Your Care

A young friend texted me these words.
“Thank you for your care.”

Tears arose.

She hadn’t said
“Thank you for your help.”
“Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you for your advice.”

She had said
“Thank you for your care.”

I don’t know if anyone has ever named it this way for me
this thing we do for one another —
your care.

Later that day
I stood in line at the post office with five packages
and after Thomas weighed
and typed
and stickered
and stamped
package after package
I smiled at him and said,
“Thank you, Thomas.
Thank you for your care.”

And we were both re-membered to
care.

I’m practicing saying it more often.
It feels a bit uncomfortable
but
it also feels like
exactly what I need 
right about now. 

by Ellen Gabardi
July 2026

The spoken version is below:

I hope you'll consider subscribing to Container To Hold It All.  It's free.
Simply click the button below.
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Hello Everyone Everywhere. Hello Anyone Anywhere. Hello Someone Somewhere.
Welcome to Containers To Hold It All.
What does that title mean? It means this:
I’m forever trying to make sense of It All, but I’m coming to the conclusion that creating containers-of-words to hold It All is plenty enough for now.
*Feel free to copy-and-paste my writings — to save for yourself or to share with others. If you do share, please include my name. :)
*Intentionally, there is no place for communal comments. I offer this as a quiet space for all so you can hear what you hear. 
(But if you want to share something with me, hit the Reply arrow or e-mail me at egabardi444@gmail.com.  I’m always receptive to others’ ponderings.)
*To access Archives of my previous posts, click here:
https://ellengabardi.substack.com/archive

Love,
Ellen

On The Ground

Whose woods these are I think I know.

We turn off the straightaway path
and find our footing on narrow bike trails 
deeper into the verdant woods of summer
greens, dark and rich.

On the ground 
a pale, ghostly green catches my eye
one wing of a four-winged luna moth 
its eyespot fading.

Further along

On the ground
double wings of a four-winged luna moth
one fore and one hind
its eyespots fading. 

Even further along

On the ground 
three wings of a four-winged luna moth
two fore and one hind
its eyespots fading.

Eyespots not for seeing
not eyes at all
trickery for survival
predators, easily fooled. 

(How like the luna moth I am
flashing falsity
Look here, a whispered wink
to protect my vulnerability.) 

For seven days, maybe eight or ten
the lifespan of a luna moth
lime-green for only the blink of an eye
then pale, ghostly green
its eyespots fading. 

For seven nights, maybe eight or ten
namesake of the moon
lime-green and winged
then pale, ghostly green
its eyespots fading.

Both
moon and moth
in fullness and in fade
light-becoming 
on the ground. 

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

by Ellen Gabardi
July 2026

To Touch

We are in the midst of 
a full and deep conversation
when I start speaking about something
that might seem unrelated
so I say
"We're going off on a tangent now.”

And she responds
“Are we?”

At the time, I think it 
a curious response
but don’t say so as I dive headfirst
into my announced tangent.

But later this occurs to me:
Perhaps she knows that
we never really go off on a tangent
because
we are 
always
telling

the same story
none the less
all the more
even still

perhaps
some new part of the same story
the back story of the same story
some dog-eared, repeated part of the same story
the next page of the same story
the behind-the-scenes action of the same story
the denouement we long for of the same story.

Tangent
comes from a Latin word meaning
to touch.

“We're going off on a tangent now”
to touch what’s always been there
to touch what’s newly arrived
to touch what might yet be
to touch what’s seen and what is unseen
to tell 

the same story
none the less
all the more
even still. 


By Ellen Gabardi
July 2026

The spoken version is below:

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Simply click the button below:

I hope you’ll consider sharing Containers To Hold It All.
Simply click the button below:

Hello Everyone Everywhere. Hello Anyone Anywhere. Hello Someone Somewhere.
Welcome to Containers To Hold It All.
What does that title mean? It means this:
I’m forever trying to make sense of It All, but I’m coming to the conclusion that creating containers-of-words to hold It All is plenty enough for now.
*Feel free to copy-and-paste my writings — to save for yourself or to share with others. If you do share, please include my name. :)
*Intentionally, there is no place for communal comments. I offer this as a quiet space for all so you can hear what you hear. 
(But if you want to share something with me, hit the Reply arrow or e-mail me at egabardi444@gmail.com.  I’m always receptive to others’ ponderings.)
*To access Archives of my previous posts, click here:
https://ellengabardi.substack.com/archive
Love,
Ellen

From the Same Place

His 4-month-old self can’t decide
can’t decide whether to cry or laugh
whether to cry or laugh or both.

