The following is a poem submitted to us after one of our Anchor Workshops with Kai Cheng Thom. The theme we explored as a community inside the workshop was "Expanding our window of transformation" participants were invited to explore a relational conversation with exiled parts of themselves. The polarities present within was our material.

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And out of it, came this beautiful poem. Thank you Sam for being willing to share with us and our broader audience.

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_{To Messy Sam:}

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Hello, my messy, chaotic, big feeling self,

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I needed you, even if I didn’t realize it, at first.

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We came so close to death I could taste it — we could taste it, couldn’t we?

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So you embodied the tornado that, had it overtaken us, surely would’ve left only the dust of us.

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You couldn’t let us die. And how could I not love you for that?

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When the universe asked us to sink or swim, you became a roaring tsunami.

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When the universe asked us to rise or die, you became the edges of the atmosphere.

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Your radical spirit refused to be swallowed. Refused to be pulverized. Refused to be diminished.

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You felt into every edge of our torment and would not go silently.

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You said, I can be as big as this. I can be as much as this.

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You made visible what threatened to erase us.

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I don’t know that I understood your courage, because if I did, I would have to accept your grief.

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It is easier to be repulsed by you than be shocked by the pain that disfigured you.

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It is easier to disown the wound than confront the weapon.

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It is easier to call you ugly than hold the helplessness that broke you.

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It is easier to abandon you than to surrender to the powerlessness that you felt.

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That we felt.

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What would it mean to reclaim you?

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You slammed doors because no one heard you leave, yet you knew your absence mattered.

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You cried out because no one saw your pain, yet you knew your pain was important.

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And here I am… afraid to hear and see you.

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What a radical act of hope, of aliveness, to refuse to be unseen and unheard.

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I owe you my life, and yet I am afraid to lock eyes with you.

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I owe you my light, and yet I am afraid to welcome you home.

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I am you, and yet I am still trying not to be.

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You are strong and brash and gorgeous and truthful, yet I approach you as a liability.

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The gift inherent in your truth is that your pain — my pain — our pain — deserves to be witnessed.

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“If the earth does not tremble as we die… maybe it fucking should.”

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