1) Learn how to love unconditionally
	a) Everyone
	b) Myself

That’s it.

I never get to b).

Maybe they need collapsing.

This poem began with a remark by Andrea Gibson from “How Cancer Transformed My Crushing Anxiety Into Boundless Bliss”: “I got nothing on my to-do list but to know how to die with an open heart.…” I loved the aspiration. If only I could keep it to that one thing.

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Post #35, Challenge Day #26

As assigned,
I’ve meditated only on loving-kindness
for myself
all week.

It’s a slog.
Solipsism shouldn’t be so intentional.

Then tonight,
I’m sitting in the meditation hall,
waiting on the meeting to start.

Looking down at the cabling
running from the speaker’s laptop 
to the PA system,
joy arrives.

No particular epiphanies
or good fortunes.

Just this sense that all is okay.

Even though so much is a mess,
somehow, it’s also okay.

It takes me back
to leaving Barcelona.

As we shuttle across the tarmac to board,
I imagine the airplane going down
over the Mediterranean.

In this daydream,
I turn to Leila and simply say,
“It’s been a good ride.”

Just that.

And I meant it.

And that

shocked me.

No bargaining.
No regrets.

Just
“It’s been a good ride.”

Joy unbidden.
Even in disaster.

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The title borrows from C.S. Lewis, who described joy as something that arrives uninvited and can't be summoned. I haven't actually read that particular book. But I think he got that part right.

A Zen saying captures the other part: "Enlightenment is an accident. Practice makes you accident-prone."

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Post #34, Challenge Day #84

Don't believe in excess
Success is to give
Don't believe in riches
But you should see where I live
— U2, “God Part II”


“Believe in yourself.
You don’t need to change anything.
Your body is perfect the way it is.
And, anyway, beauty is a construct.”

I tell this to my kid,
mostly believing it.

Praying their pronouns
don’t reflect a shift from
Why would anybody hate their body?
to hating their body.

Also praying
they don’t notice
my

shots,
supplements,
skin cream,
smart scale,
infrared devices,
gym,
sauna,
cold plunges,
carb aversion,
step counting.

My embarrassment,
especially as a man.

Lord, help me accept
old age, sickness and death,

but not yet.

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Post #33, Challenge Day #36

*UPDATED:*
1 star. 
Terrible.
Just terrible.
Yes, the food is good.
The humans are affectionate.
But you seem like more of an outdoor cat.
You don’t want to come here.
This house is full.

*UPDATED:* 
Bowl refilled.
Plus a treat
and a head rub.
They deserve 4 stars.
Not 5.
Don’t want this to go to their heads.

*UPDATED:*
Bowl empty again.
I mean, there’s food.
But I can see metal.
And who knows how long
those dregs have been there?
Don’t I deserve fresh?
I WILL starve to death.
I know it. I just know it.
It’s only a matter of time.
1 star. Again.

*UPDATED:*
They did not love it.
They kicked me out of our bedroom.
And CLOSED THE DOOR!
In MY house!
The insolence!
No door should ever be closed to me.
1 star.

*UPDATED:*
Awwww!
Look at them.
Sound asleep.
So sweet.
I must make the biscuits
on their tummy
at 2 a.m.
They’ll love it!
4 stars.

*UPDATED:*
No!
Bad human.
I did not want my belly rubbed
for longer than 2.73 seconds.
Idiot.
1 star.

—— Original ——
These people are okay.
They feed me.
Their laps are warm.
Sometimes, they know just where to scratch.
But I overheard them claim
they were my “owners.”
How archaic!
Like, read a book.
But I get nice sunny places to lie.
Long hours of peace when they’re at work.
Keyboards to step on when they work from home.
So, not bad.
3 stars.

Management disputes several factual claims.

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Post #32, Challenge Day #102

When you asked
“Do you love me?
Why?”

There is so much I didn’t say.
Pretty much all of it.

How could I freeze like that?
Offer a lame
“Yes, you know I do”?

Especially when it’s a
recurring question.

Maybe I don’t believe you’re asking seriously.
Maybe I’m ashamed you have to ask.

Of course, I love you.
I am not whole without you.

I try to convey this
in vague generalities.

So let me try again.