So he goes with both.

He is crying about something
(it’s hard to know just what)
so we love him and hold him
rock him and coo to him
to no avail
so his daddy begins making
funny faces and funny sounds.

And the crying stops. Mostly.
And he laughs. Mostly.
Then he cries again. Mostly.
Then laughs again. Mostly.
Back and forth and back and forth
his little emotions bounce. 

I rub his tiny crying laughing head
and assure him that it is ok
to cry and laugh and cry and laugh
all at the same time.
“Tears and laughter come from the same place,”
I tell him
(as if he he needs an explanation).
“The very same place.  They live in there together,”
I further explain to him, my palm patting his tiny heart.
“And sometimes they dance together
and become one and the same.”  
He seems to understand.  
Maybe.
Not mostly.
Just maybe.

Sometimes I need somebody 
to rub my crying laughing head
to pat my heart
and say to me, 
“Tears and laughter come from the same place.
The very same place.  They live in there together.
And sometimes they dance together
and become one and the same.”  

Bless’edly one and the same,
telling us that something is important
re-membering us to something 
re-membering us to something 
that is important 
that is important
to us.

By Ellen Gabardi
July 2026

At 62

I read a memoir
written by a young woman.
What can a young woman show me
(that I haven’t already seen for myself)? 
What can a young woman tell me
(that I haven’t already told myself)?
What can a young woman teach me
(that I haven’t already learned for myself)?

I read a memoir
written by a young woman.
I can’t put it down.
The circumstances in her stories
the details in her stories
the names and places in her stories
the events in her stories
are not mine. 

Yet the push
Yet the pull
Yet the tug-of-war
Yet the turning away from self
Yet the shape-shifting into others’ shapes
are recognizable. 

I read the last word.
I set the book down.
And I cry and cry.
For her.
For me.
I climb into my bed
even though it is midmorning. 
I cover myself with my weighted blanket.
(Its job is to hold me unconditionally. 
Body, mind, heart.
It never fails.)
And I cry and cry some more.
For her.
For me.

And I hear these words from Somewhere,
“Just take care of yourself.” 
Plain and clear.
“Just take care of yourself.”
I say them aloud.
And I do.
I just take care of myself. 

I read a memoir
written by a young woman. 
What can a young woman show me
(that I haven’t already seen for myself)? 
What can a young woman tell me
(that I haven’t already told myself)?
What can a young woman teach me
(that I haven’t already learned for myself)?
“Just take care of yourself.” 
"Just take care of yourself."
Amen. 

by Ellen Gabardi
July 2026

If you're curious:  The memoir is Split the Baby by Lauren Rhoades.

Shhhhhhhhh, Phhhhhhhhh, Shhhhhhhhhh

The sweagullivers swift through the swooshens of the summer sky
We bejangle our bare flipsters over the gringled grains of sand
Flapping our floof-full featherines full force
Chasing the sweagullivers to the sea-salt squish of the shore
But they googly giggle above our curlacious tip tops
And swift and furlate further and further freyond us.

Oh, this communion of coastal compadres. 
Shhhhhhhhh, Phhhhhhhhh, Shhhhhhhhhh.

The criblets with clawsters scrumbling beneath our toosers
Raise a royful ruckus as we boundle their beach
Smallery and minisculous they are
Baraciously a blipper beneath the summer sky
But of importantus importansus 
in the grandanamous scheme of smallery and minisculous. 

Oh, this communion of coastal compadres. 
Shhhhhhhhh, Phhhhhhhhh, Shhhhhhhhhh.

The coquina clambourines quietly quinker with the tide
“Hellocopter,” they whoosper to us with a flinker and a flonker
Quietly quinkering under the summer sky 
Just before duggering their slipperiferous slonks
Deeper and dooper into the scratchity sand
Until sluid sleepens their slonks.

