The One Thing That Calls You Back

Dear You,

Every week, I think of you.

I sit at my desk, staring at my laptop, sipping my coffee—wondering what to write, what to share.

I imagine you on the other side, reading. Maybe with your own coffee, maybe in a rare, quiet moment, maybe snuggled up in your bed.

And I wonder: What do you need? What words might land softly, or stir something awake, or remind you that you’re not alone?

This week, during a seven-hour drive from Arkansas to Kansas, I decided to write to you about devotion.

Not in the way we usually hear it—not as obligation or sacrifice—but as something deeper.

A pull.

A knowing.

A quiet voice inside that says: This is yours to do.

I’ve always known that writing is mine. It’s the thing that saves me, again and again. The thing that, when I show up for it, shows up for me.

A little over ten years ago, I was in a stuck place. I was resisting what I knew deep down I needed to do. Write. I felt heartbroken, lost, longing for something different—but unwilling to do the very thing that could bring me back to myself.

And still, something inside me refused to let go. Some small, stubborn ember of devotion.

That’s when I wrote the poem I’m going to share with you today.

I decided to share it, not just because it matters to me, but because devotion—true devotion—is an act of love. Sharing my words with you is an act of love. Because stepping into the light, letting myself be seen, takes courage. It’s vulnerable. It’s a risk.

A risk that you might not like what I offer.

A risk that you might reject it.

A risk that it won’t land the way I hope it will.

But that’s not my part of the equation. My part is to create. To write, to put pen to page, to shape something from the quiet ache inside me and send it into the world.

Your part—how you receive it, what it means to you—is yours alone.

And isn’t that true for all of us?

You have something too. Something that calls you back. Something that, when you give yourself to it, gives something back to you.

What is that? I’d love to know.

Maybe it’s writing. Maybe it’s painting, or playing an instrument, or dancing, or baking, or building, or something else entirely. Maybe it’s something you’ve been afraid to share, afraid to let be seen.

But here’s what I know: the offering itself is the act of love.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be met with applause. What matters is that you create it. You honor it. You give it.

So today, I offer you this poem. I hope it moves you. I hope it reminds you of what you need to do. And most of all, I hope it nudges you back toward your own devotion—whatever that may be.

With warmth and light,

~ Linzi

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View of my favorite chimney at 3690 Washington St in San Francisco, California

Chimney Light

This morning when my sleep comes to an end

My eyes open and let the light seep in

Out the window my gaze seeks

Above the trees, a chimney peeks

Belonging to a house built in 1928

I face the back of this grand estate

Designed by a man named Arthur Brown

It sits on one of the highest hills in town

Standing taller than any of the lot

Collecting rays of light as they drop

Glowing with orangeness of the sun

Reflecting light where before there was none

This chimney and I have a morning exchange

That neither of us could have imagined becoming part of our day

And, yet, it is

And we speak

We speak about its burning beauty

And the giving of warmth as its personal duty

And it asks me

It asks me in all its shining morning glory

When are you going to step into the light?

When are you going to emerge from the shadows

And let yourself be seen?

I turn away and think to myself

Easy for you

You, the tallest wall

Who catches the light

By doing nothing at all

Then it dawns on me

The part I failed to see

What was meant for me to unearth

So my spirit could give birth

Why, this chimney’s feet endures the hottest of fires

While people gather round in smart attire

This chimney stands strong

With its head held high

It takes the heat

And embers that fly

The pokes

The smoke

The soot

Whatever is put

At its feet

It takes

It burns

It bakes

All so its residents and guests

Can warm their hands and chests

And clink their drinks

To a toast from their hearts

Celebrating all the successful parts.

Or, maybe they share the not so good

The sadness

The loss

And then add more wood

To this fire

That burns at the base

Of this chimney’s place

I turn my face

My eyes rest

On all that is expressed

Just outside my window’s sight

When am I going to step into the light?

Convert this blackness into white?

Learn from my very own plight?

Let this fire within finally ignite?

Allow myself to take this flight?

I get out of my bed

Into my heart and out of my head

I grab some paper and a pen

Today is when

Today is when I begin

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