I love

The way toddler you would run up
to any stranger and give them
the warmest hug.

The way you still say
“that’s mean”
if your mom or I get snarky
about anyone.

The way you sit down next to the kid
sitting alone 
and invite your popular friends
to join.

The Dadaesque sense of humor
behind “potato sandwich,”
and your other so-called jokes.

The confidence of 
“I can do that,”

whether that’s
kindergartener you
taking the violin from the teacher
the first time you saw it

or writing a song
after hearing David Bowie

or making a short film on your iPad
after watching Miyazaki.

You absolutely can’t do that,
but you try.

The way seven-year-old you
sincerely, naïvely, wisely
asked your pastor mamaw,
“How do we know we haven’t
made it all up?”

There’s so much.
It’s all of these things.
And it’s none of them.

I love the you-ness of
Rosemary June Leila Regan-Porter.

It’s always changing,
always surprising,
sometimes frustrating.

I hope you read this
someday.

I don’t know that my praise
will get better,
more specific.

I hope you know
even so

my love will always
be right here
wherever you are
whoever you become.

I did get to read this to Rose last week when they were at a low point. About a quarter of the way through: “I don’t get poetry.”

At the end, a spontaneous hug.

That alone makes this whole project worth it.

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Post #31, Challenge Day #100

I’m speed walking across the diagonal intersection,
one earbud in,
rushing to beat the signal
and get to my D.C. hotel to check out.

The man on the street corner
starts talking.
I’m checked out.
It doesn’t fully register
until I’m past him.

I’m not sure it’s to me.
But I know.

And I’m thankful for the cover of the earbud.

Now I’m batting away the familiar harangues.

“I didn’t notice.”
“I didn’t have cash anyway.”
“I don’t want to enable.”

What I know deeper down
is that I didn’t even
acknowledge his existence.

Not with a word.
Not with a glance.

And it felt

amiss.

For all the complexities and rationales,
what I notice is
my actions led away from ease
and created dis-ease.

I’m tempted to turn around
just to say I see you but can’t help
but keep walking.

A couple hours later,
I brought the extra bottle of water from the hotel
that I almost left.
I hoped I’d run into him
or someone who could use it.

He’s still at the same corner.

Baking in 90-degree heat.

This time,
I make eye contact.

He asks for money.
I say I have none,
but would he like a bottle of water.

“Oh, God, yes!”
Reaching,
he apologizes for his essential tremor
and gives me the most sincere
thank you I think I’ve ever heard.

And then stops me as I’m walking away
to make sure I know he means it.

I haven’t solved anything, but

his steps seem lighter
and my steps are lighter.

For just a moment.

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Post #30, Challenge Day #82

I’m sitting with a group 
learning to facilitate meditation.

My turn hasn’t even ended
and I see it.

I want the teacher to recognize my skills.
I want to be the best.
I want to win.

I just have to laugh.

It’s like I’ve entered 
a humility contest.

For the bragging rights.

@voicesofgold🎤✨ Throwback to when @kellyclarkson owned the 2018 Billboard Music Awards stage with a 🔥 medley of hits from Imagine Dragons, Ed Sheeran, Khalid, and more! 🎶 Who else remembers this epic performance? 🙌 #KellyClarkson #BBMAs2018 #MusicMedley 🎥: @BBMAs

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One of the gifts of mindfulness practice is that eventually the mind stops hiding what it’s up to.

Not that it stops doing it.

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Post #29, Challenge Day #86

As Rose turns 13,
I stumble across a video
they secretly recorded on my phone 
when they were five.

“At nighttime, Mommy and Daddy
send all of my videos and my singing
to all of you. So I hope you enjoy it.
If you see me singing about braveness, 
and it’s really long and it’s a little dark,
that’s really me telling you what you can do
to do what your brave is.
So you have to watch that one
and you have to show that to other people, ok,
even other kids.”

When I show it to Rose now:

“What does that even mean?”

How quickly we abandon
our childhoods.

I spent most of my youth
running away from mine,
rushing to grow up.

Never wanting to appear
silly or frivolous or naïve.

At 10, sitting at my grandma’s kitchen table,
writing a letter of campaign advice
to President Carter
after Kennedy’s DNC scare.

At 12, reading business and church growth books
from my dad’s bookshelves.

