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A Certain Weariness

A Certain Weariness 

By Pablo Neruda

 

I don't want to be tired alone, 

I want you to grow tired along with me. 

How can we not be weary 

of the kind of fine ash 

which falls on cities in autumn, 

something which doesn't quite burn, 

which collects in jackets 

and little by little settles, 

discoloring the heart. 

 

I'm tired of the harsh sea 

and the mysterious earth. 

I'm tired of chickens 

we never know what they think, 

and they look at us with dry eyes 

as though we were unimportant. 

 

Let us for once - I invite you - 

be tired of so many things, 

of awful aperitifs, 

of a good education. 

 

Tired of not going to France, 

tired of at least one or two days in the week 

which have always the same names 

like dishes on the table, 

and of getting up-what for? 

and going to bed without glory. 

 

Let us finally tell the truth: 

we never thought much 

of these days 

that are like houseflies or camels. 

 

I have seen some monuments 

raised to titans, 

to donkeys of industry. 

They're there, motionless, 

with their swords in their hands 

on their gloomy horses. 

I'm tired of statues. 

Enough of all that stone. 

 

If we go on filling up 

the world with still things, 

how can the living live? 

 

I am tired of remembering. 

 

I want men, when they're born, 

to breathe in naked flowers, 

fresh soil, pure fire, 

not just what everyone breathes. 

 

Leave the newborn in peace! 

Leave room for them to live! 

Don't think for them, 

don't read them the same book; 

let them discover the dawn 

and name their own kisses. 

 

I want you to be weary with me 

of all that is already well done, 

of all that ages us. 

 

Of all that lies in wait 

to wear out other people. 

Let us be weary of what kills 

and of what doesn't want to die. 

 

 

About the Poem

 

Pablo Neruda’s poem “A Certain Weariness” (original Spanish title: “Cansancio”) is a brief yet profound meditation on the nature of human fatigue—not just physical tiredness, but an existential weariness that creeps in when one confronts the ceaseless demands of life, selfhood, and time. The tone is introspective and slightly melancholic. It is not a dramatic despair but a soft, measured surrender to a moment of emotional depletion. The poem’s mood is quiet, tender, and philosophical—more reflective than sorrowful.

 

Neruda expresses a feeling that goes beyond ordinary tiredness. It is the soul’s fatigue—the weariness that stems from the need to perform, to act, to continually be someone in the world. There is an underlying longing for retreat, even erasure—just to stop doing and being for a while. This is a subtle nod toward the idea of non-being or nothingness, not as despair but as relief. In being always himself, the speaker feels alienated—trapped in his own name, his own presence, his own continuity. This can be interpreted as a critique of the burdens of self-consciousness and identity.

 

Pablo Neruda often wrote poems about love, politics, nature, and death, but he also explored solitude and alienation with great lyrical depth. In “A Certain Weariness,” he enters a deeply private space—a confession of burnout and disconnection. It reflects the same existential concerns found in poets like Rilke or even Camus, where consciousness itself becomes exhausting.

 

“A Certain Weariness” is not merely about being tired—it’s about being overwhelmed by the sheer weight of existing. In it, Neruda captures a universally human moment: when the performance of life feels too heavy, and all one wants is to dissolve for a while into silence, into stillness, into the unknown.

 

 

About the Poet

 

Pablo Neruda, born Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto on July 12, 1904, in Parral, Chile, was one of the most influential and beloved poets of the 20th century. Writing with extraordinary lyricism and political passion, Neruda’s work spanned love, politics, nature, and the human condition—imbued always with a deep sense of sensuality and moral conviction.

 

Neruda began publishing poetry in his teens, adopting the pen name Pablo Neruda—partly to avoid conflict with his father, who disapproved of his literary ambitions. His breakout collection, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair(1924), written while he was still a young man, gained international acclaim for its raw intimacy and bold eroticism. From these early romantic verses, his poetry evolved into more politically charged and surrealist work, particularly after his experiences as a diplomat and his travels in Asia and Europe.

