Good Life Project - Andrea Gibson | The Year of No Grudges

Episode Date: October 5, 2023

Colorado's new poet laureate Andrea Gibson takes the stage to illuminate and heal through raw, vulnerable spoken word poetry. A pioneering LGBTQ voice, Andrea discusses poetry's power, the courage growth requires, and their guiding ethos that authenticity matters more than suffering. Despite fear, their immersive performances resonate deeply, changing hearts and making listeners feel less alone. In recent years, they have been very public about their cancer journey, not to draw attention to their mortality, but to help others appreciate life's brevity and feel the urgent call to truly live. This stirring conversation reaffirms poetry's power to reveal our common humanity.You can find Andrea Gibson at: Website | Instagram | Episode TranscriptIf you LOVED this episode you’ll also love the conversations we had with Morgan Harper Nichols about the power of language to connect people. Check out our offerings & partners: My New Book SparkedMy New Podcast SPARKED. To submit your “moment & question” for consideration to be on the show go to sparketype.com/submit. Visit Our Sponsor Page For Great Resources & Discount Codes Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I think that's the value of art that, you know, I don't think people's minds change very quickly, but people's hearts can change in an instant. And I think that's something that I love about spoken word, but all art, it can change your heart in an instant, and then your mind catches up over time. So have you ever wondered what transforms words on a page or between people into something that resonates deeply in your soul? My guest today, the brilliant poet Andrea Gibson, is astonishing at making this happen. Through their raw and profoundly moving spoken word poetry, Andrea has this ability to change hearts and open minds to make us feel more seen and less alone. Inaugurated last month as Colorado's new poet laureate. Andrea first took the stage over 20 years ago,

compelled by a love of spoken word, despite being terrified. That fear still lingers, but their authenticity and vulnerability draws you in powerfully, weaving poetry and music into these immersive performances. They have become a pioneering voice on LGBTQ issues, social justice, and a deeper exploration of our shared humanity. And today we explore poetry's power to illuminate and to heal, the courage required for growth under public scrutiny, and their guiding ethos that authenticity and honesty matters far more than anything else.

They really reaffirmed my hope that poetry can reveal our common heart, something we all desperately need right now. And interestingly, Andrea believes that being a poet, it isn't so much about how we show up on the page or on the stage, but how we show up to the world and in our lives. In recent years, they have been very public about their cancer journey, not to draw attention to their mortality, but hoping to help others appreciate life's brevity and feel the urgent call to truly live. For Andrea, this experience has given them more gratitude and awe and joy than they thought would be possible.

And they wish that same awakening for everyone. So excited to share this best of conversation with you. I'm Jonathan Fields, and this is Good Life Project. Tell me how to fly this thing. You know what the difference between me and you is? You're going to die. Don't shoot him. We need him. Y'all need a pilot. The Apple Watch Series 10 is here. It has the biggest display ever.

It's also the thinnest Apple Watch ever, making it even more comfortable on your wrist, whether you're running, swimming, or sleeping. And it's the fastest-charging Apple Watch, getting you 8 hours of charge in just 15 minutes. The Apple Watch Series X. Available for the first time in glossy jet black aluminum. Compared to previous generations, iPhone XS or later required.

Charge time and actual results will vary. There's a rumor floating around the internet that i don't know something like 20 years ago or something like that that you actually took the stage and performed a deeply emotional spoken word piece dressed as a cow are you serious where did you read that this is this is why i don't ever look myself up online that's true true, though. It's true. You got to give me a little context here. Yeah, I was doing. I had just gotten into spoken word and also veganism at the same time. And I was part of this performance with a group called Vox Feminista, which was this radical, political, artistic group of activists we put on shows. And I dressed up as a cow and read, I think it was like a 10 minute

poem about the plight of cows in the dairy industry. Actually, I remember I was so moved by it at the time. I think it was the only time maybe I ever full out cried in the middle of one of my own poems and I was dressed as a cow. So it was quite awkward. I can't believe that's up on the internet. Good to know. Well, you know, our crack research staff here, we find just about everything. I mean, I'm just picturing it now, on stage performing in a cow outfit, crying in front of people. But that must have also been really early in your career. Yeah. I mean, I don't think it was a career at that point. I had no idea that somebody could make a career out of spoken word for sure. I think I knew one person who was doing

it at the time. So it was a dream so big, I don't think I had stepped into daring to dream it yet. But yeah, at the very beginning, I discovered spoken word in 1999, I think. And it was still, you know, a lot of people had never heard of it. And so it was definitely right at the beginning. So I started it off right by being a cow cow I should I should return back there someday right you're gonna have to do sort of like a 20th year um anniversary yeah so you have over the last couple of decades built this amazing presence and body of work and I want to dive into a whole bunch of that and then invite you to share some of it as well. But taking a step back in time, I mean, you grew up in, from what I know, a pretty tiny town in Maine. I grew up in Calais, Maine, spelled like the Calais in France that said the thing on the

bottom of your foot, and it's fitting. It was a really, really small town in the middle of the woods right on the Canadian border, So almost as east as you can get in the United States and almost as north. Really conservative little town, which I didn't even think of it as conservative at the time because I didn't know what a world that wasn't conservative looked like. But it was lovely in many ways and hard as a queer kid in a lot of ways, you know, closeted queer kid, but there was a lot beautiful about it. I spent most of my childhood just running through the woods and it certainly provided a lot of beauty in that way. Yeah. I mean, it sounds like you were almost living sort of like

this dualist presence, ordinary kid running through the woods, small town, classic Maine upbringing. And as you shared, closeted queer kid, did you have a sense of that even at the young stage? Or because I know also part of your upbringing is your, I guess your folks were Baptist. And then you ended up going to college at St. Joseph's, which I think is a Catholic college or a faith-based college. Yeah, it's a Catholic college, which really disappointed my Baptist grandmother at the time. But I was a basketball player, and it was one of the best basketball schools in the state and one I had always hoped to go to when I was younger. And so, yeah, I was really excited to go there. So lots of Jesus in my early life. Yeah. I mean, it sounds like also, I mean, if you're growing up in that tradition and you have a sense of being different from both sexuality and a gender standpoint, that that could be a tough environment. sexuality. I always looked like this as a kid. And I always wanted my hair short and wanted to

wear boys clothes. And that didn't even feel very complex for me until I got to, I think later on in middle school and high school when I started getting bullied some for it. But yeah, it was a lot of not really being sure of who I was, but being sure in some ways. And then having all these dreams that I didn't know why they were my dreams. Like I thought, okay, I'm not going to get married, but I'm going to live in a loft in New York City. I always thought I'm going to live in a loft in New York City, but I didn't know why I didn't want to get married. When I first started saying I don't want to get married, I didn't know it was because I didn't know it was an option to marry a woman. So marriage was sort of off the table, just because I assumed it would have to be with a man.