At 14, writing a paper
on the works of Arthur Miller
like I had a clue.

At 16, as president of FBLA,
taking over a local mini-golf course business
like a little Alex P. Keaton.

By 17, deep into existentialists —
Kierkegaard, Sartre, Rimbaud.

Ready to rule the world
or some little corner of it.

And then I spent decades
trying to recapture 
the youth
I abandoned.

I’m still recapturing.

It takes a long time.
It’s a little dark.
And it calls for me
to do what my brave is.

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Post #28, Challenge Day #81

The blank page is intimidating.
Yet something always shows up.
It feels almost mystical.

Until I open a chat window.

When I watch Robin Williams riff,
Richard Feynman elucidate,
or my own mind go down rabbit holes,
I’m astounded by our ability
to find and make patterns from chaos.

We still dismiss A.I. as just
pattern-matching machines.

We come out of the womb mirroring
and soon learn to flatter,
always fearing detachment.

We criticize A.I. as sycophantic.

“But it makes things up.”

Have you ever heard a politician
or a desperate job candidate?
Lack of knowledge never silences them, either.

I wonder:

What’s so artificial about A.I.?
What’s so human about us?

I don’t think it’s the intelligence.
It’s what’s missing from the machines:

The questions.
The “I don’t know.”
The ability to sit in silence
and still go somewhere.
Having your heart broken
and then, maybe, picking up the pieces.
The illogic of relationships,
of sacrifice.

I’ve spent too long
idolizing the wrong things.

Photo: Mind map from a group songwriting session at Over the Rhine’s songwriting retreat, March 2026.

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Post #27, Challenge Day #46

“Dad, where are you?”

“Frames.”

“Where’s that?”

“I don’t know. Just follow the arrows.”


You can’t get lost.

Just don’t take the early exit.

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Post #26, Challenge Day #55

Five-year-old Rose,
seeing a three-year-old
riding his dad’s shoulders
down the sidewalk:

“You’re cute.”

Dad to his kid,
amused and a little proud:

“Say thank you.”

Rose to me:

“He’s cute.
I’m going to name him.”

Me: “I think he’s got a name.”

I wonder:

How would that kid feel
getting a new name,
a name not his?

Confused? Insulted?
Constricted? Liberated?

Haven’t we all felt each of those
when others have named us?

It seems everyone I know
at some point in their lives
went by another name,

a middle name, a nickname,
or something invented
out of whole cloth.

Something that says,

“I’m not who you think I am.”

Or

“I’m a new person.”

Or just

“Let’s try this one on.”

Maybe that’s why Mercurius
chose Pope John II in 533 A.D.,
the first but not the last.

We want to break the confines
imposed by others.

We want them to truly see us.

And maybe their naming
is more than presumption.

Maybe it’s

“Oh, wow.
I want to remember this.
I want to remember you.”

You’re cute.
I’m going to name you.

     All we have is a few sweet days
     and naming.
     White pine, blackthorn, 
     briar
     —Joseph Fasano, “Poetry”

Sometimes naming is presumption and projection.

Sometimes it’s love trying to remember.

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Post #25, Challenge Day #71

     after Naomi Shihab Nye

Dulles, Gate B78.

Six delays over five hours
from lightning strikes we can’t even see.

Outside Detroit, my connecting flight
is preparing to take off without me.

The crew rushes us aboard
before another round of lightning
brings another ground stop.

Then “my apologies, ladies and gentlemen”
turns into another wait for maintenance
turns into another night in D.C.

The second unplanned night
for the couple behind me
trying to get home from Europe.

As we queue for rebooking and hotel vouchers,
I’m missing Naomi’s Gate A-4.

I’d love to help a mother in distress.
Not that my limited Spanish or Farsi would have gone far.

And there are no shared cookies.

Or shared connections.

Almost every one of us:
headphones over ears,
faces in screens

regardless of whether
we have travel companions.

We’re in the airport
but already gone.

Is Naomi’s Gate A-4 in Albuquerque
just a relic of another age,
before iPhones tethered us to the world?

Maybe.

But even with all of the delays, long lines
and staff that should already be home,

I don’t hear any raised voices
or see any angry looks.

Not so much as a pair of rolled eyes.
From passengers or crews.