 

A committed Marxist, Neruda served as a Chilean consul in several countries and later became a Senator for the Chilean Communist Party. His political activism—particularly his support of the Spanish Republicans during the Spanish Civil War and his criticism of fascism and imperialism—heavily shaped his later poetry, including the monumental Canto General (1950), a sweeping epic chronicling Latin America’s history and identity.

 

Despite political persecution that forced him into hiding and exile, Neruda remained a cultural icon in Chile and abroad. In 1971, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, honored as a poet “who brings alive a continent’s destiny and dreams.”

 

Neruda died on September 23, 1973, just days after the military coup in Chile led by Augusto Pinochet. Though officially attributed to cancer, his death remains the subject of ongoing investigation and speculation due to possible foul play.

 

Today, Pablo Neruda is remembered not only as a literary giant but as a man who lived at the intersection of beauty and resistance—his words as likely to speak of a lover’s body as of a people’s struggle. His legacy endures in the verses that continue to move hearts across languages and generations.

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Immersed, Absorbed, Preoccupied…Obsessed?

I did not sleep well last night. I began working yesterday, when I had other things to do, on a project I had started weeks ago. I became totally engrossed in what I was creating that I kept tweaking it. I kept thinking, “I’ll finish this part and stop for the day,” only for more ideas to formulate in my mind that had to be added immediately before I forgot. I thought I’d finished it last night, but as I couldn’t stop thinking about the project and wanting to add more. I jotted down more notes for what needed to be added. Finally, I forced my mind to quiet and allow me to get some sleep. 

It’s rare that I get so preoccupied with a project. Usually, it only happens when I’m working on a class preparing a lecture or a particular blog post. This was different. This was a project for me. I’ll share the final project with a few special people in my life, but I’m not ready to finish it yet. There’s still more to do, but I have to work today. I have papers to grade, classes s to prepare for, and what seems like a dozen other things I put off yesterday.

Do you ever get absorbed by something to the point it becomes an obsession?

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Carrying the Cross as We Are

And he said to all, "If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it."

-Luke 9:23-24

These words of Jesus are both challenging and deeply comforting. He doesn’t invite us into an easy life or a shallow version of discipleship. He calls us into a life of daily surrender, of intentional self-denial, and of wholehearted following. Notice the word “daily.” This isn’t a one-time event or a mountaintop moment—it’s a consistent, everyday decision to lay down our own agendas, desires, and pride in order to walk in step with Christ. Matthew 16:25, a direct parallel to Luke 9:24, emphasizes the paradox of true life in surrender, saying, “For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

Jesus’ words here in Luke and Matthew are radical, and they are for everyone. When Jesus says in Luke, “If anyone would come after me…” there are no exceptions or footnotes. This invitation includes us, as we are—fully LGBTQ+, fully beloved, fully called. In Romans 8:38–39, Paul says, “For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” To know this should be a deeply comforting assurance that God’s love is unshakable—no matter what others say.

The “cross” we are called to bear is not merely a symbol of hardship—it represents a path of sacrificial love and obedience. Galatians 2:20 says, “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” In Jesus’ day, the cross was an instrument of death, and so this invitation is radical: to die and be reborn through baptism is to do so that we may truly live.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, the idea of “denying self” has been used wrongly, sometimes as a weapon. But Jesus isn’t calling us to deny who we are, who He created us to be. God promises a personal, affirming promise that speaks to identity and belonging in Isaiah 43:1, “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” He’s not asking us to deny our identity, our love, our truth. He’s asking us, like all His followers, to deny the parts of all our selves that pull us away from love, grace, and trust in Him—things like pride, fear, bitterness, or the temptation to conform to the world’s rejection.

In a world that urges us to seek our own happiness and preserve our own lives, Jesus turns that message upside down. True life, He says, comes through surrender. In Romans 12:1, Paul tells us, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” Paradoxically, when we lose ourselves in Him—our rights, our plans, our self-will—we find a richer, eternal life in return.

Taking up our cross may already be familiar. Perhaps you’ve carried the weight of being misunderstood by your church, judged by others, or even wrestling with God over your place in the Body of Christ, but in John 10:10, Jesus says, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” Here’s the beauty: Jesus sees the burdens we carry, and still, He calls us to follow Him, not in shame, but in freedom. The cross we carry daily isn’t about being less than; it’s about laying down everything that keeps us from fully knowing we are loved, chosen, and sent.

