Friday Poem: Torch
A poem about thresholds...
Hello friends,
The theme of the week is… follow the fun. Yeah I know, it’s cliche and “MJ it’s a mess out there.” I get it. I’m telling you though. Hear me out.
A little over 30 days ago, I made myself a promise. Every day, I would show up and be seen and I would do it even when parts of me wanted to disappear back into the quiet. Some days it was easy. Some days it wasn’t. There’s this particular kind of discomfort that lives in the body when you’re doing something your nervous system hasn’t quite made peace with yet. A low hum of are you sure about this? that follows you around.
But here’s what I noticed somewhere around the middle of it all: the hum got quieter. Not because the fear disappeared, but because showing up had become familiar enough that I had energy left over. Energy I could put toward the quality of what I was making, toward that beautiful, and that frustrating creative gap between the art I can see in my mind and the art my hands are still learning to make.
This week’s poem is about thresholds. Movement from the in-between space where you’re not quite who you were and not yet who you’re becoming. Maybe you’ll know the feeling.
Torch
I open my eyes. It is dark. I am at a crossroads. There is fog all around me and all I can see is the roads ahead. There is no breeze but a chill runs up my spine. I feel as if many, many eyes are looking at me but no one is there except …
Is that a light?
No it’s flickering. A star?
A fire.
As it gets closer I realize that it looks as if it is floating in thin air. As the fog parts slightly I see a grayish white robe appears. It is not walking, it is floating.
Slowly the torso and arms appear. an arm held out holding a torch. Behind the torch, a woman. She is not particularly tall but her presence is massive.
As she gets nearer to the crossroads I see that there is a face on either side of the one she’s looking at me with.
My breath stops. My heart pounds painfully in my chest.
Her lips do not move but I swear she’s whispering something to me. What is she saying?
Why can’t I hear her?
Did she say run or was that just my imagination. Because I think that’s what I want to do, maybe that’s what I want to hear.
My soul leans forward in order to catch what she is trying to tell me. And then I hear it. Three women simultaneously speak my name and say…
“Run, child. Do not walk.”
And as I place the sudden bread from my hands on the corner and turn to leave. Her last words a warning.
“Do Not look back.”
© MJ Coppola, March 12, 2026
Thank you for spending your time with these words. Writing is how I make sense of the knots and the beauty of this life. I hope this piece met you somewhere real. If it sparked something, let me know in the comments. I collect echoes. And if you know someone who might need this, share it so the reflection can keep traveling.
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