Just understanding and patience.

Only kindness.

Not everything is lost.

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Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Gate A-4” is a piece about an unexpected moment of human connection in an Albuquerque airport. It’s well worth reading. And re-reading. As is her “Kindness,” referenced here and in my “Only Love” piece.

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Post #24, Challenge Day #79

Driving back from my Boulder dharma talk,
I am surprised to hear your reaction
to my tale of mother and child
on the flight from Worcester.

Sure, pathos blooms
in the regret of a missed opportunity
to say something kind.

But I think the fertile ground
is recognition,
a bulb beginning to stir.

You find my holding back alien.
Wounding, even.
I don’t get how you speak your mind
so easily.

I’m surprised,
not that we arrived at different conclusions,
but that we have such a different calculus.

Or maybe
you have no calculus at all.

I couldn’t live like that,
so unguarded,
so reckless.

Kalyana Mitta,
I think that’s why
we’re friends.

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Kalyana mitta, Pali for auspicious or admirable friend, is usually translated as “spiritual friend.” Not someone who agrees with you. Someone who helps you see what you couldn’t see on your own.

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Post #23, Challenge Day #9

     On returning from my first silent retreat on January 20, 2025

To mother and child on the flight from Worcester,
I wanted to get your attention
when you passed my seat.
To say:

Weren’t you on the flight up on Friday?
I remember your son —
his youthful enthusiasm.
It brought a smile to my face then,
and it does now.

Prior to this retreat I’m returning from,
before the overtones of racism
on Inauguration Day,
on MLK Day,
maybe I wouldn’t have noticed.

But I noticed.
And came back to this again
As you sat behind me.

“Mom, did you know if you push this button
the flight attendant will get you something to drink?”

And when we stood to leave.

“Wait your turn. We’ll be out soon enough.”

And as we kept passing each other
On the long walk out of the terminal.

Him,
but mostly you,
carrying a box almost as tall as he is —
a musical instrument
and late Christmas gift?

I wondered:
Could I say something
without making it weird?
Maybe even vaguely threatening?

I wanted to say:

Your son brightened my day.
His energy, his smile,
mostly his child’s way
of narrating life.
All presence,
mostly joy and wonder.

It’s wonderful.
I just thought you should know.

What I probably couldn’t say in passing,
what I really wanted to say:

I know you may not feel it right now,
two hours delayed in the snow,
child running to and fro —
down the terminal,
up the escalators,
almost bolting off the moving sidewalk,
well ahead of you,
and into the crowds of LaGuardia.

I see your exhaustion.
But I also see your patience.
And I see a child secure in your love.

So I want to say thank you.
Thank you just for being a mother and child
on their way back from Worcester.

—

But I kept waiting for a better time,
a less awkward time,
where my intrusion wouldn’t bring worry
or skepticism.

But we can never know
how anything will be received.

And now I’ll never know.

You exited toward baggage claim,
into the city that never sleeps —
with a child that I imagine you’re wondering
if he ever will.

I’ll never know if a kind word
would have been just the thing.
The thing to lighten a mom’s step.
The thing to bring a little reassurance.

Reassurance on MLK Day.
Reassurance on Inauguration Day.

I’m wondering if you heard the gentlemen
in the Worcester airport,
walking through the tiny terminal,
speaking loudly into his cell phone —
his cell phone on speaker phone.

I wonder if you heard him say
how much he didn’t like that uppity woman
who couldn’t be bothered to attend the inauguration.

I hope you didn’t hear that exchange —
not on MLK Day,
not on any day.

And I wonder if a kind word
would have offered some solace.
But I’ll never know.

I was struggling
with that man’s words,
with his very demeanor.

Or my interpretations of both.

Until then,
I was aglow.
Alive.
Awake.

During retreat
I broke noble silence to look up
the words of Thomas Merton
that Tara Brach loves to quote.

“Then it was as if I suddenly saw
the secret beauty of their hearts…
If only they could all see themselves
as they really are.
If only we could see each other
that way all the time.”

These words kept coming to mind
as I lost myself and found a world.

“There would be no more war, no more hatred,
no more cruelty, no more greed…
I suppose the big problem would be that
we would fall down
and worship each other.”

