Pic of the Day

Honeycrisp

Honeycrisp  

by January Gill O’Neil  

My boyfriend will eat  

an entire apple in one sitting.  

Peel, pulp, core. Hands me  

the stem when he’s done.  

Seeds in his gut. The calyx  

a dank star. An orchard grows  

inside him. The tongue  

that slicks the skin. Hands  

perfumed with bruised sugar.  

His kisses a tender lament.  

The heart that glows. How he takes  

everything the fruit offers  

and leaves nothing  

but the stem. I let my body  

follow. Set my jaw soft.  

Rapt, greedy, this devotion.  

Tough armor. Red glow. Yellow  

flesh. Every bite a fall  

from grace.  

About the Poem  

January Gill O’Neil describes this poem as an exploration of appetite—of “devouring everything in sight”—and that idea pulses through every line. The apple is more than fruit; it becomes a symbol of desire, of intimacy, of giving oneself over completely. The act of eating is transformed into something almost sacred, almost dangerous.  

There is something deeply sensual about the language: “tongue / that slicks the skin,” “hands / perfumed with bruised sugar,” “kisses a tender lament.” None of it is explicit, and yet it is undeniably intimate. The physical act of consumption mirrors emotional and romantic vulnerability. To love, the poem suggests, is to consume and be consumed—to take in everything another person offers, even knowing that such devotion leaves one exposed.  

The final line—“Every bite a fall / from grace”—invokes the biblical image of the apple as forbidden fruit. Love, desire, and surrender become acts of both joy and risk. There is sweetness here, but also the awareness that to give yourself entirely to someone is to step beyond safety, beyond restraint.  

I was struck most by O’Neil’s idea of “giving yourself over entirely to something—or someone—you just can’t get enough of.” There’s something beautiful and a little frightening in that kind of devotion.  

While I don’t have a boyfriend, I recognize that instinct in myself. It’s the way I am with friends, with the people I care about. When I love—whether romantically or platonically—I tend to give fully, sometimes more than I probably should. I was raised to be kind, to be generous, to be present for others, and that often means offering my time, my attention, and my heart without holding much back.  

There’s a vulnerability in that. Sometimes people appreciate it. Sometimes they take advantage. But I’m not sure I would want to love any other way. There is something honest—almost sacred—about giving freely, about not rationing care or affection.  

Like the poem, that kind of love can feel like a kind of falling—unguarded, wholehearted, a little reckless. But it is also where the sweetness is.  

🍎   🍎   🍎

About the Poet  

January Gill O’Neil is an American poet known for her vivid imagery, emotional clarity, and exploration of identity, love, and everyday experience. Her work often blends the sensual with the reflective, grounding abstract emotions in tangible, physical details.  

In “Honeycrisp,” O’Neil captures something both universal and deeply personal: the hunger for connection and the willingness to surrender to it. Her language invites the reader not just to observe, but to feel—to taste the sweetness, to sense the risk, and to recognize the quiet power of devotion.

Pic of the Day

A Small Shift to Start the Week

Monday has come again.

I slept in a bit this morning—until 5:00 a.m.—which, for me, almost counts as indulgent. The only reason for the extra rest is a slight adjustment to the day. I’m going into work late and will be leaving early for a dental appointment, which means working around the university’s leave policy. Since we now have to take leave in four-hour increments, even a short appointment requires a bit more reshuffling than it used to. There was a time when anything under two hours didn’t require leave at all, but like many things, that has changed.

It’s a small inconvenience in the grand scheme of things—just one of those minor bureaucratic realities that shape the rhythm of a workday. Nothing dramatic, nothing particularly frustrating. Just… different.

And maybe that’s what today feels like overall. Not rushed, not overwhelming—just slightly out of step with the usual routine.

There isn’t much more to say today. Just easing into the week, adjusting where needed, and moving forward.

Have a great week, everyone!

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The Peace We Miss

“If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.”

— Luke 19:42

Palm Sunday is often imagined as a day of celebration—crowds gathering, branches lifted high, voices rising in praise as Jesus enters Jerusalem. It feels triumphant, almost jubilant, the kind of moment we expect to carry only joy. And yet, in the midst of that celebration, the Gospel of Luke offers us something quieter, more tender: Jesus pauses, looks at the city, and weeps.

There, in the middle of welcome and worship, there is sorrow.

Because Jesus does not see only what is before him. He sees what could have been. He sees a city capable of peace, a people capable of love, a world within reach of something better—and he knows it has gone unrecognized. Peace was there, present and possible, but it was missed. And that is what makes his words linger, what gives them their ache: “If you had only recognized… the things that make for peace.”

