Lynette shared that I needed to read some of John Rodels stuff the other day as he wrote a poem about the brain divorcing its heart. I could not help myself and this reflection flowed from that moment. She was right I needed to read it and so do you!

His Facebook link is below.

This a long post and I appreciate your reading it.

The poem…….

my brain and
heart divorced

a decade ago

over who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have become

eventually,
they couldn’t be
in the same room
with each other

now my head and heart
share custody of me

I stay with my brain
during the week

and my heart
gets me on weekends

they never speak to one another

– instead, they give me
the same note to pass
to each other every week

and their notes they
send to one another always
says the same thing:

“This is all your fault”

on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the past

and on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the future

they blame each
other for the
state of my life

there’s been a lot
of yelling – and crying

so,

lately, I’ve been
spending a lot of
time with my gut

who serves as my
unofficial therapist

most nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcage

and slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut’s plush leather chair
that’s always open for me

~ and I just sit
until the sun comes up

last evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my head

I nodded

I said I didn’t know
if I could live with
either of them anymore

“my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,”
I lamented

my gut squeezed my hand

“I just can’t live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,”
I sighed

my gut smiled and said:

“in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,”

I was confused
– the look on my face gave it away

“if you are exhausted about
your heart’s obsession with
the fixed past and your mind’s focus
on the uncertain future

your lungs are the perfect place for you

there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there either

there is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this moment

there is only breath

and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out.”

this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leaves

and while my
heart was staring
at old photographs

I packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungs

before I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said

“what took you so long?”

~ john Roedel

There is a quiet brilliance in the poem you wrote, John:  a person whose head and heart have divorced, who passes the same accusatory note between them each week, who finds solace with a grounding gut and finally acceptance at the threshold of the lungs. It’s a compact, visceral image of what many of us I think feel individually—and what our culture looks like collectively: divided, exhausted, and out of breath.

This post translates that metaphor into a diagnosis of our current cultural shape and as I try to offer three practical action items any individual, workplace, or community can take to begin repairing the rupture.

The cultural symptom: head vs. heart, repeating blame

The poem’s most striking detail is the ritual of blame. The head reads the future and warns of danger; the heart catalogues the past and grieves its wounds. They cannot be in the same room. Instead, each week they pass the identical note to the other: “This is all your fault.” That single image feels painfully familiar in public life: institutions who prioritize risk management and metrics versus communities whose identity is built on memory and moral recall. Instead of conversation, they trade blame. Instead of repair, they escalate.

Hmmmmmmmmmm, sounds familiar…

On a societal level this shows up in several ways:

• Politics and media that reward constant forecasting of doom or perpetual moral cataloguing.
• Institutions that respond procedurally to crises without the emotional (one of my big beefs) labor needed for repair.
• Online ecosystems that amplify immediate outrage and punish rather than slow down and reconcile.

The poem isn’t merely about individual distress; it’s a model for the cycles that wear down trust in workplaces, neighborhoods, civic institutions, and digital communities. The result: people feel split, defensive, and alone forced to manage their past and future without a shared present. More to think about here then just reading it and moving on to the next sentence.

The needed counterweight: lungs (and the role of the gut)

Two quieter figures in the poem are the gut and the lungs. The gut—an unofficial therapist—listens without pontificating. It recognizes how exhausting it is to be lodged between memory and anxiety. Its prescription is surprising: go stay with your lungs. The lungs don’t erase the past or deny future risk. Instead, they insist on the present: inhale, exhale, and be here now. Ekhart Tolle would be proud.

For a culture, the lungs are the practices and spaces where people slow down together: restorative conversations, shared rituals, community centers, deliberative forums, even workplaces that deliberately schedule time for presence and listening. These are not merely therapeutic niceties; they are the conditions for social repair. Without them, head and heart will continue their duel—and we will continue to exhaust ourselves passing notes that say, “This is all your fault.”