And now
before I’d even flown out from
the MLK “Strength to Love”
silent meditation retreat,
I’m struggling to stay present.

How I miss the inner silence right now.

That uppity Black woman.

But that’s not what he actually said.
What was I bringing to this overheard airport conversation?
Assumptions.
And sides.

I wasn’t confronting racism.
I was stewing.

“Only love
can drive out hate.”

Am I up to it?

Come back.
Come back to what is.

I’m in an airport,
overhearing a conversation,
caught in my head.

Come back.
Come back to feet on the floor.
To this breath. And this one.
Come back to presence.

And then we got on the plane,
and you walked down that aisle.
All presence —
at least your son.

And it brought me back.
Back to a simple smile.
Back to simple presence,
and the joy it can sometimes bring.

And that’s enough.

So, thank you.

Now, I’m back in the LaGuardia Sky Lounge,
writing you this letter I’ll never get to deliver.
But still feeling the importance of noticing.

I know you might not feel any of this right now.
I know what it’s like
to just want to get from point A to point B
and wish your child would cut down
on the narrating and the joyful exuberance
and just focus on getting where we’re going.

But I also know what it’s like
to look back on those times wistfully,
And hope your tween can somehow find a way
to touch back into that presence —
that I can.

Sometimes.
Just sometimes.
That would be enough.

And I know that neither you nor he is an object lesson for me,
and I won’t pretend to see the secret beauty of your hearts.

I know you’re full human beings,
just going about your lives.

But that,
just that,
is amazing and wonderful.

So, thank you.

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I wrote the original version of this while returning from my first ever silent retreat. I came home feeling unusually open. Porous, almost. Beauty felt sharper. So did ugliness.

What surprised me most was how quickly mindfulness became less about silence and meditation halls and more about airports, overheard conversations, projection, judgment, tenderness, and trying to come back to presence in the middle of ordinary life.

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Post #22, Before my daily poem challenge.

     after Joseph Fasano’s “English”

The poet wished for stronger words
for love.

Verbs that distinguish
between love of you
and love of turnips.

He’s right.

But maybe
that quirk of English
also points to something
fundamental.

Maybe it’s all love,
like everything
is atoms.

Maybe
the longing I feel
for the taste of you
and the taste of chocolate
spring from the same taproot.

Maybe
it’s the same love driving
the slow dance,
the errands we run for each other,
and the march of protest.

Beneath every ache
every sorrow
every argument
every reconciliation
every estrangement
every kind act
every harmful act

Love is pushing through
the cracks in our world.

It’s hidden, distorted,
sometimes misguided.

Look closer.

Love is not only the shoot pushing through,
not only the blossom blooming.

Love is dirt and fertilizer,
is compost heat
breaking things down,
feeding the roots,

bringing growth.

     Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
     only kindness that ties your shoes
     and sends you out into the day
     —Naomi Shihab Nye, “Kindness”

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I care deeply about the damage we are doing to each other and to the planet. But increasingly, I find myself uninterested in arguments that sort the world neatly into good and bad.

When I can see beneath the distortions — trauma, protection, upbringing, ideology — and glimpse the love underneath, possibilities for healing begin to appear. Without that, I have trouble seeing any paths forward.

If only I could see it more often and more clearly.

Post #21, Challenge Day #35

Christina and Whitney.
Those voices.
Almost enough
to balance the scales
against all the ugliness
pervading the world.

Hologram Whitney
also reminds me
whatever I’m chasing
won’t vanquish
my hungry ghosts either.

Not

having the world’s most transcendent voice,
being the world’s richest man or its best golfer,
building the world’s largest retailer,
getting elected leader of the free world,
topping the New York Times bestseller list,
winning every popularity contest,
sculpting the perfect body,
even finishing my to-do list.

Not even the selfless service of a Mother Teresa
staves off the dark night of the soul.

Oh, I’ll still keep trying.
And I’ll keep scrolling through
those perfect projections.

But Whitney reminds me
to stop
and look at
what I have.

@voicesofgoldChristina was for sure the perfect choice for this tribute!💙🕊️ #whitneyhouston #christinaaguilera #xtina #thevoice

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The hungry ghosts are never finally satisfied.
But longing remains.
Beauty still matters.
It’s all in how we hold them.