Yeah. I know a lot of the, I guess the early writing for you also was really, well, I don't want to make an assumption because I know once you started really focusing on that in college and creative writing and then poetry, and then you're out in the world, it seems like a lot of the focus of that writing weaves in these things of exploring identity and gender and sexuality and faith altogether. And often the tension that you have among them. But I know you were writing a lot earlier than that in your life. I'm curious whether those different themes were expressing themselves in your writing earlier on too. I remember writing a lot about masks. Even up through college, when I still wasn't out in my writing in college. But I only for some of those years knew what those masks were representing. I remember being in fifth and sixth grade writing

a lot about hiding and masks, but I still wasn't certain what I was hiding. My early writing, I remember my mother just being devastated by how sad everything was. She just so, she wanted me to write something happy so badly. And I also was, I drew and painted a lot through a large part of my life. And she always was trying to steer me away from my brain. She wanted me, she thought writing was, you know, sad. She's like, I remember when I was little, she'd always call me her deep thinker and wish that I wasn't her deep thinker because she, I think, was watching that thinking be sort of pained in my body. Oh, that's so interesting. So she saw there was a process going on and you were feeling

certain things, but it's almost like her approach was, well, the problem is less the genesis and more the expression is what's causing the pain. And maybe if you stopped expressing it, the suffering would stop. You know, I don't even know if it was exactly that. She just also, I was such a, I had so many things that I was interested in and I loved being in my body. Like I loved climbing trees and sports of every kind. And, and I think that she saw me happier in those places. And what's wild now is that I do almost all of my writing running around. So I hardly ever sit in front of the computer. I'm just pacing, jumping. There's a bed in this room I'm in right now, our guest room,

where I often write, jumping on the bed, whispering to the walls, like, I don't know, dancing with the chair. So I sort of, in my later life, have intermingled those things. I always wonder how people write when they're sitting still. It's just, it's never worked for me. That's so interesting. You say that I learn when I'm standing or acting or moving, and I've tried to actually write while doing the same thing, almost like speaking it out and then transcribing it and then seeing. And I can't get the same thing, but I know when I have to learn really intensively, like I have a past life as a lawyer. And when I studied for the bar, I would just hold an outline in my hand and pace outside for hours

while I was thinking it through and reviewing and trying to synthesize because I just found my brain worked on a whole different way when my physical body was in movement. Yeah. You know, my, one of my housemates is a second grade teacher and I think it took her a few years to learn that she had to let a number of her students stand up and move around while she was teaching a lesson or they wouldn't get it. So it's sort of sweet in a way that we all learn and we're all so different. And I love the idea of, I don't know, taking things in through our bodies. Our brains are, you know, from our temples to our toes. Yeah.

And I'm kind of fascinated, actually, that your friend was aware enough to really realize that some of the students needed to physicalize the experience to be able to integrate it. Yeah, she's an amazing teacher. We actually met because we were both teaching in a Montessori kindergarten together. And, you know, I was there just because I love the kids so much. They were actually so much my inspiration for writing for so many years that when I stopped teaching to do poetry full time, I didn't write for a year because they were so much my muse. But I remember watching her just... And she was very young at the time. We've been friends for a long time, but she was just 20. and watching the skill of learning how to teach individuals. And she was just a master at it.

Yeah, that's so cool. It makes me wonder, given the time that we're in now where so much of school and education has gone remote, and a lot of people are lamenting the loss of, you know, in-person interaction and the ability to teach in that way. I almost wonder if those kids who actually need to create a non-traditional learning environment or situation or physicalize it are giving themselves the freedoms to do that now that they're doing it in their own environment. I wonder if that might be a really interesting benefit that comes out of it. Yeah, I could see it. I could see that being the case. You know, one thing that I've noticed, because this is the first time in my life I've done, you know, sort of anything on Zoom, watched, you know, Zoom shows of other people, and you know how you can turn off your screen so they can't see you, but you're still watching. And I realized in my own enjoyment of music or a lecture or talk or something I'm watching online, I'm almost always moving or

doing something weird. And I don't think before this time I would have known that that's how I best take in things, how I listen the best. The first time I started doing online concerts when the pandemic began, I was getting a flood of calls from my manager during the thing is saying, you have to stop moving. We can't hear anything but the desk shaking, the floor rattling. So I'm trying to be very as still as possible right now while we're recording. Right. But I mean, how, how is that for you? Cause I know, I would imagine, I wonder if that changes the nature of what comes out in a meaningful way. I know when I'm interviewed, when I'm on the other side of the mic, I went out and I purchased a broadcast quality headset with a 10 foot cord. And I almost always say like no video. And it was

because I know I have to be moving and walking around. And granted that's not on video, but I know about myself that, cause I know that if I do the exact same thing, but I'm sitting constrained in a chair, it's somehow, it feels like it comes out different. I wonder if you feel that what actually comes out of you is different when you're sort of constrained by a chair versus when you're moving. Oh, yeah, I think I definitely do. And you know, I was listening to one of your podcasts the other day by Gay Hendricks, and his wife, Katie Hendricks, does a lot of teaching about working with your emotions through your body. And I've seen, I've been at a few of her talks. And I think that has also presenced me more to the ways that I'm moving, what that is encouraging me to feel or allowing