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, that longing feels deeply familiar.

We know what it is to search for peace—not as an abstract idea, but as something personal and urgent. Peace in our own hearts, where questions of identity and worth have sometimes been met with silence or shame. Peace in our relationships, where love has not always been affirmed as holy. Peace in the spaces that were meant to be sanctuaries—churches, families, communities—that instead left us wondering if we truly belonged. We have stood at those gates, hoping to be seen, to be known, to be embraced, and too often we have felt the quiet heartbreak of being overlooked.

Like Jerusalem, those spaces did not always recognize “the things that make for peace.”And yet, Palm Sunday does not leave us there.

Beneath the grief is a truth that is as gentle as it is powerful: Jesus still sees. He sees the missed opportunities, the moments when love should have been offered freely but was withheld. He sees the harm done in the name of righteousness, the ways people have been turned away when they should have been welcomed in. And he weeps—not because there is something wrong with you, but because you deserved peace all along.

His tears are not condemnation. They are compassion.

But this story is not only about what others failed to see. It is also an invitation—quiet, persistent, and deeply personal. Because after enough rejection, it becomes easy to internalize the same blindness we have encountered. We begin to wonder if peace is really meant for us. We question whether love must be earned, whether we are too much or not enough, whether there is something about us that keeps us just outside the gates.

And in those moments, peace can feel hidden from our own eyes. Palm Sunday invites us to look again.

To recognize that your identity is not a barrier to God’s love, but part of how you reflect it in the world. To see that your capacity to love deeply, honestly, and courageously—often forged through struggle—is itself one of the very things that makes for peace. To trust that Christ enters your life not with judgment, but with tenderness, with understanding, and with an unwavering presence that refuses to let you go unseen.

Even when others have failed to recognize your worth, even when peace has felt distant or obscured,

God has never missed it. God has never missed you.

And the peace Christ speaks of—the peace that was once overlooked, the peace that still waits to be named and claimed—is not lost.

It is still yours to receive.

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Moment of Zen: Reading

Pic of the Day

A Quiet Friday

It’s my work-from-home Friday, and thankfully, there isn’t much on the agenda today. I’ll keep an eye on emails and chip away at a few small tasks here and there, but as the semester begins to wind down, things on the education side have slowed considerably. I have one more program left this semester, and so far everything seems to be coming together smoothly. With any luck, today will be an easy, low-stress day.

I’m also hoping to take advantage of the quiet building and get a couple loads of laundry done while the washer and dryer are free—one of those small, simple victories of a work-from-home day.

As much as I’m looking forward to a calm Friday, I’m hoping the same carries into the weekend. It’s supposed to be especially cold tomorrow, so I plan to stay bundled up and snuggled in with Isabella. Honestly, an easy Sunday sounds just about perfect right now too

I hope everyone has a restful and peaceful weekend.

Pic of the Day

Not Quite as Planned

If they had looked like this guy—I might not have minded the interruption.

Yesterday turned out to be much busier than I expected.

I knew I had a class scheduled for the afternoon, so I had already planned to spend part of the day preparing for that. What I didn’t know was that repair work on our elevator would also become part of the day’s unfolding story.

Because the elevator has been out of order, I had planned to hold my class in collections storage. There was simply no practical way to bring everything upstairs otherwise. It wasn’t ideal, but it was manageable.

The repairman arrived first thing in the morning, attempted a fix, and quickly realized it hadn’t worked. He left to get additional tools, returned, and then discovered the issue was more complicated than expected. When I asked if they might be back later in the day, he didn’t think that would be possible given his other appointments. I told him that was actually a relief—I had a class that afternoon and really didn’t want repairs happening in the middle of it.

Of course, what should not have been a surprise: they came back anyway. Fifteen minutes before my class was scheduled to begin.

To their credit, they were respectful and did not disrupt the class, and I am genuinely grateful that the elevator is now working again. Still, it added an unnecessary layer of stress right at the moment I needed to be focused and present.

I ended up spending most of the day in collections storage. That’s not usually how my days go—I’m typically in and out, pulling what I need for a class and then returning items afterward. I’m the educator, not the collections manager. But there are certainly worse ways to spend a day, and there’s something grounding about being surrounded by history, even if it comes with a bit more physical strain.

By the end of the day, though, I had been on my feet far longer than usual, and my back is reminding me of that this morning in no uncertain terms.

If all goes as planned, today should be easier. At least, that’s the hope.

But if yesterday reminded me of anything, it’s that plans have a way of shifting, interruptions arrive whether we invite them or not, and sometimes the best we can do is adapt, take a breath, and carry on.

