Maybe this

Maybe this

will be the year
I do it all       finally let
the cult of productivity, 
the myth that I control     
anything       slough off
like dead skin. 

Maybe this will be the year
my ears tune out       shrill frequencies
of fear and control,
urgent wailing       of algorithms
and bend instead
to my heart’s       own rhythm. 

Maybe this will be the year
I become       uncivilized,
live in the wilderness
of my limbs,
viscera       blood       The year I
traverse       the wild chasms
of shared       sentience.    

Photo by Alexander Sinn on Unsplash

The Prompt

By this point in my life, I have been compelled to confront (many times over) my own humanness, my finitude, my limitations. I am neither perfect nor perfectable, but I was raised on a myth of perfectability—the notion that everything short of perfection is “sin” and that the ultimate (and ultimately achievable) goal is to become perfect and, once that box is checked, to become elevated to godhood myself (or rather, to become one of the wives of a god). Mormon theology is hardly mainstream, but constant striving for perfection is. The roots of this extend beyond religion. Capitalism loves our sense of not-enoughness. It loves to tell us how to fix ourselves, and the answer will always be some combination of work harder and buy more stuff.

I know all this. I’ve seen through it many times over. And I’ve seen how quickly, both in the culture and within my own mind, the ideal of productivity swoops in to take the place of its debunked cousin, perfection. But even knowing this and seeing this, I catch myself swept back into its stream—imagining that doing laundry is somehow more noble than sitting down to watch a movie or imagining that some higher power is softly shaking their head over the fact that I still haven’t finished this or that project. (My internalized deity doesn’t throw fire or brimstone, but man oh man, his disappointed look will make you wither.)

Maybe your feelings about the cult of productivity are similar to mine. Maybe not. But surely there is some belief or value or myth that you’ve inherited from the culture that you don’t totally buy into anymore. If you’d like a prompt to play with today, then I invite you to take some time to notice where your own deepest beliefs and values depart from the beliefs and values of the culture you were raised in or the culture that surrounds you now.

Can you trace the history of how your beliefs and values shifted? What shook those ingrained stories loose? Trauma? Education? Humor? A mentor? The slow magic of time?

Among the old stories/myths/values that you no longer fully believe, is there one that still reaches up and trips you? Is there one that you see through but then must see through again and again and again because its pull is powerful or pervasive? How do you catch yourself in this moment of falling? What brings you back to your own deeper sense of truth?

As you ponder all this, memories, images, stories, or metaphors may rise to the surface. Welcome them. Let them move your pen across the paper. See what emerges. Notice what sits below the words, not quite ready to surface on the page but is still alive as part of your process. (Or maybe your process is part of it?) I like to think that the poem isn’t just the words you write down and possibly choose to share. The poem is the writing itself. The poem is what you can’t write. The poem is the sitting in experience, letting it speak to you in its own strange tongue.

I look forward to hearing from you friends—whether in the form of comments or poems of your own! I am so grateful that I get to live into this year together with you.

P.S. In case anyone missed this update from a previous post: 100 Poems began as my own personal project to write and share 100 Poems in 2024. And I did it! We did it. This community has been such a source of inspiration, joy, fun, and support, and I am grateful to each of you. Now that we’re beginning a new year, my plans for this Substack have changed a little, and I’ll posting once a week rather than twice. So you’ll get 52 poems and prompts from me this year, plus maybe a midweek extra here or there.

P.P.S. If you value what’s happening here and have a little cash to spare, then please consider upgrading to a paid subscription to support this work. At this point, nothing is paywalled, which means there is no reason on earth why you have to upgrade . . . which means that every time someone does, I feel like I’ve been wrapped in an incredible and unexpected hug from someone dear. Thank you to you dears. You know who you are. ❤️