me to feel. And there's so much, you know, sort of restricting, be still in some ways. And I think even if, you know, one of my friends, they just have one finger, they're constantly moving, you know, it doesn't have to be your whole body. But I think for sure. And then noticing where, where particular emotions live in our body, you know, the anger in our jaw, you know, fear in our belly, sadness in our chest often. And so if I think that I'm writing something and it's furious and I'm moving around, but I feel that the words are more living in my chest, you know, listening to that and sort of taking a side route back to or a more direct route to the sadness instead of

staying with the anger for a bit. Because, you know, typically the feeling that we're feeling, usually there's a feeling underneath it that is the typically the feeling that we're feeling, usually there's a feeling underneath it that is the more true feeling that we're not. Yeah, I love the visual also of sort of different feelings settling into different parts of your body and almost like moving those parts of your body to get access to and release them. And the stories that live in different parts of our bodies, you know, yeah, I have this finger that I broke in a basketball game when I was 18. And the stories that live in different parts of our bodies, you know? Yeah. I have this finger that I broke in a basketball game when I was 18. And it's still sort of as achy sometimes. And

I can feel it and be right back on this court in Bangor, Maine, where I just have to say it, we won the state championship. I can't not say it. All right. Well, you got to own it. I mean, hard one, right? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got to own it. Stephen King was in the audience. You know, it was Maine. He's a Basque. It was a big night. And it's all memorialized in that little thing. Yeah, it is. Forever. So you ended up coming out of college. And so writing is already a big piece of you, creative writing, poetry is starting to blossom. But I know in the early days, and I'm curious whether it's still a part of you, the idea of then going from, okay, I'm going to write things because I have all these things spinning in my head that I need to get out and synthesize.

But going from there to stepping on stage is a whole different proposition. I mean, it is for anyone, I think. And for me, it was absolutely terrifying because I had been known or I had identified myself my whole life as somebody that was more afraid of public speaking than anyone I knew. I would rather somebody wrap a boa constrictor around my neck than talk in public, and that's still true, which is strange to say. But yeah, to graduate college, I had to read one poem to my class, and my teacher actually allowed me to get drunk to do it because I could not, I could not do it. Hope I don't get him in trouble, but I could not do it without that. But then when I moved to Colorado, I went to my first poetry slam. And I remember walking into

the room that night. And the first time, as soon as this guy, he's actually a friend of mine now named Ian, started reading his poem, he was probably 20 seconds into it. And I just knew I had to do that. And I knew it was going to terrify me the entire time, that it probably would never stop terrifying me. But I was so in love with the art form. I was just so in love with the energy of the room, the connection. I think the thing that drew me the most was how much it felt like the audience was reading the poem for him because the energy was

so electric. It almost felt like this crowd of people were just pulling it out of him. And I just fell in love with the whole thing. And so the next week I went back to the slam and I read for the first time and everybody was having a hard time staying in the room because it was so hard to watch me shake that much, I think. But to this day, if I see somebody performing and reading a poem and shaking and the papers just rattling in their hands, it's just one of the most beautiful things to watch because it's the image of watching somebody do something they're terrified of, but they love it too much not to. Yeah.

What was, what was the feeling like for you of that first moment and beyond the physical reaction? Do you have any recollection? I mean, was it a blur to you? Was it this thing where it's just sort of like it passed? Or do you have any memories of what it actually felt like to be there in that moment for the first time? Not only sharing your words, but also knowing the way that we typically use the word proud. I felt this sort of solid love for myself having nothing to do with the poetry, but

with knowing I had done something that I never, ever thought I could do. And not only that, but that it was embarrassing in some ways. And then the joy was so much bigger than the shame that I could almost feel it in my body, you know, dissolving. And I knew I wasn't going to stop doing it, that it would be a giant part of my life. What was the shame about? Shaking. Mostly it was watching my friends worry about me, you know, like watching your friends, there's something about that, you know, it's, they should come up with a word for that emotion. But when you're watching your loved ones worry about you, that is, I mean, I'm feeling into it now. And it feels

like this, it's a sadness sort of mixed with love and gratitude. But it's also, it's, it's a hard thing to hold in certain moments. Yeah. I know you've actually recently wrote a short sentence or two that really landed with me. You wrote the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was not the worst thing that ever happened to me hating myself for it was, which kind of speaks to this to a certain extent. Yeah, definitely. I mean, that certainly wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me that night. But yeah, it's like, you know, the traumas in our lives, we carry them as this, you know, my therapist, actually, who I never ever managed to go through a day without quoting, but my therapist, you know, talks about shame as kind of this gift we're trying to give ourselves, because by feeling shame, we're trying to tell ourselves that if we had done something different, that thing wouldn't have happened. And that's why we say it's our fault. And that's why we keep hating ourselves for it is because then we have some, you know, sense of control and power over nothing ever happening to us. If only I had not done this,

done this thing, this was my fault and it will never happen again because I have control. So shame is also a sort of a sweetness we're trying to offer ourselves, but there are lots of better routes, I think. Yeah, that's such an interesting frame. It's almost like it's a grasping to certainty. It's telling ourselves that we have some level of not just responsibility, but control over it. Yeah, I think more than anything, we want control. And I think, I don't know if it's cultural or not, but I think that we're growing to want control more than we want a joy and love. It's kind of heartbreaking. I don't disagree with that. And I feel like given the sort of like nature of just the world we live in these days that we're feeling that more than ever, like the more

groundless things get around us, I feel like the more we seek certainty and control. But I mean, fundamentally, you know, you stepping to a mic is you saying I am surrendering a certain amount of control because there is just, you can prep all you want. You can spend vast amounts of hours writing and then practicing. And I don't know if you, if you do that, but the moment that you step onto a stage in front of a microphone with a live audience, plan is over. It is. Yeah, it is. And it's also exciting that it's over. Because, you know, it's never stopped being less terrifying for me. I try to tell people that and they don't believe me. But really, it's never stopped being terrifying. And one thing that I've, since the pandemic started, and all my tours got canceled, I didn't realize before this time how closely connected our joy is to our fear. That fear had some sort of aliveness in it or a lot of aliveness in it for me. And also, I think that there's a close connection sometimes between excitement and fear. It's hard to tell the difference. Again,

my therapist would say that the only difference between fear and excitement is that fear is excitement without the breath. So if you breathe through the fear, then you can turn it into excitement. The idea of fear and excitement being really closely tethered also is fascinating to me. I kind of look at it as physiologically, they create a nearly identical response in the body. They're both anticipatory emotions, but one is anticipating dread and the other is anticipating possibility. Yeah, yeah, that's a great way to look at it. It reminds me of, I was seeing this panic attack specialist for my panic attacks, and he was talking about something like that. Yeah. It's also the thinnest Apple Watch ever, making it even more comfortable on your wrist, whether you're running, swimming, or sleeping. And it's the fastest-charging Apple Watch, getting you 8 hours of charge in just 15 minutes.