And maybe—just maybe—hope for a quieter day ahead… without saying it too loudly, lest we jinx it.

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Off Balance

Lately, I’ve been tired in a way that sleep doesn’t quite fix.

Not the kind of tired where you just need a good night’s rest and everything resets. It’s more of a slow, lingering fatigue—the kind that settles into your bones and follows you through the day. The kind where even small frustrations feel heavier than they should.

Part of it is just routine being off. I’ve been waking up earlier than I’d like, earlier than I’m ready for, and while I can sometimes crawl back into bed, it’s never quite the same. There’s something about interrupted sleep that lingers, leaving the day just a little more difficult to move through. You keep going, of course—you always do—but everything feels just slightly out of sync.

And when you’re already worn down, even minor things start to weigh more than they should. Little inconsistencies. Extra steps. Situations where you feel like you’re putting in more energy than necessary, or where expectations don’t quite line up. Nothing major, nothing worth a confrontation—but enough to create a quiet undercurrent of frustration.

I’ve never been someone who leans naturally into confrontation. I tend to pause, to weigh, to let things go more often than not. Sometimes that’s a strength. Sometimes it just means I carry things longer than I should.

Still, I’ve been trying to find a better balance—to speak up when it matters, but also to let go of what doesn’t.

Because not everything needs to be fought. But not everything should be carried either.

So for now, I’m reminding myself to take things a little more gently. To allow for the tiredness without letting it define the whole day. To recognize that some days are just heavier, and that doesn’t mean something is wrong—it just means I’m human.

And maybe tonight, I’ll get a better night’s sleep.

Or at least close my eyes long enough to rest.

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To Be, or Not to Be

Act III, Scene I, Hanlet

By William Shakespeare 

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th’unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.—Soft you now,

The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember’d.

About the Soliloquy

From Hamlet by William Shakespeare, this is perhaps the most famous meditation on existence ever written. Its opening line—“To be, or not to be”—has echoed across centuries because it asks a question that is both universal and deeply personal.

Hamlet is not simply pondering life and death in the abstract. He is weighing suffering, endurance, injustice, heartbreak, and uncertainty. He imagines death as sleep—peaceful, even desirable—but immediately complicates that idea: “To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub.” It is not death itself that troubles him, but what might come after.

That uncertainty—the “undiscover’d country”—is what keeps him, and us, from choosing escape over endurance.

There is something remarkable about how Hamlet’s question anticipates a later philosophical inquiry. More than half a century after Shakespeare, René Descartes approached existence from a very different angle, asking not whether life is worth living, but how we can know that we exist at all.

Descartes famously wrote:

Cogito, ergo sum — I think, therefore I am.

But this was not simply a clever phrase. In his Meditations, he begins by doubting everything—the senses, the world, even his own body—until he arrives at one undeniable truth:

“I am, I exist—is necessarily true whenever it is put forward by me or conceived in my mind.”

Where Hamlet is overwhelmed by existence, Descartes is trying to prove it.

And yet, the two meet in a fascinating way.

Hamlet asks: To be, or not to be?

Descartes answers: You are—because you are thinking.

Hamlet’s struggle is emotional, rooted in suffering and fear of the unknown. Descartes’ is intellectual, rooted in doubt and the search for certainty. But both reveal something essential about being human: that awareness—our ability to think, to question, to reflect—is both what proves our existence and what makes that existence so complicated.

Hamlet cannot escape the burden of consciousness. His thoughts do not free him; they weigh him down, turning action into hesitation. As he says, “Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.”

Descartes, on the other hand, finds stability in thought. Even if everything else is uncertain, the thinking self remains.

Between them lies a truth that feels deeply human:

We exist because we think—but thinking is also what makes existence so difficult.

And yet, we continue.

About the Author

William Shakespeare (1564–1616) is widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. His works include tragedies such as Hamlet, Macbeth, and King Lear, as well as comedies, histories, and poetry that continue to shape literature, theater, and culture around the world.

Though details of his personal life remain somewhat elusive, Shakespeare’s writing reveals a profound understanding of human nature—our desires, fears, contradictions, and complexities. His characters feel timeless because they grapple with questions we still ask today: Who are we? What does it mean to live well? And how do we face the unknown?

Hamlet stands as one of his most introspective works, offering not just a story of revenge and tragedy, but a deeply philosophical exploration of existence itself.

Sometimes, I miss teaching Shakespeare. Then I remember what it was like to deal with students “learning” Shakespeare—or more accurately, ignoring what I was trying to teach them about Shakespeare—and I remember why I left the high school classroom for the museum world.