Beacon Sounds

Bookshelf

I poured my heart into a song
Just like a little cup
The memory might stay with you
Until you give it up

I keep it on a bookshelf
In a corner far away
from life and all its purposes
From the movements of the day

Next to Dickinson’s little bird
Next to paths in snowy wood
Van Gogh painted cypress trees
Like no other painter could

I wrote it on a Saturday
all quiet and serene
When clarity was calling me
From spaces in between

This work can surely move me
Make me feel so light and free
It might be forgettable to you
Yet it means the world to me

I offer you this moment
drink a lot or just a sip
A gesture just as simple
As the smile upon my lips

So come on back and find me
Any night at half-past ten
The words, rhymes and melodies
Will be waiting once again

In the corner of my bookshelf
The little cup is not so small
It holds the sandy weight of time
and feathers when they fall

I poured my heart into a song
Just like a little cup
The memory might stay with you
Until you give it up

*

I was thinking about the nature of kindness. Imagine if you reached for a doorknob and your hand continued through the door to the other side, as if it was not there… this is one way to see the power and strength of kindness, with its ability to go through any obstacle.

We are convinced that obstacles are real, when if we look a little deeper, and try to understand more, we discover something else.

There’s a way kindness moves
that most of us overlook.

It doesn’t fight obstacles.
It doesn’t argue with them.

It meets them…
and something changes.

Imagine reaching for a door
expecting resistance—
and instead, your hand passes through.

Not because the door isn’t there,
but because something in you
is no longer defined by it.

We spend so much energy
proving what’s in front of us is solid—
the problem, the tension, the distance.

But kindness has a different intelligence.

It doesn’t push harder.
It doesn’t force outcomes.

It sees more.

And in that seeing,
what felt immovable
begins to shift.

Not always outwardly, right away—
but inwardly, where everything begins.

*