The Apple Watch Series X. Available for the first time in glossy jet black aluminum. Compared to previous generations, iPhone XS or later required, charge time and actual results will vary. Mayday, mayday. We've been compromised. The pilot's a hitman. I knew you were going to be fun. January 24th. Tell me how to fly this thing. Mark Wahlberg. You know what the difference between me and you is? You're going to die. Don't shoot if we need them. Y'all need a pilot. Flight risk. And it's interesting also, so this has never left you the anxiety around getting on stage and

yet as we sit here having this conversation you are a multi-time i think four-time denver grand slam winner um winner of the women of the world poetry slam you're um before you know in before times basically traveling non-stop and stepping on stages all over the place. So what's interesting to me is that this feeling that you have every time you do it has never gone away. Maybe it's diminished or you've learned how to harness it a bit, but it's never gone away. And yet it also hasn't stopped you from both developing to a point where you're stunning at your craft, and it doesn't overtake the joy that you feel. I mean, sometimes it does, but it also, you know, it adds so much presence, because in the beginning, you know, it wasn't quite the beginning,

I think about five years in, I realized that when I was shaking and for the first 10 years that I was performing, everywhere I went, somebody would comment on how every poem I read, I was gasping for air, you know, because I was so nervous. And still, when I perform, people expect me to, I don't think I do that anymore. But I think people are still so the gasping has gone away a little bit, but sometimes it's there. But those I figured out that if in those moments where I'm really terrified, I search for, I search for the other feelings in my body and really let them be. It really moves me through it and gets me back to a place of joy. So often when I'm feeling terrified, I'll really notice that there's a lot of sadness. And if I let myself

in the middle of the poem feel the sadness, then something kind of breaks open, like saying yes to it. But also that fear on stage creates these authentic moments where I just never know what's going to happen. And I never go on stage feeling like I know what's going to happen. And I think almost any show I've ever done, people have commented that their favorite parts are the moments between the poems, when I'm just sort of stumbling around up there and commenting on whatever lightning bolt is running through my body at that moment. Yeah. I mean, it's amazing to be able to sort of like, I don't even want to, I was going to say push through it, but it's really not pushing through it. It's working with it.

Yeah. And then also welcoming it. Welcoming it actually is a tool I've, you know, because I struggle with panic attacks. And that has been the biggest healing thing for panic attacks for me, is that when the fear comes on, what I say to the fear is make this bigger, like, give me all the fear you can give me. And there is something about the lack of resistance that just chills out the fear. If I'm welcoming you, if I'm saying, come on, then the fear is like, oh, okay. And then I notice it's kind of that wall in my body that breaks down and was, you know, holding in the fear. I don't know if that makes sense, but surrendering essentially. Yeah. Has that actually happened while you were on stage in the middle of

performing or is it usually before? So typically, you know, I've had a few panic attacks on stage. I'll have, I'm learning the difference between anxiety attacks and panic attacks. I have a lot of anxiety attacks on stage and sometimes it can come on by something that's happening in the audience or something that has historically happened in the audience. Like one time I was doing a show in Denver and in the middle of a poem, this man started charging down the center aisle, screaming faggot at me. And now at a show, if ever somebody gets up in their seat in the middle of a poem, I'll start to have an anxiety attack and have to work with it a bit. So typically, it's something in my memory that's registering a past thing. And sometimes it could actually be the poem itself. My mind, when I'm reading the poem, it's like I'm watching a movie

of my life. And it's always new, even though the poem is the same, but I'll just start watching all of what I'm talking about happen again. And if it's a hard thing that I'm writing about, then that can also bring it on. Yeah, that's so interesting. So on the one hand, I think a lot of people would look at the process of writing a poem about something that was maybe hard for you in your life, as almost cathartic and helping on a processing level. But then the performance of that poem, because of the way that you perform is to essentially step back into it and almost relive it in a multisensory way, can itself become reacquainting with that same state.

Yeah. And it's sort of rare for me for that to happen. Like typically it is, I would say 95% of the time or 98% of the time, it is healing. It feels like medicine to speak, actually speak something out of my body. It does feel like releasing this sort of stored up dark energy most of the time. And then some moments, typically, I think if I'm not listening to myself well enough right before I read the poem on whether or not that's a good day for me to read it, but I rarely follow my set list just because, you know, I'll come up with a tentative one, but then I'll keep looking down at it to see if I can read that particular poem

authentically and also in a way that will be supportive of my own wellness before I read it. Yeah, that's so interesting. So it's almost like you have all the set pieces in your mind, but you never actually, it's almost like you're choosing to set in real time as you're performing based on both what's happening interactively between you and those there, and also just what's happening with you internally and how you feel like you'd be with that. Yeah, because spoken word, you know, I love the art form. And also, I really hate it if the poet is not feeling what they're saying.

