éxi plevrés

(six aspects —Greek)

 

So, we end where we started —

éxi plevrés

Six sides

not separate 

but held in tension 

around where we stand

 

We stand in the midst of a hexagon—six views.

 

We revisit the window looking into the past.

Together, we walk with happy memories.

We walk through sad ones.

We visit love and loss.

We witness joy and sorrow.

We watch grief unfold with no set timeline.

Looking back teaches humility.

 

We come again to peer through the window 

at the world around us.

This view is always our own.

Even when the impact is global, 

we feel it first where we stand.

Looking around teaches presence. 

 

We return to the window looking inward.

This is one of the hardest ones to approach.

Liking oneself and being at peace with self are fragile things.

Neither comes without returning here—again and again.

It is not easy. It is always necessary.

Looking inward teaches honesty. 

We walk to the window looking out.

Here we view the world beyond ourselves —

constantly changing 

Here we wrestle with right and wrong on a broader scale.

We see globally—and act locally.

Looking outward teaches responsibility. 

 

We return to the window looking upward.

Here we stand beneath 

what is greater than us.

We confront our mortality 

in the presence of the eternal.

We do not always find answers here—

but we find perspective.

We find humility. 

We find something that calls us 

higher than ourselves.

Looking upward teaches perspective. 

 

And still, we come to the window looking ahead. 

It is the easiest to approach—

and the costliest to live.

It is easy to dream. 

It is harder to become.

This window does not stand alone.

It draws its light from all the others.

Looking ahead teaches courage. 

 

We look in every direction.

Now—we live from where we stand. 

 

© Ron Simpson Jr.

Just—Daily

During the week

I get up earlier

thirty minutes or so

Let the dogs out

clean up whatever the night left behind 

I changed my work schedule

so I can be off on Fridays

appointments

or just to help 

On the weekends 

I get up

let the dogs out

cook breakfast 

Some days

eggs and sausage

sometimes

eggs and bacon

other days

eggs and pancakes

Lately

eggs and hash browns 

I do the laundry

wash

dry

fold

put away 

Clean the house

though we don’t make much mess 

Fix a few meals 

Some for now 

Some for later  

Mow the yard

trim it up 

That’s the physical

that’s what sits in my hands

But it goes

far beyond that 

There’s a cost

Not a price tag

nothing that simple 

This is life

This is what it is

Not à la carte

Not the dessert menu 

There’s a weight

mental

emotional

Sacrifice—

though not really 

There is more required of me now

This was always part of it

Part of the equation

part of the promise 

Not a question

of whether I will

or won’t 

Nothing heroic 

Just—

daily

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

Grace

Speak to me of Grace 

Grace is permission

to be weak 

before you are made strong 

Not the absence of strength—

but the beginning of it 

Not the failure of becoming— 

but the place it starts 

Grace is space 

to be wrong 

before you are made right 

Not the celebration of error— 

but the patience to outgrow it 

Grace is not softness—

It is structure 

Not indulgence—

but invitation 

Not a pass—

but a path 

It is God saying—

Not yet…

but not never 

Grace is looking upward 

when the world expects collapse 

It is the lift 

mercy never owes—

but always gives 

 

The quiet mercy 

of time 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

April 1, 2026 

Grace in Grief

Even in grief, 

there is grace.
Especially in grief, 

there must be grace 

Not the soft denial of pain,
not the bright lie of moving on,

but a steadying force—
a hand at the back,
a widening of breath,
a place within
that refuses
to let sorrow
take the whole room.

Grace is not the erasure of pain.
It is the capacity
to feel pain
without drowning in it.

It is the quiet strength
that lets you ache
without becoming
only the ache.

It is the breath
that returns after the sob,
the steadiness
that comes after the tremor,
the softening
that follows the sharp edge,
the reminder
that even hollow things
can still be held.

It is not a cure.
It is a companion.

Self-compassion—

the permission to be human

Surviving the ache—

the daily endurance that doesn’t pretend 

Redefining healing—

not ‘getting over’ but ‘growing around’ 

Divine support—

the unseen hand that steadies the shaking one

Finding purpose in pain—
not justification, but transformation 

These are not steps.
They are seasons.

They come in no order,
leave without warning,
and return
when least expected.

Grief does not follow a timeline,
but neither does grace.

Grief arrives uninvited.
Grace arrives unannounced.

Both remain
longer than expected.

Both shape the way
memory is carried.

Both change us.

And somehow,
in that changing,
memory and hope
learn to sit beside each other
without flinching.

In grief 

there is grace

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

In The Madness

The façade holds 

though teetering slightly 

Normalcy still clings 

to its fragile perch 

Excepting very late at night 

delving deeply into thought 

the mind finds a path 

past the clutter of the day's repast 

The cares and needs of those around 

have quieted a bit in my head 

leaving room to hear the heart 

Or perhaps 

the sound of the madness 

finally heard above the haste 

For what is love 

but madness 

What is passion 

but a fever  

To love passionately 

is to burn fervently 

with madness 

Not to burn only 

but to revel in the flame 

To feel the ardent heat 

To smell the fiery stench 

To hear the crackling 

As it burns … 

burns … 

burns …

And yet to embrace 

to draw it closer 

to pull it inside 

to welcome that sweet death 

that we call love 

For true love means: 

To give to have 

To throw out to hold 

To die to live 

To wait 

in the heat 

for that love to return 

To want 

and want nothing else 

To yearn 

for that smoky embrace 

To wait 

in the madness 

 

© Ron Simpson Jr.