Tag: kindness

making yourself at home…

I guess it’s not surprising that this poem appeals to me so much, living as I am in a new place with no contacts. The poem’s been sitting on my desktop for weeks, waiting for when the internet was plumbed in and the stars aligned and I was ready to think about writing. So here it is: ‘The Aunty Poem‘ by Mohja Kahf.

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come, poor Jackself

My therapy practice would be a lot less busy if people really knew how right it is to be self-compassionate. So many of us can pay lip service to the notion of “put on your own oxygen mask first” while not truly believing it’s “allowed” or, actually, the long-term more altruistic thing to do (in that it helps you keep in a fit state to support others). So I love this poem—a recent discovery—which expresses that sense of unease about kindness to self. Here’s James Crews’ ‘Self-Compassion‘.

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making the most of it

This week’s poem brought a soft smile to my face. It has a delightful quality of warmth and tenderness, and is such a good reminder of making the most of what we have—not in a Brownie-Guide Come on, girls, no moping! style, but in a much more palatable, seeing what is, not just what isn’t sort of a way. Enjoy ‘Happiness‘ by Wesley McNair.

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yes, please

Something to move and comfort us today, a poem nourishing and everyday-special as homemade soup. Naomi Shihab Nye’s ‘Kindness’ actually mentions soup, but her poem is not the ‘weakened broth’ to which it refers. No, this is a complete meal. It’s tender and wise and lives up to its name. You can read it here or hear the poet read it here.

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what did I know, what did I know…?

It’s a time of year when, in the West at least, we’re surrounded by images of families: usually shiny-haired and smiling ones, deployed in warm-jumpered rows on bouncy new sofas (“delivered in time for Christmas”) and sharing some ecstatic experience of shopping, gaming or no ordinary food. But it’s a poem about the ordinary extraordinariness of love which has been very much in my mind, in the last week or so, and not just because it’s cold. Here it is: Robert Hayden’s ‘Those Winter Sundays‘. (You can hear the poet himself read it here.)

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