When we live openly in our identity and our faith, we’re not just losing our own life—we’re giving it away for something greater. Psalm 139:13–14 says, “For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully set apart. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.” We’re participating in Christ’s upside-down kingdom, where the last are first, the rejected are embraced, and the wounded become healers.

Good Friday, a reminder that Jesus took up the cross and was crucified for our sins, is just two weeks away. John 19:17-18 tells us that Jesus ”went out, bearing his own cross…they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, and Jesus between them.” Between now and Good Friday, Let us think about one way we’ve had to carry a “cross” because of our identity. Offer that experience to Jesus today—not to erase it, but to let Him transform it into something sacred. Whether it’s our time, pride, comfort, or control—lay it down and follow Him there. Then, reach out to someone else who may need to hear: You are loved, and you belong.

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Moment of Zen: Swimming

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Finally, It’s Friday!

I’m so glad it’s Friday, and it’s a vacation day for me. I have some vacation time I have to take by the end of our fiscal year (May 31) or lose it, so with the exception of next Wednesday, I will be taking off every Wednesday and Friday through the end of May.

While I mostly plan to relax and read over the weekend, I have some work to do for my class. My students’ research paper was due yesterday, and I need to grade those. I also need to catch up on grading their journals and prepare the final exam. Next week is the last week of classes, and I also need to prepare my final lectures. None of these tasks are difficult, but time consuming.

I also need to do some housework and laundry this weekend. Thinking of all I need to do, it might not be that relaxing of a weekend, but I’ll try my best to set aside some time just for me.

I forgot to post an Isabella Pic of the Week, so here you go:

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Just Another Thursday

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Propaganda and the Male Aesthetic

Henry Cavill

The idealized male physique, often described as an "inverted triangle" or "V-taper," features broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a strong, muscular build with low body fat, a physique seen in many male athletes, models, and actors. The ideal male body has evolved throughout history, with earlier periods valuing strength and athleticism, and more recent times emphasizing a lean, muscular look. Media and social trends play a significant role in shaping perceptions of the "ideal" male physique. 

The idealized male aesthetic—emphasizing physical perfection, muscularity, and strength—has long served as a powerful tool for propaganda, shaped and reshaped to fit the political and cultural needs of various societies throughout history. This image of the “perfect man” functions not only as a model of physical excellence but also as a symbol of ideological values: power, discipline, dominance, and purity.

Augustus of Prima Porta

The roots of the male aesthetic ideal can be traced back to ancient civilizations like Greece and Rome. In Classical Greece, the male body was idolized in art and sculpture (e.g., Polykleitos’ Doryphoros), representing harmony, rationality, and civic virtue. Strength was linked to moral integrity and democratic citizenship. Rome adapted this, associating the powerful male body with imperial authority and conquest, as seen in statues of emperors like Augustus, who were idealized as youthful and godlike.

The Renaissance revived classical ideals, presenting the strong male body as a symbol of divine beauty and human potential. Artists like Michelangelo, with his David, reinforced the link between physical strength and spiritual or moral superiority. This era celebrated the “universal man”—physically capable, intellectually refined, and culturally elite.

Arno Breker, The Great Torchbearer (1939)

As nationalism surged in the 19th century, the strong male body became central to shaping national identities. In Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany, propaganda weaponized the male aesthetic. Mussolini was often shown shirtless, working or posing, to convey virility, labor, and strength as core values of the state. Hitler’s regime promoted Aryan ideals through statues, films (like Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia), and youth programs, equating physical perfection with racial superiority and moral righteousness.

“Worker and Kolkhoz Woman” was made by Vera Mukhina in 1937 for the World Fair in Paris. It was meant to overshadow the Nazi German pavilion that was located opposite to Russian pavilion in the fair. In the end, both pavilions won a prize, to keep the political balance.