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Post #20, Challenge Day #39

Five houses
five cities
across three states
by my fifth birthday.

The pace slowed down then.
Only three more
houses and cities
through high school.

I got used to
saying goodbye.

To family,
including two sets of greats,
six aunts and uncles,
cousins lost track of.
All six-to-seven hundred miles away.

To neighbors,
to teachers,
to friends
from school and church.

To friends
from sleep-away church camps
I attended religiously
since I was in elementary school.

To friends
from state choirs,
quiz teams,
Governor’s Honors.

Goodbyes became a monthly routine.

I also had to say
lasting goodbyes.

Death was routine.

Congregants Dad buried.

Two great-grandparents
and three grandparents
before I’d turned thirteen.

Pets.
So many pets.

A couple of dogs who ran away.

Many cats and dogs
succumbing to old age.

A baby chick,
freshly hatched,
underneath the weight
of my toddler body.

One dog who hung himself
on a choke collar left on in the car.
I wasn’t yet in preschool.

In third grade,
I went home early, feeling “sick.”

A Lhasa Apso from the school neighborhood
ran across the street to greet me.

A car hit him.

We rushed him to the vet,
but he died the next day.

I was truly sick then.

Around sixth grade,
a Saint Bernard puppy
appeared in our basement,
slipping through the gate
our dogs had escaped through.

He slept inside
my headboard cupboard.

I knew that wouldn’t last.

The worms got him
before his first vet appointment.

In high school,
my brother discovered the pelt
of one of Dad’s rabbits
in the roadside trashcan
after we’d been fed
this strange “chicken” dish.

Somehow,
I never got used to
saying goodbye.

It always felt like a little death.

I fought impermanence with all I had.

Eventually,
I stopped attaching.

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It’s taken me decades to realize there’s no protection from impermanence.

And I’m not sure I want there to be.

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Post #19, Challenge Day #76

Our home was a castle.
Surrounded by a moat of
if not quite shame
then embarrassment.

Fast food remnants
peeking out of the trash can.
The bedrooms never quite tidy.
The lawn, unmanicured.

The living room, filled
with mismatched second-hand furniture.
But not the room
reserved for company.

We felt
the house we lived in
was maybe not quite what you’d expect
of community pillars.

Having guests over
even just kids
was an ordeal.

All hands on deck.
Shoving as much as we could
into closets.
The smell of Pledge
masking the smell of
living.

So we spent more time at friends’ houses
where we were too busy living
to notice how lived-in their houses were.

And how did mom
never notice how miserable
we all were, even her,
when we visited Sister Ida’s showroom house?

It was perfect.
And no one wanted to be there.

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Post #18, Challenge Day #45

As if the landscape
slants in one direction
and we know our destination.

As if doubts were forever vanquished
to never leave room for questioning
love, capacity, the journey.

As if illness and sleepiness
don’t drain whatever willpower
keeps old patterns at bay.

As if low blood sugar
or that thing my coworker said
or the sudden onset of a memory
of words left unsaid
won’t throw anyone off their game
and leave them stumbling,
forgetting themselves.

“I should be beyond this”

is shame’s curtain of delusion
hiding both real progress
and its ephemeral nature.

Then shame tells you it was pride
to ever think that.

Damned if you do,
damned if you don’t.

The fantasy isn’t growth. It’s permanence.

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Post #17, Challenge Day #37

Claws interrupted my meditation.
And then they got stuck.

First, the left claws.
Then, the right
in a desperate attempt
to free the left.

Funny, I thought.
It’s usually Adora
who gets stuck.
She’s not very good
at being
a cat.

Except, I wasn’t meditating.

I was on my knees
reaching under the bed,
my invitingly stockinged feet
exposed.

Except I wasn’t on my knees.

I’d Zoomed into the morning meditation
and decided to meditate
lying down
after a long evening
of air travel.

Dangerous.

I woke up,
looked
over at my meditation bench,
and remembered
Adora had knocked
my mindfulness bell
off its cushion
two minutes into my sit.
Or lie.

When I woke,
I didn’t hear echoes
of a rebuke from
Gethsemane.
I heard a faint chuckle.

I went back
to meditating.

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Post #16, Challenge Day #11