Oh, this communion of coastal compadres. 
Shhhhhhhhh, Phhhhhhhhh, Shhhhhhhhhh.

Sun-slopped and wind-whopped we 
swift like sweagullivers
scrumble like criblets
quinker like clambourines
driggle and draggle ourselves home
with sandlets in our pantlets, haponomous and sleepicious. 

Oh, this communion of coastal compadres. 
Shhhhhhhhh, Phhhhhhhhh, Shhhhhhhhhh.

by Ellen Gabardi
June 2026

It’s A Long Story

It’s a long story.

We say that a lot.
And usually in a tone of resignation —
as if we’ve told the long story 
one too many times.
Sometimes, though, in a dramatic tone —
as if we haven’t told the long story
enough or to enough people
(not enough 
to have gotten it out of our system
to have made friends with it
to have made peace with it
or at least to be able to live with it
in the same way we live with
a slight curve in our lower spine
in the same way we live with
a family heirloom we’re not allowed to get rid of
in the same way we live with
a mosquito buzzing around our head as we sleep.)

It’s a long story.

We say that a lot.
And perhaps we mean
that reconciliation isn’t possible
or at least
that reconciliation hasn’t happened yet,
reconciliation that would do 
what reconciliation does —
bring the pieces together again
the broken pieces
the discordant pieces
the pieces that carry the questions
the pieces in search of healing
the pieces in search of the whole 
the pieces that want peace. 

It’s a long story.

We say that a lot.
Maybe because we can’t figure out 
how to make it not so long.
Maybe because we can’t figure out 
how to turn the long story into a short story.
Or into a poem.

Or into a prayer.
Or … maybe 
just maybe
That 
is what the long story has been 
all along.  

by Ellen Gabardi
July 2026

Coming and Going, Come and Gone

This photo 
tucked in an envelope 
labeled
Unknown.

This photo
received
when two lives
coming and going
come and gone
the reliquaries of their lives
dismantled and disseminated
to the next generations.

Unknown
in This Moment
Known
in That Moment.

Known
the one who stirred lemon juice and sugar for lemonade
the one who secured tents to the ground
the one who gifted a baseball bat on an 8th birthday
the one who stitched the flag of stars and stripes
the one who led the singing
the one who stayed behind to tend elders and newborns
the one who churned the ice cream
the one who ironed the shirts
the one who hand wrote the invitations
the one who arranged the flowers
the one who kissed the children atop their heads 
the one (the only one) who smiled for the camera
the one who tied bows on girls’ dresses 
the one who roasted the pig
the one who washed the tablecloths
the one who blessed the food and blessed the nation
Known
In That Moment
Unknown
In This Moment.

We
Known
In This Moment 
stirring, securing, gifting,
stitching, singing, tending, 
churning, ironing, writing, 
arranging, kissing, smiling, 
tying, roasting,  washing, 
blessing. 

We, too,
someday tucked in an envelope
labeled
Unknown

the reliquaries of our lives
dismantled and disseminated.

And in all of that —
in 
All of That,
The Now Known
and
The Someday Unknown

lies our freedom

lies our freedom
to be fully here
in this moment

coming and going
come and gone

all the while
even still.

By Ellen Gabardi
July 2026

For The Time Being 

I send a note to a friend in the midst of her cancer treatments,
a note of quiet celebration marking that she is
“… halfway home …”
three of six weeks of treatment completed.

I add parenthetically
(parentheses, clever curved creatures,
rarely pointing us toward something unimportant
as they pretend to do, instead
pointing us, in their clever curved way, 
to what is essential,
setting words apart so we can’t not notice them):

(Truth be known, though, you're already home.  
Just in an unfamiliar room for the time being.)

As I type these words, tears arise.
Maybe because of the reminder that we’re all always already home.
Comforting.
Maybe because of the image of an unfamiliar room.
Disconcerting.
But, honestly, the tears arise over the words “for the time being.” 
Yes, the tears arise over the words “for the time being.”

For the time being.
Somewhat absolute, yet not.
Somewhat focused, yet not. 
Somewhat settling, yet not. 

(For the time being.
For the time 
being.
Amen.)


