Since today’s poem is all about reflection and self-recognition, I thought a selfie was only fitting. After all, the phone is just another kind of camera—and sometimes, meeting ourselves begins with seeing ourselves clearly.
We met ourselves as we came back As we hiked the trail from the north. Our foot-prints mixed in the rainy path Coming back and going forth. The prints of my comrade’s hob-nailed shoes And my tramp shoes mixed in the rain. We had climbed for days and days to the North And this was the sum of our gain: We met ourselves as we came back, And were happy in mist and rain. Our old souls and our new souls Met to salute and explain— That a day shall be as a thousand years, And a thousand years as a day. The powers of a thousand dreaming skies As we shouted along the trail of surprise Were gathered in our play: The purple skies of the South and the North, The crimson skies of the South and the North, Of tomorrow and yesterday.
About the Poem
Vachel Lindsay’s “Meeting Ourselves” is a gentle yet profound reflection on life’s cyclical journey—how we travel forward only to encounter the echoes of our former selves. The poem captures a moment of recognition and renewal: two travelers retrace their steps and find their footprints mingling in the rain. It’s both literal and symbolic—an image of physical return and inner reconciliation.
Lindsay’s use of repetition and musical rhythm mirrors the rhythm of walking and the heartbeat of realization. The biblical echo—“a day shall be as a thousand years, and a thousand years as a day” (2 Peter 3:8)—reminds us that time itself folds and blurs when we reach moments of self-understanding or spiritual peace. The mingling of “old souls and new souls” beautifully suggests that transformation doesn’t erase who we were; it redeems and embraces it.
For LGBTQ+ readers, especially gay men, this poem may hold an added resonance. The act of meeting ourselves can evoke the powerful experience of coming out or reconciling with the self we once had to hide. Many queer people spend years walking in two directions at once—forward toward authenticity, backward toward fear or memory. When Lindsay writes, “We met ourselves as we came back / And were happy in mist and rain,” it can read as a quiet kind of liberation: joy found not in public sunlight, but in the private, tender mist where two selves—and perhaps two men—meet without shame.
The comrade whose footprints mingle with the speaker’s invites another layer of interpretation. In early 20th-century literature, male companionship often carried an intimacy that could not be spoken openly. The simple image of their tracks interlaced in the rain becomes, for a modern gay reader, a symbol of shared experience, endurance, and connection—love that exists naturally, though quietly, within the elements.
In that sense, the poem feels like a reconciliation not only of the self but of desire: the realization that one can walk beside another man and find peace, joy, and completeness—“happy in mist and rain.”
Ultimately, “Meeting Ourselves” speaks to anyone who has learned to love themselves after a long climb. It’s about journeying through struggle or distance, only to discover that the person waiting at the end of the trail is a wiser, gentler version of who we’ve always been.
The mingled footprints remind us that our past and present selves—and the people who’ve walked beside us—can coexist. We do not need to abandon the person we were to become the person we are. In mist and rain, under skies of “tomorrow and yesterday,” we find that the journey has brought us home to ourselves.
About the Poet
Vachel Lindsay (1879–1931) was an American poet known for his musical, chant-like verse and his belief that poetry should be spoken and performed aloud. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay traveled widely—often on foot—exchanging poems and drawings for food and lodging. His works often celebrated spiritual vision, democracy, and the common man, blending mysticism with American folk imagery.
“Meeting Ourselves” was written during Lindsay’s later period in the 1920s, when his poetry turned increasingly inward and mystical, exploring the soul’s search for renewal and divine connection. Though his fame waned late in life, Lindsay left a lasting mark on American poetry for his pioneering rhythmic style and his ability to transform ordinary experiences into moments of revelation.
While there is no definitive record of his sexuality, Lindsay’s poetry often conveys an intense affection for male companionship and an ideal of spiritual brotherhood that modern readers sometimes interpret through a queer lens. His recurring themes of duality, self-reconciliation, and soulful connection invite a range of readings—including those that speak deeply to LGBTQ+ experiences of identity and inner harmony.
“Meeting Ourselves,” like much of his work, reminds us that the greatest journeys are those that lead inward.
Many Americans aren’t working today because it’s Columbus Day. For some, particularly Italian Americans, the day remains a celebration of heritage, marked by parades, community gatherings, and tributes to Italian culture and contributions to the United States. These celebrations date back to the late 19th century when Italian immigrants sought to honor their ancestry and gain broader acceptance in American society.
However, across much of the country—including here in Vermont—the day is now observed as Indigenous Peoples’ Day, a time to honor and celebrate the history, culture, and resilience of Native peoples. The holiday serves as a reminder of the deep and complex history of this land long before European exploration and colonization, and it’s meant to center on Indigenous voices and stories that were too often ignored or silenced.
My university doesn’t officially recognize Columbus Day—or Indigenous Peoples’ Day—as a holiday, so while many Americans might have the day off work, I don’t. For most, it’s simply an excuse for stores to hold big sales anyway. I actually went shopping this weekend for some winter clothes. With the weight I’ve lost, I didn’t have a coat or much in the way of cold-weather clothing, and the temperatures are already dropping fast. So, I treated myself to two new coats—one casual and one more formal—and several new sweaters to help keep me warm. I’m very happy with my purchases.