In Soviet propaganda, the male worker or soldier, muscular and stoic, symbolized the power of the proletariat and the communist state. These images weren’t just about fitness—they were loaded with meaning: loyalty, discipline, and the ability to serve the state.

Even today, the muscular male figure continues to be used in propaganda, especially in authoritarian regimes. Leaders are often depicted engaging in rugged, physical activities—Vladimir Putin’s shirtless horse-riding is a modern example—projecting vitality, control, and masculinity as signs of leadership and national strength.

"For Your Boy" was one of many posters issued during World War I to encourage support of the war.

In the West, while the use of male aesthetics has shifted more toward consumer and celebrity culture, it still has political undercurrents. Military recruitment posters, sports ads, and action films all reinforce a vision of the male body as capable, heroic, and dominant.

Throughout history, the idealized male body has served not only as a cultural aspiration but also as a political weapon. Whether sculpted in marble or splashed across a billboard, it reflects the values and anxieties of the society that produces it—always more than flesh, always a symbol of something bigger.

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Migraines have their say

Migraines have their say
By Teri Ellen Cross Davis

Whitney cottage, Hermitage Artist Retreat

You could write about the windows
all nine of them. You could write about

the gulf, red tide strangling Florida’s
shore, the opaque eyes of dead fish

caught in the algal bloom. You could write
about the sky—long as a yawn, sky blue

chasing cerulean away, stretched wisps
of white determined to be the canvas

for another sunset showstopper. But the body
has its own narrative in mind. Neurons hustling

pain blank out any page. No writing can be done
when an electric snare corrals the brain. No ear

searching for song while one temple pulses
an arrhythmic lament. Mercifully there’s triptan,

a black curtain over this inflammatory act. Strike
through today, uncap the pen again tomorrow.


About this Poem

Teri Ellen Cross Davis’s poem “Migraines have their say” offers a poignant exploration of the debilitating impact of migraines, particularly when they intrude upon moments meant for creativity and reflection. Written during her time at the Hermitage Artist Retreat, Davis captures the profound frustration of having one’s artistic aspirations overshadowed by physical suffering.

In the poem, Davis vividly describes the serene environment of the retreat—the expansive windows, the vast sky, and the Gulf’s horizon—elements that typically inspire artistic expression. However, the onset of a migraine transforms this idyllic setting into a backdrop of torment, as the pain eclipses her ability to engage with her surroundings or channel them into her work.

Davis’s personal history with migraines adds depth to the poem’s narrative. Diagnosed at thirteen, she endured prolonged episodes of pain before effective treatments became available. Even with medication, migraines continue to claim significant portions of her time, making their intrusion during an artist’s retreat feel especially cruel—a “special kind of theft,” as she describes.

The poem resonates with many who have experienced chronic pain, articulating the internal conflict between the desire to create and the incapacitation imposed by illness. It underscores the broader theme of how physical ailments can stifle self-expression and the pursuit of one’s passions.

For those interested in experiencing the poem firsthand, Davis’s reading is available through the Academy of American Poets’ “Poem-a-Day” series, offering an intimate connection to her words and experiences.

In “Migraines have their say,” Davis not only sheds light on the personal toll of chronic migraines but also invites a broader conversation about the intersection of health and creativity, and the resilience required to navigate both.


About the Poet

Teri Ellen Cross Davis is a distinguished American poet and advocate for the arts. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, she pursued her undergraduate studies in journalism and international affairs at Ohio University. She later earned a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from American University.

Davis has authored two notable poetry collections: Haint (Gival Press, 2016), which received the 2017 Ohioana Book Award for Poetry, and a more perfect Union (Mad Creek Books, 2021), winner of the 2019 Journal/Charles B. Wheeler Poetry Prize.

Her commitment to the literary community is evident through her fellowships and residencies at esteemed institutions such as Cave Canem, the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, Hedgebrook, the Community of Writers Poetry Workshop, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. Additionally, Davis has received grants from the Sustainable Arts Foundation and The Freya Project.

Davis’s poetry has been featured in various anthologies, including Bum Rush The Page: A Def Poetry Jam, Full Moon on K Street: Poems About Washington, DC, and The Golden Shovel Anthology: New Poems Honoring Gwendolyn Brooks. Her work also appears in journals such as Poet Lore, North American Review, Gargoyle, Natural Bridge, and Tin House.

