Today was a strange day

A mural in my neighborhood.

I've been calling this one a “poemish” - part personal essay, part poem, part brain dump in notes trying to make sense of the world.

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Today was a strange day

Jan. 7, 2026

It’s writing day - the day I look forward to the most 

I woke up motivated ready to go inspired and

Cooking up all kinds of things from my dreams 

Started by speaking to a friend about the writing process and second guesses 

We said go go go 

The headlines got worse as the minutes clicked by and 

I got squirmy in my skin

I went to my local bakery and 

Said hi to Silas, got my cardamom latte while we traded

“Jesus, the world is fucked” barbs between awkward laughs 

Went home to draw a map of my imaginary world

Wrote the table of contents to my real book it’s a real thing 

By Stacie Ledden 

Then a woman was shot dead

And our nightmares unfolded in front of us

I told you so’s spill out from every channel 

But the results are the same 

And I cried and cried and couldn’t stop crying 

And the cat held me thank god 

Though she looked at me strange 

And I went to the post office to get fresh air and on my way back I saw a mural that said

“Life is tough and so are you,” and I cried again 

I needed that encouragement but

Jesus why do we have to be so tough all the time,

Can’t we be soft together, too, like 

Moss or marshmallows or the fur on Viola’s belly 

And as I wiped the tears away

I came into my back alley and noticed two women sitting there with a pile of belongings, Looking lost 

So I said hey, you ok? How can I help? 

I brought out oranges and bananas and waters and made two new friends 

And we wheeled all the things into my little shed 

And I hugged my new friends, and we shared a few tears together –

she started it, it wasn’t me this time! 

And then I sat in my chair for a while trying to make sense of this odd day. 

But we weren’t done, heck no, because we had a whole night ahead of us.

I sobbed so many tears today for our country and for all of us, but before we walked into the club I shook off the day and tried to get my head on straight.

It was a museum posing as a jazz club, American heirlooms.

And poets spoke to jazz, and we drank one too many martinis in the front row and

The tears kept flowing but we were all together in one room

And the way the man plucked those piano strings and the soft trumpet’s caress and

The bomb bomb bomb of the bass and the sweet sashay of the brush on the drum and

The poets expressing so expressive and showing their heirlooms.

And sitting with sissy, our heads pressed together a little tipsy but grateful to be in the

Presence of greatness and each other. 

Home again trying to make sense of it all, they say multiple things can be true at the same time. And the tears will come again but the heart is full and hurting and grateful and angry and loving and afraid. It’s that accordion heart again. 

Maybe it will all make sense tomorrow. 

Maybe not.