By Ellen Gabardi
June 2026


The spoken version is below:

I hope you’ll consider subscribing to Containers To Hold It All. It’s free.
Simply click the button below:

I hope you’ll consider sharing Containers To Hold It All.
Simply click the button below:

Hello Everyone Everywhere. Hello Anyone Anywhere. Hello Someone Somewhere.
Welcome to Containers To Hold It All.
What does that title mean? It means this:
I’m forever trying to make sense of It All, but I’m coming to the conclusion that creating containers-of-words to hold It All is plenty enough for now.
*Feel free to copy-and-paste my writings — to save for yourself or to share with others. If you do share, please include my name. :)
*Intentionally, there is no place for communal comments. I offer this as a quiet space for all so you can hear what you hear. 
(But if you want to share something with me, hit the Reply arrow or e-mail me at egabardi444@gmail.com.  I’m always receptive to others’ ponderings.)
*To access Archives of my previous posts, click here:
https://ellengabardi.substack.com/archive
Love,
Ellen

Have A Good Day

Self-checkout is maddening.
Particularly when a voice gives me instructions over and over —
as if I’m incompetent 
or a thief.  
And particularly when a voice halts the process I thought I was mastering 
by saying “Help is on the way.” 
I’m held captive by a frozen screen and 
a disembodied voice insisting I need help.

On this day I complete a flawless checkout.
If it were an Olympic sport, I’d receive 10s across the board.
But the man in the self-checkout lane next to me
doesn’t stick the landing. 
He doesn’t know what he has done or not done
what transgression he has committed
(incompetence?  thievery?)
but the frozen screen and disembodied voice 
insisting that he needs help
assures him that he has done something wrong.  
“Help is on the way.”

I turn to him with empathy
assuming he’s sure to be throwing his hands in the air
cursing the machine
saying something like “Why can’t humans check us out anymore?”
and pacing in the tiny circle of drug store carpeting allowed him
wondering “Well, where is the help?”

But 
he isn’t doing any of those things. 
He is laughing. 
He is smiling. 
This man who has done something or not done something
this man who is being loudly admonished 
for doing something or not doing something
this man who is being held captive by a machine
and a disembodied voice
is laughing
is smiling. 

My brain isn’t sure what to do with this. 
He doesn’t need empathy.
He doesn’t need consolation.
He's o.k.

I stop and let his laughter wash over me
and say, 
“Thank you.  Thank you for laughing.  Thank you for smiling.
Thank you for showing me another way.”  

He smiles and with a slight bow says, 
“You’re very welcome.  Have a good day.” 

By Ellen Gabardi
April 2026

I Catch Glimpses of My Father

At home, he was mostly still.  
Reading the newspaper or a book,
a stack of books always by his chair.
Swirling his nighttime martini.
Thinking about things, 
thinking about a lot of things.

At home, he was mostly a quiet presence.
Not the one talking the most or the loudest,
present in his own quietly funny way
usually with a witty one-liner
that would envelop tension in humor —
and everything would shift. 

At home, he was our comic relief.
He’d fluff his dinner napkin in our faces.
He’d show us his favorite cartoon from the funny pages.
He’d smile at us with his closed-mouth grin 
that lit up his face
and ours too. 

At home and at work, he was humble.
His presence was often just what was needed —
an observer who knew that, given enough time and space,
people generally figure things out on their own,
people generally work things out on their own, 
even children.

I watch another father these days,
and I catch glimpses of my father.
A thinker, doing what thinkers do.
Present, but not needing to direct the family show.
Being ok with children being children
because, after all, that's what they are for now.
Funnying with little offsprung humans.
And offering a closed-mouth grin
that lights up his face
and lights up the faces of the little offsprung humans too.  

I watch another father these days,
and I catch glimpses of my father.
Genetics perhaps.
Magic indeed. 

by Ellen Gabardi
Father's Day 2026

Both of Them

She dreamt.

She is on the floor
placing the pieces of a puzzle
a beautiful puzzle of
blues mostly
mostly deep blues
soft blues
touches of blue-greens too
and muted pinks, all of it
Quiet.