Losing weight has felt great, but it does mean buying an entirely new wardrobe, which gets expensive quickly. Still, I’ve always enjoyed shopping for clothes, so I can’t complain too much.
Anyway, enough babbling for today. Whether you’re enjoying a long weekend, are retired and free from the Monday grind, or—like me—are working through the holiday, I hope you have a great day and a wonderful week ahead. Here’s hoping it’s less aggravating than last week!
This guy is what I’d imagine would be the result of Henry Cavill and Pietro Boselli having a baby together. His name is Niclas Kuri, if you’re curious.
“‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”
— Matthew 22:37–40
In recent years, writers have contrasted two ways of thinking about morality in Christianity: vertical and horizontal.
Vertical morality measures righteousness by obedience to divine rules—what we do “upward” toward God. It’s the language of purity codes, of who’s in and who’s out. It focuses on sin as individual failure: what you drink, who you love, what you wear, how you pray.
Horizontal morality, on the other hand, measures faith by compassion—how we live in relationship with others. It’s the ethic Jesus embodied: touching lepers, feeding the hungry, lifting up the marginalized, and challenging systems of exclusion. It’s the moral vision of the Good Samaritan, who loved a stranger more faithfully than the priest and Levite who passed him by.
Writers like Phil Zuckerman and Randal Rauser have noted that what some call “MAGA Christianity” often confuses holiness with political power. When faith becomes about defending hierarchy rather than serving humanity, it loses sight of the Gospel’s radical equality.
Vertical morality alone lets people condemn LGBTQ+ Christians while excusing cruelty, greed, and injustice. It measures holiness by outward piety rather than inward compassion. As Jesus said of the Pharisees, “They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them.” (Matthew 23:4)
Jesus constantly redirected attention from vertical rule-keeping to horizontal compassion.
“Whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did for me.” (Matthew 25:40)
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.” (Matthew 5:7)
“Let all that you do be done in love.” (1 Corinthians 16:14)
The Christian life is not a ladder reaching up to heaven—it’s a table stretching out to our neighbors. God doesn’t ask us to climb higher to prove our worth, but to reach wider to show God’s love.
For LGBTQ+ Christians, this distinction matters deeply. Too often, vertical moralism has been used to shame us for who we are, while ignoring the heart of Jesus’s message: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:35)
The cross itself is both vertical and horizontal—but the beams meet at love. The vertical reminds us that God’s love reaches down to us and our hearts rise to meet it. The horizontal reminds us that the measure of that love is how far we extend it toward others. When churches focus only upward, they risk becoming sanctuaries of self-righteousness instead of sanctuaries of grace.
True holiness isn’t found in who we exclude, but in how deeply we love.
This week, consider where your faith has been vertical when it might be called to be horizontal. Have we spent more time worrying about being “right with God” than being kind to one another? The beauty of horizontal faith is that every act of compassion—every word of encouragement, every defense of the marginalized—is an act of worship.
The cross has two beams for a reason. The vertical beam reminds us that God’s love flows freely between heaven and earth—unbroken, unwavering, unconditional. The horizontal beam stretches outward, calling us to carry that same love into the world. Together, they form the shape of the Gospel itself: love that reaches both upward toward God and outward toward our neighbor—a love wide enough to embrace us all.
I’m still not able to work out at the gym because of the pinched nerves in my back—unless I stick to my physical therapy exercises, which don’t take very long—but I’m hoping to get back to it soon. I had really been enjoying my workouts, and not just because I liked my trainer. In the meantime, I’ll have to get my fitness fix another way—so enjoy these pics of men working out.
I cannot stress enough how glad I am to be working from home today. I left work yesterday not only angry but deeply frustrated.
There are two things I simply cannot abide in the workplace:
Rudeness. There is no reason for anyone to be rude to their coworkers. There is never an excuse for it. No matter the situation, there is always a kinder, gentler approach.
Lack of communication. There is no reason not to communicate—especially when it’s done intentionally to make someone else’s job more difficult.
These two things often go hand in hand, and when they’re used deliberately to make another person look bad or uncomfortable, it’s just plain sabotage. You cannot tell someone one thing, change your mind without informing them, and then act as though they’re the problem. And to make matters worse, after being rude and uncommunicative, that same person complains about how hard their job is and asks you to do it for them.
I’m all for helping coworkers, but when someone constantly says they’re “too busy” to help with even the smallest task—especially because they’re working on a side job they’re getting paid extra for—it crosses a line. The arrangement is supposed to be simple: make up the time you miss, and don’t work on the second job during your regular hours. Yet somehow, those rules seem to apply to everyone but them.
While these examples come from within my own department, the same rudeness and lack of communication seem to be spreading campus-wide. Every time I have to depend on another department lately, it turns into a source of stress and frustration.
Yesterday, after a week of this nonsense, I’d had enough. My boss got an earful. Her advice? “Stop being such a nice person.” That’s easier said than done. I know how to be assertive, but having to be aggressive only increases my anxiety.
So, if any of my readers happen to know of a university museum looking for an educator or a programs-and-outreach person, please don’t hesitate to reach out. I already have a few applications out there, but it’s time to start looking actively instead of passively.
I have a museum conference coming up soon. While networking isn’t something I usually enjoy, I’m actually fairly good at it when I need to be. As much as I love my institution and my job, it may simply be time to move on.
For now, I’m just grateful it’s Friday and I can breathe again.