And so it's always important to me to be able to read something, perform something that feels honest that day. And sometimes I get really bothered by the confines of that authenticity, because sometimes that means I read a poem that I don't respect the writing of as much, you know, and there's this other poem where the writing's way better. And there's this writer I love in the audience, and I have to read the good, you know, and I just can't do it because if I don't read it authentically, it will suck. Yeah. I'm curious about this. I know with a lot of bands, you go to see a band who's been around for a long time or a singer or songwriter who's been around for a long time who has, you know, they have their favorites,

you know, the audience favorites that every single time the audience wants to hear it. I don't know whether it's the same with spoken word, but if it is like, and you're not feeling it that night, like, what do you do? Yeah, no, it's really sad if I'm not feeling it. And there will be a lot of, you know, I'll try. I'll actually take a moment on stage if somebody hollers out a poem and see if I could, if I could do it. And, you know, sometimes I can and sometimes I can't. And then, you know, some of it is, you know, some of it is just like, gosh, maybe the poem is about somebody I'm currently in an argument with. And, you know, it happens more commonly because so much of my writing is about social justice and my politics and have changed so much, like they change constantly. And so I

get a lot of requests for poems that I no longer identify with the politics of that piece, or there is something in that piece that I feel is hurtful, or I've been told is hurtful. And I mean, most of the time in my life, if somebody has called me out on a poem being hurtful, I can think of one instance where I disagreed. Almost always somebody has just learned something faster than me and has been kind enough to teach it. So I get a lot of requests for poems that I no longer resonate with the message of. Yeah. When that happens, where you've come to a point where you understand, okay, so now with hindsight and with a lot more growth and learning and conversation, I understand why it doesn't feel right to perform anymore. Do you ever share that reframing or that process with people who are asking about it or Or do you just sort of like, pass it by? Yeah, I almost always discuss why on the mic. For example, I have this very old poem, that's one of my first spoken word poems that I ever did, that I believe is the language I use in the poem is racist. And I didn't know that at the time that I was writing it, but I know it now.

And also, I paint my parents in a light that I am no longer comfortable with. It's one of the only poems I've ever written where I wrote mad and I stayed mad and I let that poem be in the world. And it's just not how I view the human experience anymore in regards to these people are bad, these people are good. And so I'll just break all that down on stage typically. Yeah, that's amazing. So it's sort of like you turn it into a learning experience for everybody as well. And also, I mean, it's really powerful modeling, I feel like for people who are up and coming and, and almost feel like, well, you know, like you are a, you're a creative person in the world.

You're an artist, a performer that, you know, your body of work is your body of work and it should stand to be public regardless of, you know, what harm we understand it may cause now with the benefit of really changing and evolving and deeper understanding. And I think it's fascinating modeling to say, well, no, actually, you know, like we need to grow with the times and certain things are not appropriate to be out there anymore because when they are, they continue to do harm. And I never intended harm. And now that I know it was doing harm, I have to do something about it. And maybe, you know, like we can all look at the work that we're doing in that way. Yeah. And it's a, I think it's, I mean, I've come to call it a blessing of being in the public eye a little bit, where if you're going to do something, if you do something that hurts someone, like, you know, you're not going to go without knowing it. Somebody will, you know, somebody will tell you, they're far smarter people than me reading my poems. And I learn a lot from them. And so yeah, that's a gift, I guess, to know that if you do something wrong, somebody is going to tell you.

Yeah. And especially because so much of your work really is focused around gender norms, social reform, LGBTQ issues, compassion. And so you are speaking to the points of intersection in our life where we feel it the most. And these days, sadly, tend to be most polarized as a society. And I feel like a lot of, I'm curious about this. I feel like when I hear you perform, I hear the words. But underneath the words, what I feel is a call for compassion and a recognition of shared humanity, almost across any of what the words are. Thank you for saying that. I've always felt like, you know, I've said for a number of years that the words and spoken word are not the most important thing. I don't know if that's what you're saying, but it seems like it's the energy of with which you're approaching something.

And so I think I've failed a lot with my words. And hopefully even in those failures showed up in some way with my heart. And hopefully that can be heard by folks. Yeah. The Apple Watch Series 10 is here. It has the biggest display ever. It's also the thinnest Apple Watch ever, making it even more comfortable on your wrist,

whether you're running, swimming, or sleeping. And it's the fastest-charging Apple Watch, getting you eight hours of charge in just 15 minutes. The Apple Watch Series 10, available for the first time in glossy jet black aluminum. Compared to previous generations, iPhone XS or later required, charge time and actual results will vary. Mayday, mayday, we've been compromised. The pilot's a hitman.

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Y'all need a pilot. Flight risk. You have made a really interesting decision also. I don't know when it was. I know it was at least a chunk of years back to take pure spoken word and start to blend music with it, often live music that's being performed at the same time. I'm wondering whether when you started doing that, there was any pushback. I'm wondering whether in the culture of spoken word, there's sort of an ethos that says it's got to be based on the purity of the words

and one person and a microphone versus, you know, having this fuller experience, sonic experience around it. Yeah, there was pushback from lots of people. I think a lot of spoken word artists hated it. For myself, I think that there were times that I also was constantly arguing with it. You know, if I go and hear a poet, this is not going to, you know, do much good for my career to say this on here. But if I go and hear a poet, I want to hear them without music, you know, but it is what I have the most fun with. And, you know, when I started touring clubs and stuff, you know, the owners of the place, they had no idea what they were booking,

that they were booking comedy or they just weren't used to having a poet. And so I was often, they'd insist that there be a musical opener. So I started making tons of friends who were musicians. And I just love to make art with other people and collaborate. And that's how it got started. I'm like, oh, if we're both going to be on the stage, let's do something together. But yeah, there's a piece I may share today that I would not have written that piece if I thought that it was going to live on its own.