Currently, she serves as the O.B. Hardison Poetry Series Curator and Poetry Programs Manager at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. Davis resides in Maryland with her husband, poet Hayes Davis, and their two children.



P.S. As you might can guess, I woke up with a migraine today. I would love to stay in bed and call in sick, but I cancelled classes last week because I was in the hospital and don’t feel like I can cancel any more. Also, I have a follow up appointment at my doctor’s office to see how I am doing since I’ve was discharged from the hospital.

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Back to Work

I have to return to work today. I can’t express strong enough how much I don’t want to go. I’m still really tired and don’t want to go back. I know it will do me good to get back into a routine, and it will probably give me more energy. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m ready to go back to work. However, I’m not sure I can put it off any longer. I did “work” Friday by going to the workshop I attended and did well. I didn’t feel like I got overly tired, and my energy level was good. So, maybe today won’t be too bad. At least my boss won’t be there. I’m not ready to deal with her strong perfume or loud voice. It should mostly be quiet in the front offices where my office is. I also have a ton of emails to catch up on and work to do for classes this week.

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Blessed Are the Woke

Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness but rather expose them. It is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes visible—and everything that is illuminated becomes a light. This is why it is said: “Wake up, sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.”

—Ephesians 5:11–14

In modern culture, particularly in political and conservative Christian circles, “woke” has been turned into a sneer. It’s often used to dismiss people who speak out against racism, inequality, or systemic sin—as if awakening to injustice were somehow un-Christian. But what if the word “woke,” in its deepest and truest sense, is exactly what Jesus calls us to be? To be “woke,” in its most honest and biblical sense, is to be spiritually and morally alert—to see clearly the truth of God, the dignity of others, and the brokenness of the world. To be woke is to be awake—to the suffering of others, to the call for justice, to our own sin, and to the movement of God in the world. It is spiritual awareness and moral alertness. It is, in fact, discipleship. Nowhere is this clearer than in the Beatitudes.

When Jesus began His Sermon on the Mount, He didn’t begin with commands—He began with blessings. The Beatitudes are not a checklist for moral perfection, but a radical reordering of what it means to live rightly in the eyes of God. In a world that often equates power with success, wealth with favor, and pride with strength, Jesus turns everything upside down.

In Matthew 5:3-12, Jesus said:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.
Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

To be “poor in spirit” is to recognize our need for God and to understand we don’t have all the answers. It means awakening to the reality that we are not self-sufficient. We need grace. We need justice. And we need each other. This is the doorway to the kingdom. Wokeness begins in humility. It’s the opposite of prideful self-righteousness. A woke Christian doesn’t pretend to be better than others—they acknowledge their need for grace and their responsibility to listen and learn.

To be spiritually awake is to feel deeply. We mourn for the brokenness in the world—for racial injustice, for poverty, for violence, for exploitation. We don’t harden our hearts or dismiss others’ pain. We weep with those who weep. And Jesus promises that those who mourn with compassion will be comforted. To mourn is to be moved—to cry out for what’s wrong and to long for what is right. God meets this mourning with comfort—and with purpose.

Meekness is not weakness—it’s strength and courage under control. Woke Christians don’t seek dominance but justice. They resist evil not with violence, but with faithfulness and love. The world may reward arrogance and cruelty, but God honors those who seek peace and equity with humility. To be woke is not to dominate or rage, but to stand firm in truth with gentleness and patience. Jesus says the earth belongs to such people, not to the proud or the violent.

Matthew 5:6 says, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.” This is the heartbeat of a woke life: a deep hunger for righteousness—not just personal piety but justice for others. The Greek word dikaiosyne used here includes both righteousness and justice. This is not about personal morality alone; it’s about longing for the world to reflect God’s character: justice for the oppressed, care for the poor, healing for the hurting. To hunger for this is to desire the world to reflect God’s goodness—and Jesus promises we will be satisfied. To be “woke” is to refuse to be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters (Amos 5:24).