The puzzle is large
sometimes She is on her knees 
reaching for a piece
placing a piece
sometimes She sits back
Her legs bent beneath Her
from there She can see
She can see the whole image
as it is taking shape, all of it
Quiet.

She is almost finished
and feeling deeply satisfied
saturated
with it all
the depth
the beauty
the solitude, all held by the
Quiet.

A friend comes into the room
a childhood friend
her earliest childhood friend
her energy interrupting the space
as she drops to the floor
and flips the pieces of the puzzle
into chaos
disturbing
disrupting
disengaging the pieces
destroying
the depth
the beauty
the solitude, the
Quiet.

She
She is on the floor
Still
with no words
shattered 
in this moment
without a moment’s notice
gone
the depth
the beauty
the solitude, the
Quiet.

Her alarm goes off.
The dream cut short.

As She remembers the dream
She recognizes Herself
the one on the floor
placing the pieces of the puzzle 
creating
the depth 
the beauty
the solitude, the
Quiet. 

But who
who is the one 
disturbing
disrupting
disengaging the pieces
destroying
the depth
the beauty
the solitude, the
Quiet?  

Herself.
Yes, Herself. 
Some part of Herself.  
Some part of Herself who
from childhood
from Her earliest childhood
from Her earliest childhood messages
dismembered Herself 
forgetting how to 
honor
behold
Her need for
depth 
beauty
solitude, for
Quiet.  

But what if 
what if the alarm hadn’t awakened Her?
What might She have done?
She
Still
with no words
shattered 
in this moment
without a moment’s notice
gone
the depth
the beauty
the solitude, the
Quiet.

What might She have done?  
Wept.
And wept
and wept
until a pool of tears
held both of Them
the quiet and the chaos
the creator and the destroyer
the one beholding and the one dishonoring. 

The pool of tears 
blues mostly
mostly deep blues
soft blues
touches of blue-greens too
and muted pinks, all of it
Quiet.
Holding both of Them
floating on their backs. 

Both of Them
Held.
Both of Them
Her. 
Both of Them
Quiet. 


By Ellen Gabardi
June 2026


The spoken version is below:

I hope you’ll consider subscribing to Containers To Hold It All. It’s free.
Simply click the button below:

I hope you’ll consider sharing Containers To Hold It All.
Simply click the button below:

Hello Everyone Everywhere. Hello Anyone Anywhere. Hello Someone Somewhere.
Welcome to Containers To Hold It All.
What does that title mean? It means this:
I’m forever trying to make sense of It All, but I’m coming to the conclusion that creating containers-of-words to hold It All is plenty enough for now.
*Feel free to copy-and-paste my writings — to save for yourself or to share with others. If you do share, please include my name. :)
*Intentionally, there is no place for communal comments. I offer this as a quiet space for all so you can hear what you hear. 
(But if you want to share something with me, hit the Reply arrow or e-mail me at egabardi444@gmail.com.  I’m always receptive to others’ ponderings.)
*To access Archives of my previous posts, click here:
https://ellengabardi.substack.com/archive
Love,
Ellen

There Are Things I Don’t Know

When someone 
says or does
something

which runs askew
of my expectations
of my conditions
of my judgments
(imagine that)

I can throw darts
I can spit nails
I can call names

I can curl into a ball
I can spiral down a hole
I can cry a cloak of tears

or

I can set them free
I can set me free

I can release them
I can release me

I can offer them space
I can offer me space

I can hold them with grace
I can hold me with grace

simply by saying these words to myself

There are things I don’t know. 
There are things I don’t know.
There are things I don’t know.

My palms 
upturned in a gesture of not knowing
upturned in a gesture of
setting free
releasing
offering space
holding with grace. 

There are things I don't know.

These words expand my view
These words expand my landscape

These words ground me in fact
These words ground me in truth

These words envelop me in spaciousness
These words envelop me in graciousness

And sometimes I add an Amen
a reminder that the words are something like a prayer —
a prayer for that particular Someone
a prayer for this particular me.

There are things I don’t know. 
Amen.