It was written to live with music. And I've just loved making art with other people. But sure, yeah, I don't think everybody loves it. And then I think some other people prefer it because they get, I don't know, maybe they're just not big poetry fans. I'm not sure. But it also if you do it right, and I've done it wrong a lot. But if you do it right, it can really add to the emotion of, of the piece. Yeah, I mean, it's fascinating to me. I have always thought about those little decisions when you decide to add something into something which some people would

consider and you're like, well, this is the pure form of the art. And when you add this in, you know, does it amplify it? Does it give something new and better? Or does it in some way bastardize it? In a very past life, I was actually a yoga teacher and I was one of the sort of like the early people in New York city who started bringing music into my classes. And while some people got it and enjoyed it, other people were like, wow, this is the whole quote hybrid,

you know, like yoga teaching thing is completely bastardizing what it's about. And I would say to them, well, yes, and. If you hold the view that it's got to be only about pure silence and the words, I can understand that, and I respect that. And at the same time, if you look at every healing tradition in the history of humankind, they all involve both incantation and rhythm and some other form of music. And it's pretty modern that we've separated them. So it's so easy. I'm fascinated by this lens of how people, and also who are the arbiters of what is right or wrong or the best way to do it. Yeah, that's interesting you bring that up because my partner is a writer and also yoga teacher. And she has,

she plays music in her class, and she puts so much thought into what she's going to play in there. And I will, I will sit down with her yoga playlist and write to them all day long. And, and I've done both yoga within it without, you know, music. And for me, they're different experiences, but also beautiful in their own way. And lately, I've been preferring yoga with music. Yeah, I agree. I think they're just different. I love sometimes, like the same with meditation, I'll meditate just in pure silence sometimes, but then sometimes I just kind of want something layered into it. And it just, it's different. It gives me something different. So there are two pieces that you're going to share with us, I believe. If you could set up the first one, tell me a little bit about it.

And then I'd love to talk about a little bit more and then we can maybe do the same for the second. Sure. Yeah. So this is a poem titled homesick, a plea for our planet and the music with the piece is done by Gregory Alan Isaacov, who lives by me here in Colorado, who I've toured with in the past. And when all tours got canceled, Gregory went back to being a farmer, which he has been throughout his musician life as well. So this was a sweet collaboration, and I'm going to play it for you.

In the fifth grade, I won the science fair with a project on climate change that featured a papier-mâché ozone layer with a giant hole to which a papier-mâché sun burned the skin of a Barbie in a bikini on a lawn chair, glaciers melting like ice cubes in her lemonade. It was 1987 in a town that could have invented red hats, but the school principal gave me a gold ribbon and not a single bit of attitude about my radical political stance because neither he nor I knew it was a political stance. Science had not yet been fully framed as leftist propaganda, the president did not have a Twitter feed starving the world of facts. I spent that summer, as I had every summer before, racing to the forest behind my house down the path

my father called the old logging road to a meadow thick with raspberry bushes whose thorns were my very first heroes because they did nothing with their life but protect what was sweet. Sundays, I went to church, but struggled to call it prayer if it didn't leave grass stains on my knees. Couldn't call it truth if it didn't come with a dare to crawl into the cave by the creek and stay there until somebody counted all the way to 100. As a kid, I thought 100 was the biggest number there was. My mother absolutely blew my mind the day she said 101. 100 and what?

Billionaires never grow out of doing that same math with years. Can't conceive of counting past their own lifespans. Believe the world ends the day they do. Why are the keys to our future in the hands of those who have the longest commutes from their heads to their hearts, whose greed is the smog that keeps us from seeing our own nature and the sweetness we are here to protect? Do you know sometimes when gathering nectar, bees fall asleep in flowers? Do you know fish are so sensitive snowflakes sound like fireworks when they land on the water?

Do you know whales will follow their injured friends to shore often taking their own lives so do not let their loved ones be alone when they die none of this is poetry it is just the earth being who she is in spite of us putting barcodes on the sea in spite of us acting like edison daylight dawn, presses her blushing face to my window, asks me if I know the records in my record collection look like the insides of trees. Yes, I say, there is nothing you have ever grown that isn't music. You are the bamboo in Coltrane's saxophone reed, the mulberries that fed the silkworms that made the slippers for the ballet. The pine that built the loom that wove the hemp for Frida Kahlo's canvas. The roses that dyed her paint, hoping her brush could bleed for her body.

Who more than the earth has bled for us? How do we not mold our hearts after the first spruce tree who raised her hand and begged to be cut into piano keys so the elephants could keep their tusks. The earth is the right side of history, is the canyon my friend ran to when no one else he knew would echo his chosen name back to him, is the wind that wailed through 1956 Alabama into the poplar tree carved itself into Dr.. King's pulpit is the volcano that poured the mercury into the thermometer held under the tongue of Italy, though she knew our fever was why her canals were finally running clear. She took our temperature, told us we were too hot, even after weed, spent decades claiming she was not our hands held to her burning forehead.

We insisted she was fine, while wildfires turned redwoods to toothpicks, readying the teeth of the apocalypse. She sent a smoke signal all the way from California to New York City. Ash fell from the sky. Do you know the mountains of California used to look like they'd been set on fire because they were so covered in monarch butterflies? Do you know monarch butterflies migrate 3,000 miles using only the fuel they stored as caterpillars in the cocoon? We need

so much less than we take. We owe so much more than we give. Squirrels plant thousands of trees every year just from forgetting where they left their acorns. If we aim to be just half as good as one of the earth's mistakes, we could turn so much around. Our living would be seed. The future would have roots. We would cast nothing from the garden of itself, and we would make the thorns proud. I want to stand up and applause. That would be nice. I hope I get to see some applause sometime in the next two years. Applause is such a sweet communal thing. I love it. Yeah. And I mean, how oddly poetic that

the reason that you can is because just things are happening in our planet, which are changing things, which are keeping us separate, which are isolating us. But bigger picture, when you write a piece like that, which is deeply compelling, deeply moving, very focused in the meshes that it's sending, I'm curious whether you are intentional about being completely honest, letting it flow through you, writing something that feels real and raw and pure to yourself. And at the same time, wanting to invite the greatest number of people into the conversation so that, because this is, a poem like that is also a call to action. And the more people you can have feel it and respond to it beyond being personally moved, the more likely they are to act on it. Yeah, I think that's the value of art that I don't think people's minds change very quickly,

