun
plenty of chlorine, but is it enough?
paint bubbling under clear blue broth
no lounges or lanes to speak of

You’ve told me you remember
a spot from your youth where
snacks were for sale, with
white plastic tables, broad umbrellas
and bathrooms less known for their
wet concrete floors decorated
in soggy scraps of paper towel

I can’t replicate a memory I never
knew in a climate far transformed, 
but I can offer you this:
Close your eyes, hold your breath
Plunge beneath my surface
and feel the world stop; resurrect
to a melody of magnified voices

“Watch me, Mama!”s and “Marco!”
“Polo!”s and neighbors spotting
neighbors behind reflective
sunglasses then chatting, heads
bobbing above the surface, about
surgeries, school next year, and the
death of the woman who once watched

Your babies. I admit I’m full
of bandaids, disengaged, I’m
devoid of shade, I’m hardly enough
to save social capital, but I’m still
here, and when the sun dips
behind the trees, trust me, I can see 
the kids aren’t the only ones 
reluctant to leave

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If you are new here, the Conspire and Connect section offers a somatic or written prompt designed to bring you back to your body and help you connect to yourself and the world around you. Today’s is (big surprise) water-inspired.

1. You can do this standing, sitting, or lying down. Wherever you are, take a few breaths to feel the earth beneath you.

2. Imagine (you may not have to) that you are in a very hot climate, standing at the edge of a cool body of water with a shallow entry.

3. Come up with a word or short phrase that epitomizes the rest or relief you are hungry for. Some examples: It’s okay, I’m enough, All is calm, I’m free, etc.

4. Imagine that you are slowly stepping into the water, an inch or two at a time. It’s not shockingly cold, but refreshingly cool. With each step, repeat the word or phrase you came up with, and feel how that part of your body reacts to entering the water.

5. Progress from your feet to ankles to calves to knees and eventually all the way above your head. Take as long as you like at each step (no one is nagging you to Jump in, already!).

6. Notice how things feel when your whole body is “submerged.” Try it again as often as you like.

To close, I want to pay tribute to Andrea Gibson, the brilliant poet and fresh, juicy, mango of a human that passed away this week. I think their poetry is best absorbed when read aloud by the author, so look for videos. This one of Andrea reading “Love Letter from the Afterlife” to their wife, Meg, will probably wreck you.

With light, life, and love,

Devon

Camp Butt-in-Chair is four weekly live co-writing sessions designed to give you the accountability you need to work on something creative. In each session, we will spend one hour together connected via Zoom, but doing our own thing. We’ll do a brief check-in at the beginning and the end. Everything in service to your writing (or other creative endeavor) counts! Invite a friend! Add these dates and Zoom links to your calendar:

• Thursday June 5th at 10 AM EDT (Google / Outlook)

• Wednesday June 11th at 2 PM EDT (Google / Outlook)

• Tuesday June 17th at 2 PM EDT (Google / Outlook)

• Thursday June 26th at 10 AM EDT (Google / Outlook)

And now, this week’s poem…

To Catch a Break

I’ve tried twice to surf
and what I remember 
is the cold, the relentless
beating, never being
quick enough, always
timing it wrong–
I could never really
understand the draw.

And then I tried a new
career, and it, too, has me
caught in a tiresome
undertow, yanking 
me out to sea. Long 
waits, frigid rejections, 
reminders of my naïveté 
in the face of forces
awesome and fierce

Go back now, they say,
Lest you drown.

I could never really
understand the draw
and yet here I am, paddling
out against the current once again,
watching for signs:
signs like a new study that confirms
we were right, a word on the radio
to which I pump my fist
in delight

A book, leant between friends,
underlined on every page. I hover, horizontal,
toes in the water, 
messaging the women I admire, applauding
a sister who speaks up, widening one more crack in the system
that set us up to fail. It might not
be this wave
or the next, but 
I sense the revolution converging under my belly and I trust that when the moment is right–

it will carry me, too

Let’s breathe some courage into the revolution this week. Here’s your mission, should you choose to accept it:

• Keep an eye and ear out for people who are doing things you see as brave, or admirable, or aligned with your vision.

• Find a way to tell or show them that they’re not alone. This could look like:

  • A like, comment, share, or repost

  • A direct message, email, text, or voice message

  • A real-life note or mini gift

  • Recommending a book/article/podcast/song etc. to someone else

• Take a moment to relish how it feels when you support, shout out, and connect around something good in the world.

With light, life, and love,

Devon

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No Mow May

Dandelions and forget-me-nots pepper the yard.
Calf-length grass provides a friendly haven 
for ticks as well as the pollinators we purport 

to allure. Such unkempt patches remind me of the wiry 
grey at my temples, the zones that rarely see 
a razor, the piles of magazines next to the couch: 

books of trees-turned-treatises on how to 
improve, optimize, make myself ever-more 
marketable. But what does the pollinator care 

for property value? Aren’t dandelions, too, 
entitled to optimize? May, to me, buzzes with the sun-starved
hunger of the first t-shirt you can find, of sitting on 

porch furniture you haven’t yet wiped down, of wishing you
could text someone a scent snapshot of apple blossoms.
What other species of woman might thrive if

for one month a year, we let ourselves grow? Waited 
to make edits, all-too-tickled to hear the neighbors say,
Damn, she really let herself go

This week, try making a “Not To Do” list.

1. Make a list of some things you are going to leave undone. Ideally they are things you otherwise would have done or would have felt guilty about not doing.

2. Once a day, look back at your list. Add to it if you can. Notice the sensations in your body that come when you commit to letting go of something.

3. Pay attention to your resistance, too. Get curious about where it comes from. How can you hone the muscle of being comfortable with mess and imperfection?

With light, life, and love,

Devon

P.S. If anyone wants to workshop poems with me, or knows of a good place to do so, let me know. I’m just sending these things out into the ether, but I’d love to find a friendly feedback community. Thanks!