Say hello to the sun today.

Peek outside your window and remind him that he’s still your favorite show. That he still shines through to the inside, warms the carpet, charges the cat.

Be clutterful in your presence. There’s no need for the slow, reverent walk, like a silent scuttle around a death bed. The Earth is still here, even though she is grieving so much loss already, and so much loss to come. She knows when you are walking over her instead of walking with her. She knows that even though you are not outside– brambling over her hills and swimming through her waters– she knows she does not walk alone.

Say hello to the Earth today.

Say hello the people on the other side of her.

You don’t have to know the exact right thing to say yet. There probably isn’t an exact right thing to say. Grief is universal in that way. It’s only important that you do not look away for too long.

Look away, sometimes. Take a break when you need to.

Remember the huge space between looking away and a staring contest. Say hello to that space. Get comfortable there.

Turn off the news, sometimes.

You shouldn’t stare straight at the sun, or deep into the core of the Earth. You don’t need to. The light and gravity will reach you anyway.

Say hello the universe today.

You don’t have to stare at it so long it stops making sense. Just remember how it is holding you, and how it’s never needed words to let you know that, but we were gifted words,

and what better use of them than to fill the world with greeting?

Say hello to yourself, today.

You’re still here, even though, even though, and that’s a miraculous sort of thing.

Hello, my friend.