By Ellen Gabardi
June 2026

It's Like A Bird

She holds my fledgling book of poetry
in her hands
turning the pages
page by page by page
closes the back cover
looks up at me through soft eyes
and asks me how I feel.
I pause to notice my feelings.
“Quiet,” I respond. “I feel quiet.”
And I do.  And it’s just right. 
She doesn’t question my unexpected response.
She simply lets the word rest between us.

“It’s like a birth,” she then says, referring to the book.
But I hear, “It’s like a bird.”
and remember the once-upon-summer’s day
when she held a fledgling
fallen from its nest
in her cupped hands.
Her hands its nest-for-the-time-being
for this time
this time of being
this time of being and birthing.
A fledgling birthing its wings. 

I think of my hands
and of being 
and of birthing
and remember when,
without much forethought,
I stood behind a friend enveloped by grief
placed my hands on the top of her head
on the crown of her head
and held my hands in place
held her in place
held her grief in place
a nest 
a quiet nest-for-the-time-being
for this time
this time of being
this time of being and birthing.
Fledgling grief birthing fledgling grief again and again. 

Crownings.
Birthings.
Fledglings.

Hands. 
Nests. 
Quiet.

It's like a bird. 
Everything.
Like a bird. 
Amen. 
  

By Ellen Gabardi
2026


The spoken version is below:

I hope you’ll consider subscribing to Containers To Hold It All. It’s free.
Simply click the button below:

I hope you’ll consider sharing Containers To Hold It All.
Simply click the button below:

Hello Everyone Everywhere. Hello Anyone Anywhere. Hello Someone Somewhere.
Welcome to Containers To Hold It All.
What does that title mean? It means this:
I’m forever trying to make sense of It All, but I’m coming to the conclusion that creating containers-of-words to hold It All is plenty enough for now.
*Feel free to copy-and-paste my writings — to save for yourself or to share with others. If you do share, please include my name. :)
*Intentionally, there is no place for communal comments. I offer this as a quiet space for all so you can hear what you hear. 
(But if you want to share something with me, hit the Reply arrow or e-mail me at egabardi444@gmail.com.  I’m always receptive to others’ ponderings.)
*To access Archives of my previous posts, click here:
https://ellengabardi.substack.com/archive
Love,
Ellen

Beneath

We walk the carpenter across the wood floors 
of our 100-year-old house.
We bounce.  He bounces.
Floor joists, he says.
We think they run this way, we offer.
Likely they run the other way, he suggests.  

None of us can see them.
They are hidden.
Hidden beneath our feet. 
Hidden beneath the wood floors.
Not seeable from where we stand …
even though they are just inches away
even though there are signs of their existence
even though we know something is holding us. 

Usually the flooring runs one direction
and the joists the other direction, he says.
See these nails?  See how they run in this direction?  
They show where the floor is nailed to the floor joists.  

Ah.  
He knows. 
He knows because … 
every day he looks beneath floors.
Beneath.
To see what is hidden.
Hidden beneath our feet.
Not seeable from where we stand. 

This is how he knows.

This is how we know.
  
Beneath.
Just beneath the surface.
Hidden, yet
so very very near.
So very very near. 

by Ellen Gabardi
May 2026

Succumbed

What courage it takes
to lie down
to close eyes.
Such vulnerability. 

What courage it takes
to allow sleep to overcome
to allow sleep to consume.
Such surrender.

This posture
is at once a proclamation of
“Done”
and a proclamation of
“Ready.” 
(They are, after all, one and the same.)

Done.
Tired.
Nothing more to give. 
Ready.
Receptive.
Willing to allow. 

Succumbed.

Nothing more
to give to the Light of Day.
After all, He too has already melted into
the pull of Something Greater, Something Beyond.

All the more 
to welcome revelations by the Conjurer of Night.
She has rested beneath her cloak in the Light.
Restored,
She removes the cloak from her shoulders
a soft flourish, a sweep across the sky
the sound -- an unsound --
a sigh
a release
the newly birthed dust of her fingertips
falling 
drifting 
touching

touching Those of Courage
in soft supine posture
inviting what is
what is 
most ancient
most present --
(They are, after all, one and the same).

Succumbed.

By Ellen Gabardi
May 2026 

At A Human Pace

The narrator of a documentary about life in a small Irish town
spoke these words:
Life moves at a human pace. 