but people's hearts can change in an instant. And I think that's something that I love about spoken word, but all art, it can change your heart in an instant and then your mind catches up over time. But I don't think I've had a poem that I've written so directly in a long time. There have been a lot of, I've done a lot of, for lack of a better word, like dancing in my poems lately where you'll hear what the next poem I share. It's nothing so, like you said, direct it. Then with this, I really wrote it hoping that it would do something like hoping that folks who hadn't previously had a relationship with the earth could see how the earth is everywhere. You know, I have a lot of friends who live in the city, and they have a far different relationship with the earth or even thoughts about the earth than I do. And I was writing that, you know, wanting to reach them because those folks are, you know, some of the greatest activists I know doing so much and, that is truly unique about poetry in the context of poetry that has a bigger message that is speaking to issues of the day. And that is that when you're also effectively building a case with a poem and inviting people to do something about it. When you contrast doing that through powerfully written verse versus laying out graphs and charts and statistics, it lands, it's almost like when you start to quantify

the arguments, I think for some people, the rational brains is okay. I get it. But for a lot of people, they A, get defensive and then B, start to say, okay, so here are specific things that I can find counter evidence to refute. But when you deliver the same thing in verse and it speaks to senses and emotion and story, it's like it bypasses all of that. And it just lands so deeply in a person's soul that the impulse to just immediately controvert it, in some way, I feel like it bypasses that. I wonder if you feel something similar.

I do. And I think that's a lot of my draw to the art form. And I remember learning this lesson a lot at the beginning of the Iraq war, I had a friend in the war. And I remember reading all these statistics and then trying to write poems that, you know, to do something that were full of statistics. And the statistics were heart-wrenching and overwhelming and disgusting. But I learned in that process a lot of years ago now, that to tell the story of one person would often reach people more. You tell the story of, you know, there was this soldier who had come back from Iraq, and he had been wearing the dog

tags of, for lack of the better word, like of soldiers that he was fighting against. And his family had thought he was wearing his own dog tags, but he had been wearing the dog tags of someone he had killed and ended up killing himself. And that story, I remember thinking, God, we could say numbers forever. And there is so much there that is, I can't talk about it right now without getting upset. So yeah, you can't argue with the story of somebody's life. You can't argue that bees fall asleep in flowers. Ever since I read that fact, it doesn't leave me. I'm just, the sweetness is overwhelming. Yeah. You brought a second piece today as well.

And this is another, very different, but equally powerful. Can you set it up for us? Yeah, I will. And I recorded this in my basement at the beginning of the pandemic. And the music for this piece is done by an artist named Chris Parika, who is a close friend of mine. And I wrote this actually about a dear friend of mine named Buddy Wakefield, who is one of my favorite poets on earth, and he's one of my best friends.

But he really made me angry one day. I got in this. I was so mad. I don't know if I've ever been more angry at a friend. And in the middle of that anger, I decided to start writing, which I never do. I got this advice in college that you should never write unless you have some distance from a thing so you can see it clearly. But I began writing with the intention of shifting my anger to a place of gratitude. And I got about a few lines into this poem and just loved him so much. I could not believe how quickly my anger shifted to appreciation. So it's called A Year of No Grudges.

I think almost everyone tries hard to do good. It just finds out too late. They should have tried softer. I've never in my whole life been level-headed, but the older I get, the more level-hearted. And I think we make gods who look like us for a reason. I think in spite of it all, we trust we can be believed in. When I don't believe in myself, I try to remember I have walked on water like 700 times in Maine in the dead of winter. Where I come from, you can drive a pickup truck from one side of the lake to the other, and people have an unusually large amount of missing teeth and fingers, but you can still sell them whitening strips and wedding rings like crazy, because where I come from,

beauty is in the eye of anyone who sees what's missing, but can't stop pointing to what's still there. If there is no definition for love yet, I think that's a good one. I'm writing this on a day you did me wrong. I'm just a half a second outside the furnace of my rage, and I'm trying to focus the steeple of my attention on all the teeth you still have instead of the ones I know you'd happily knock out yourself if it would keep you from biting anyone again. And that's how mistakes work if you're loving the right kind of people, you are the right kind of people you've walked on water so many times you know grace is slippery there's literally nothing anyone is more likely to fall from some sound advice i

give myself like twice a second wear knee pads on the way to your ego andrea being right is boring rightness comforts only the tiniest parts of us. And when it comes to hearts, I want always to be a size queen because that's how I found you, lifting the spirits of everyone around you like hot air balloons, just from the way you burn to be a better person today than you'd been the day before. Burning to be better is my favorite quality on anyone.

And you are on fire like a gay men's choir singing the halftime show of a football game i have been dancing in the end zone since the day you taught me how to break every promise i have made to my pain taught me my wounds will never ever be bigger than i am thank goodness for you champion of the unkillable, yes, dandelion refusing to be picked for the bouquet. Five minutes into our first conversation, you knew I could take a punch better than I could take a compliment, and you talked to me about that once, and bam, I was angel gossip. There were god rumors flying around my suddenly unheavied head. I love you because you've never had a mirror face. Because the truth is nothing you could ever try to fake.

So sometimes you look like a human scribble. Like a three-year-old has colored you in. Like you've got too many feelings to stay inside the lines of your own skin. But that, friend, that is the masterpiece. I love you because we both showed up to kindness tryouts with notes from the school nurse that said we were too hurt to participate, but we learned how wrong we were. And weren't those the best days when we learned how wrong we were and so got to grow into our goodness, throwing the peach pits of our old selves into the garden to grow sweetness, sugar. I'd pick you to be the captain of my chosen family tree. I'd pick you to throw the party when I leave this world, knowing I'm gonna run deaf like a stop sign

and keep going. I'd pick you to finish all my half-written poems, even though you're terrible at writing poetry. I'd pick you to finish this one especially. This list of compliments you'd be a hypocrite not to take, so take it. Before I remember, I'm mad at you, asshole, buttwad, only human on the whole planet who knows what I mean when I say God, I mean everyone down here who understands that when I get to heaven I will refuse to call it heaven if who put me through hell isn't there. What goes through you when you hear yourself perform that? Cause it's kind of watching your face as you were listening. Yeah, I was actually feeling, what was I feeling? I was, um, I was feeling sad really.