That bring us to the next of Jesus’s blessings, mercy. Mercy is love in action. It’s seeing the suffering of others and responding with empathy, not judgment. Woke Christians offer compassion to the marginalized—not because it’s popular, but because it reflects the very heart of God. Jesus never mocked the vulnerable; He moved toward them. Mercy is the practice of a woke heart. It is seeing someone else’s pain and stepping into it with compassion. It is forgiveness, care, and a refusal to dehumanize. The merciful understand that every soul bears God’s image—and they act accordingly.

Purity of heart means clarity of purpose. To be pure in heart is to see with clarity—to be free of deceit, manipulation, and divided motives. Woke Christians are not performative; they pursue justice not for applause, but out of conviction. They seek truth, even when it costs them. In doing so, they begin to see God—in the faces of the oppressed, in the work of reconciliation, and in the transformation of their own hearts. The woke Christian seeks integrity, transparency, and the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. And in that clarity, we begin to see God in our world, in people, and in unexpected places.

Peacemaking is more than avoiding conflict—it’s creating wholeness. Peacemakers are those who do the hard work of reconciliation. They build bridges. They speak truth in love. They don’t settle for false peace or quiet injustice. Peacemakers carry the family resemblance of their Father in heaven. The world may call peacemakers divisive, but Jesus calls them His children. A woke faith works to heal what sin has broken. Wokeness is not just awareness—it’s action.

To live this way will cost us. Jesus warned that truly living these values would lead to persecution. Woke Christians will be misunderstood, resisted, and sometimes hated—not because they’re offensive, but because they are living out God’s upside-down kingdom. But Jesus says: stand firm. The kingdom is yours. When people mock “wokeness,” they often mock the very things Christ died for: truth, justice, mercy. To be faithful in the face of ridicule is to stand where Jesus stood—misunderstood, rejected, but faithful to the end.

How can Christians mock the woke and still claim Christ? It’s a serious question. How can Christians, who claim to follow the crucified and risen Jesus, hate those who mourn injustice, who pursue mercy, who hunger for justice? Proverbs 17:5 says, “Whoever mocks the poor shows contempt for their Maker,” and 1 John 4:20 tells us, “Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar.” To mock the “woke” is often to mock the ones Jesus blessed—to laugh at those advocating for the very people Jesus embraced. And when Christianity becomes more about defending comfort than confronting injustice, it has strayed far from the Gospel. Christ calls to wake up.

Ephesians 5:11–14 offers a final word, “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them…Wake up, sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” Being “woke,” in this light, is not a worldly insult—it’s a holy calling. Jesus doesn’t want sleepy disciples. He wants people who are awake, aware, and aligned with His kingdom vision. The Beatitudes are not abstract virtues; they are a blueprint for awakening. They teach us how to live in love, mercy, justice, humility, and hope. They challenge us to reject cruelty, hardness of heart, and the mockery of those doing the hard work of justice.

So let us not be ashamed to be called “woke.”

Let us wake up.
Let us rise.
Let us walk in the light—where Christ Himself leads.

To put it succinctly, a woke Christian is a Christlike Christian.

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Moment of Zen: Jesus Prado

I love this photo set of Jesus Prado by photographer Joan Crisol. There are a few more bonus pics I’m sure you will love if you click “read more” below.

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Workshop

I have a workshop/one-day conference to attend in Burlington today. The size of attendance at the workshop is expected to be small due to everyone having budget cuts due to the idiocy of the new president’s administration. Many nonprofits are losing their funding, and if they haven’t lost it already, they expect to. That aside, I’m looking forward to today. After my hospital stay earlier this week, I’m sure this will be a tiring day (Burlington is about an hour away),  but hopefully, an enjoyable one as well.

Have a great weekend everyone!

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Rain and Migraines

I had planned to write today about a recurring dream I’ve been having, but it has snowed all night and now we are having a rare Vermont thunderstorm. With bad weather inevitably comes a migraine. I dread today anyway. I have a dentist appointment late this afternoon. I think I might just go back to bed.

That being said, here’s you Isabella pic of the week. I missed her when I was in the hospital.

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