At a human pace.

A human pace.

At the pace of a human.
At the pace of a human body.
At the pace of a human mind.
At the pace of a human heart. 

Did I ever inhabit this human pace?
Did I ever know this human pace?
Did I ever feel this human pace? 
This pace of a human?
This pace of a human body?
This pace of a human mind?
This pace of a human heart?

Yes. 

And I catch glimpses of it even still. 
It seems so familiar
and 
so foreign
all at the same time.
So very familiar.
So very foreign.

I recognize it in my body
and settle into it with relief
but 
rebellion follows.

I know it in my mind
and settle into it with satisfaction
but 
distraction follows.

I sense it in my heart
and settle into it tenderly
but 
turmoil follows. 

Life moves at a human pace.
At the pace of a human.
At the pace of a human body.
At the pace of a human mind.
At the pace of a human heart. 

To me, I gently say:

Walk slowly. 
Even if only from the kitchen to the bedroom. 

Listen to another’s words without chasing a response. 
Even if the hanging quiet feels awkward. 

Cry. Smile. Sigh. 
Even if you’re not really sure why. 

Beneath it all
life moves at a human pace.
Beneath it all
life moves at the pace of a human.
Beneath it all
life moves
at the pace of a human body
at the pace of a human mind
at the pace of a human heart.
Beneath it all
life moves
at the pace of your human body
at the pace of your human mind
at the pace of your human heart.
Beneath it all.

By Ellen Gabardi
May 2026


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Hello Everyone Everywhere. Hello Anyone Anywhere. Hello Someone Somewhere.
Welcome to Containers To Hold It All.
What does that title mean? It means this:
I’m forever trying to make sense of It All, but I’m coming to the conclusion that creating containers-of-words to hold It All is plenty enough for now.
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Love,
Ellen





 

Hold Only By Gaze

“We are always losing more 
than we keep.”

I came upon this line in an article,
an article about memory,
an article about how much of our memory
we are always losing.
But I heard so much more,
so very much more.

I came upon this line in an article
and it stopped me.
It stopped my breath in its rhythm.
It stopped my brain in its forward lunge.
It stopped my heart in its longing.

“We are always losing more 
than we keep.”

It brought me tears.
It brought me a sigh. 
It brought me relief. 
Yes, relief.

This urgency to get
and keep ... 
This drive to gather
and keep ... 
This striving to collect
and keep ...

information
adventure
accomplishment
security
approval
recognition
time
things

people.

Relief 
in naming that I am a sieve
everything passing through
some with an immediacy
some with reluctance, hesitancy
but passing through
none the less
each and all 
in its time. 

Everything passing through.
Everything.

“We are always losing more 
than we keep.”
Held only by our gaze
the gaze of our eyes
the gaze of our minds
the gaze of our hearts.

As I wrote these last words
a mourning dove called out
loud and clear
in that rounded, tunneled voice of song.

Hold only by gaze, she said.
A gaze of delight, 
of awe,
of compassion, 
of love ...
everything passing through
everything passing through.

“We are always losing more 
than we keep.” 

By Ellen Gabardi
May 2026


Quote from Sallie Tisdale
https://harpers.org/archive/2023/11/mere-belief/

The spoken version is below:

I hope you’ll consider subscribing to Containers To Hold It All. It’s free.
Simply click the button below:

I hope you’ll consider sharing Containers To Hold It All.
Simply click the button below:

Hello Everyone Everywhere. Hello Anyone Anywhere. Hello Someone Somewhere.
Welcome to Containers To Hold It All.
What does that title mean? It means this:
I’m forever trying to make sense of It All, but I’m coming to the conclusion that creating containers-of-words to hold It All is plenty enough for now.
*Feel free to copy-and-paste my writings — to save for yourself or to share with others. If you do share, please include my name. :)
*Intentionally, there is no place for communal comments. I offer this as a quiet space for all so you can hear what you hear. 
(But if you want to share something with me, hit the Reply arrow or e-mail me at egabardi444@gmail.com.  I’m always receptive to others’ ponderings.)
*To access Archives of my previous posts, click here:
https://ellengabardi.substack.com/archive
Love,
Ellen