Um, but I was also, it was one of those sad, you know, I, I often have a hard time deciphering in my body between sadness and love. They intermingle too much for me. But I was feeling sad about, you know, the grudges that are so easy to hold. And I wrote it before the pandemic. But when I decided to share it, you know, thinking that this pandemic might last a year, it probably will be longer. But the idea of this being a year of no grudges, like if you're holding a grudge against somebody right now, it's a really good time to let it go, not just for their sake, but it's such a burden to carry, like bitterness is so painful. But what was hitting me and listening to it was just how

easy it was. It was so simple to move from that anger, which I didn't think I was going to let go for months, in just a matter of minutes to appreciation. And yeah, I've heard somebody said once, like, the only thing we have control over in this life is where we put our attention. And to just shift my attention in that moment was really lovely. And it released me from, you know, anger is not fun to carry. And yeah, I love that dude so much. And one of my favorite lines of it is, you're terrible at writing poetry just because he's just such an exceptional poet.

Just sneaking in a quick little dig there. Yeah, I mean, I go back to what I shared earlier, which is I'm listening to the words, but what I'm hearing is just a feeling, is a mood, is a vibe. And the message I get, but it kind of just comes in. I know you have, you've said elsewhere, maybe more than a poet, I'm kind of a public feeler. I just get up there and feel everything all over the place. Yeah. Yeah. I wish not so much sometimes. It'd be nice to have a few days without so many feelings. That was like a diagnosis a psychiatrist gave me once. Like the problem is you feel too much. And I'm like, yes, I know that. But I also don't know if I want to get rid of it. Yeah, I mean, and that actually is a curiosity. Do you

feel like, along with feeling so much and so deeply, you know, that without that, there's no work, there's no creativity, there's no, you know, and I guess maybe the deeper question, what I'm really trying to ask you is, because I've seen so many artists, so many people who are in this sort of generative space where something comes out of the depths of their soul and turns into beautiful painting, words, music, attach themselves to the notion that not just feeling, but suffering must always be there for them to do work at the level that they want to be able to offer. And I wonder how that all lines with you. Yeah. I've thought about that so much. Firstly, I think there's a difference

between feeling harder feelings like grief and terror. There's a difference between that and suffering. And to me, those are two different things. You can feel sad, but the suffering comes, I think, with having a ton of desire to get rid of that sadness. For me, at least, that's where a lot of the pain comes in. If I just let the sadness be, it typically moves out of my body more quickly. So allowing it to exist helps it move. But as far as the narrative, I think it's something that has permeated a spoken word a lot, is that you can't write a good poem unless you're suffering and unless you're in pain. And I don't believe that at all. And I wish for artists like no poems ever, no art ever, if it means you get to have your life full of love and joy and gratitude. So I'd like to do away with that

narrative, honestly, because I've seen it impact young people who almost feel like they don't have permission to be joyful if their sadness created so much art. I don't actually think the pain is where art comes from. I think it comes from honesty. And we may have not created enough space to celebrate art that is blissful, you know, or that it's almost like turning a sock inside out, that sadness the second. It's like, it goes inside out. And I can't really explain. I know that image might not make sense, but as soon as something becomes art, then it's important to recognize that sometimes it almost immediately turns to, you could turn immediately grief to joy.

Yeah, I have so many different thoughts about this, but I don't know if everybody knows, but in the spoken word, you know, there are a lot, it's a very young art form. And in my opinion, I would love to see more happy poems, more celebratory poems, and more people wanting to hear those types of poems. Just because it's such, you know, it's our life too. And I don't want artists to ever feel like they have to, you know, live their entire lives. So miserable.

Yeah. And I think that is probably a pretty common experience in spoken word, but just across nearly every art form. And I agree with you. I think we all have to experience life. And some of that involves hard things and tough things, and some of that involves pain. Yeah. But we don't have to invite it. And also, I love the frame that you brought, which is that the suffering comes from an almost maniacal attempt to rid ourselves of it rather than acknowledging that this is a part of it all, and I didn't ask for it, but it's here.

Yeah. So now what do I do with this? How do I be with it in a way that's in some way I can find meaning in it? And if it goes away and if there are things I can do to help, great. But, and if not, then at least I can understand it and transmute it into something positive. Yeah. And I also don't ever want to deny like, or say, don't feel grief. We all like to be human is to grieve and to is, you know, to love is to grieve and to be joyful is to, you know, be sad when the joy goes. So all of it exists. There just tends to be sometimes I think that a lot of what's fueling art is the grief. And I just want to give artists

permission to, or faith that joy can do it too, you know, just because I do know, I mean, when I feel into, and it's not just artists, it's activists as well. Like my activist community, it just is like, hearts are so heavy right now, everywhere, all over the world. And to offer yourself, to be reminding yourself that you deserve joy and to nurture that and to take time to do that and that it also will create its own beautiful things. I love that. And it feels like a good place for us to come full circle as well. So sitting here in this container of Good Life Project, if I offer up the phrase to live a good life, what comes up? To live a good life, to be connected, to love, to celebrate, to feel

deeply and to continuously be becoming, to welcome the becoming and the shift that, you know, hopefully in our last breaths here where I want to in my last breath think, but there's more I wanted to become. And then hopefully the others, you know, it's like running death, like a stop sign and you just keep on going and keep, keep becoming. Thank you. Yeah. Thank you so much for having me. Hey, before you leave, if you love this episode, Safe Bet, you'll also enjoy the conversation we had with Morgan Harper Nichols about the power of language to connect people. You'll find a link to Morgan's episode in the show notes. And of course, if you haven't already done so, please go ahead and follow Good Life Project

in your favorite listening app. And if you found this conversation interesting or inspiring or valuable, and chances are you did since you're still listening here, would you do me a personal favor, a seven second favor and share it? Maybe on social or by text or by email, even just with one person. Just copy the link from the app you're using and tell those you know, those you love, those you want to help navigate this thing called life a little better so we can all do it better together with more ease and more joy. Tell them to listen. Then even invite them to talk about

what you've both discovered because when podcasts become conversations and conversations become action, that's how we all come alive together. Until next time, I'm Jonathan Fields, signing off for Good Life Project. The Apple Watch Series 10 is here. It has the biggest display ever.

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