Being Here – Day 58
Being Here – Poem Day 58
Day 58 — When I have nothing left to give
Earlier in this complex, we worked with caregiving urgency —
the reflex to step in, to hold, to manage.
Today’s poem moves in the opposite direction.
There are times when care feels quiet.
Energy feels thin.
The impulse to respond simply isn’t there.
This can be unsettling.
In cultures that value generosity,
reduced care can be interpreted as failure.
As withdrawal.
As not being enough.
But exhaustion is not indifference.
Sometimes care recedes
because it has been extended for a long time.
Today’s poem does not ask you to give.
It does not ask you to feel warmth.
It does not push compassion to return.
Instead, it honours rested care.
It allows the absence of urgency
without turning it into guilt.
Nothing needs to be produced while listening.
The sequence carries itself.
Pause.
If anything lingers or feels activating after listening, you might try one small thing — only if it feels helpful.
Let your hands rest open and still for a moment.
Nothing else is required.
Warmly,
Per
Poem – When I don’t feel able to give
There is no requirement here to offer anything. Nothing is missing because you are resting.
The body is already supported, held without needing to extend itself, allowed to remain gathered.
Awareness settles into where you are, not reaching outward, not checking who needs you, just staying close.
Muscles soften from holding others in mind, not giving up care, just releasing the strain of carrying.
Breath moves quietly, uninvolved, arriving and leaving without expectation.
Warmth stays present, subtle rather than expansive, enough to be felt without being spent.
The chest remains steady. It does not need to open. It does not need to close.
Exhaustion is allowed here. So is numbness. Neither is judged.
The body recognises that care cannot flow when it has nowhere to rest.
There is a sense of being intact without contributing, whole without giving.
This moment does not ask you to recover quickly or to become available again.
You remain here, inside a body that can pause, so that care may return when there is room.
For now, that is enough.
