Morgan Loves You » Life is a spiritual practice. Love accordingly.

Tremendous faith in what may come.

There is a moment — it will happen in the grocery store, between the dry roasted peanuts and the nail polish.  The neon lights will be no brighter than they were a moment ago, but your eyes have softened.

For a moment, everyone is beautiful.  The way they always are: eighty-eight with varicose veins, or seventeen and not yet knowing the shape of one’s worth.

Grief will have a heavy hand on the heart, and yet — breath.  The veil will lift between what seems impossible to be without and the merciful map of it all: every landmark — of time, of longing, of not-yet and once-was — will show themselves on some delicate parchment paper in the mind, and the necessity of Grief will reveal herself: the way her grateful arms cradle the raw thing she is nurturing, singing flesh onto its bones, on a mountain top somewhere, or river-side.

This is how we can love the things: to trust their blessed placement, their need of us, their longing to be known as only we can know them — felt inside a faith so wide that no sigh is unwelcome.  No trembling hand goes unmet in this: such basic goodness in all things.

Goodness in the moments that carry us further, tick by tick, from the place where pain is freshest — each second a tiny torn fiber revealing new skin, some new sensitivity to touch, or a kiss, or a tender hand resting firmly on the belly.  There is eternity in these moments, in these fragments of time.  Each with their own precious DNA: the makings of a life, and choice — always choice.

What tremendous faith in what may come to do just this:

Be Here Now.

• • •


Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours.  Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands.  And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Don’t go too early.
You’re tired.  But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.


Galway Kinnel


Heart Medicine | Morgan Loves You



  • Jill - I watched Brene Brown’s talk on The Price of Invulnerability… and it made me think that not only are these moments of gratitude for the ordinary moments really important… but also the trust. Like you said, the trust of their placement… and equally important trusting ourselves to be vulnerable and to come out of it OK.

    Recently a child was killed in my town. It freaked out every single parent I know… because it hit us all in our vulnerability. Some parents really went crazy trying to protect everyone… but for me, when I cried, I cried that a woman lost her daughter… that she had been hit in her vulnerable place… and I cried that I was vulnerable and forever scared of bad things happening. But I also chose that moment to trust myself. Trust that… should I ever be in the horrible position of having to hold myself in that kind of vulnerability… that somehow… in ways I can’t imagine in this moment… that I would end up being OK.

    That was a powerful moment for me. And I believe it was a place where I began to believe in my strength in a new way. One I hope is never tested… but I do believe I have it. That is the gift of vulnerability.ReplyCancel

    • Morgan Wade - Jill, I remember a similar moment for myself: I was twenty-three. I was living overseas, in Ireland, when my mother and one of my older sisters were (within two days of one another) diagnosed with breast cancer. My mother insisted that I stay put, in Dublin, where I was living as an au pair. We were all really scared, but I remember a breaking moment, when, on the phone with my mother one day, I told her that I would be okay. That she had permission to live however she needed to live, whatever life — or death — required of her: I would love her, accept her, and it would be okay. I would survive.

      I thought it would kill her; I was terrified I’d break her heart. But she told me very simply and calmly, that this moment was exactly as she’d tried to raise me: to realize that, no matter what, I would be okay.

      Thank you for sharing, Jill. I’m so sorry your town has had to live in the terror of such a tragedy.ReplyCancel

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