Three practical action items to help a culture breathe

Below are three concrete, scalable steps individuals, organizations, and local communities can take to shift from repeated blame toward shared presence, repair, and resilience.

1. Create mandated “breathing rooms” in decision processes What it is: A formal pause or cooling period before punitive or irreversible actions—especially public accusations, disciplinary decisions, or high-stakes announcements. During the pause, parties must engage in structured listening and fact-gathering, and an impartial mediator facilitates initial dialogue. I have found that this works well and worth a try.

Why it matters: Rapid, punitive responses often deepen wounds and prevent context, nuance, and reconciliation. A short pause reduces performative outrage and gives people space to explain, listen, and recalibrate.

How to implement:

• Organizations (companies, schools, nonprofits) adopt a “72-hour breathing rule” for major personnel decisions and public statements: no final action or public posting for 72 hours after allegations surface.
• Workplaces appoint a small pool of trained mediators or restorative facilitators who can convene confidential listening sessions during the pause.
• Digital communities and moderators apply a temporary hold on amplification (no trending tags, no top placement) until a brief review and mediation step has occurred.

2. Invest in local “lungs”: community spaces for listening, repair, and presence What it is: Neighborhood-level, low-barrier spaces and programs dedicated to relational work—restorative circles, grief and memory sessions, deliberative salons, and facilitated story-sharing. These are not primarily political organizing centers; they are places to practice civic breathing.

Why it matters: Trust is rebuilt through repeated small interactions. When people practice listening and mutual storytelling in neutral settings, civic relationships strengthen and collective memory becomes reparative rather than weaponized.

How to implement:

• Cities, libraries, and foundations fund pilot hubs (use underutilized rooms in libraries or rec centers) for monthly restorative circles that bring diverse neighbors together around guided prompts and shared meals.
• Schools integrate restorative justice and deliberative practices into their teaching, so young people learn presence and conflict navigation early.
• Employers sponsor offsite or on-site “presence labs”: short, guided sessions where teams practice listening, reflection, and shared breathing exercises to improve empathy and reduce reactivity.

3. Rebalance incentives: measure relational outcomes, not just output What it is: Shift institutional metrics so success includes relational indicators—trust, reintegration rates, reduction in repeated harms, and quality of civic participation—in addition to efficiency and throughput.

Why it matters: What organizations measure is what they prioritize. If institutions reward speed, headlines, and punitive action only, they will continue to incentivize head-only solutions. Relational metrics direct attention to repair and long-term stability.

How to implement:

• Philanthropic funders and boards require pilot programs to include qualitative evaluation of trust and reintegration (surveys, follow-ups, case studies) alongside quantitative performance data.
• HR and leadership KPIs expand to include measures like “percent of resolved conflicts with mutual agreement,” “employee-reported psychological safety,” and “community reintegration success rate.”
• Journalists and platforms adopt editorial policies that prioritize follow-up reporting, context, and restorative perspectives, reducing the incentive for immediate sensational headlines.

A closing invitation everyone: choose the lungs without abandoning heart or head

The poem’s final image—walking to the lungs and being met with a warm entrance—feels like an invitation rather than an escape. The lungs do not ask us to forget the past or ignore the future. They offer a place to breathe so that heart and head can eventually coexist without tearing us apart. For organizations and communities, this is a practical aim: preserve and respect memory and expertise, but build more places where presence, listening, and repair is the default

If you lead a team, a neighborhood group, or a school board, try one small experiment this month: a 72-hour breathing rule for any controversy; a one-hour restorative circle; or a change in how you track outcomes to include relational metrics. These are small structural moves but with outsized effects: they make it harder for blame to become a ritual and easier for people to find the shared present.

We cannot legislate empathy, Lynette and I found this to be true with our time at 6 Seconds, but we can design systems that make it easier to breathe together. The poem’s final line— “what took you so long?”—is not a rebuke. It’s a gentle reminder that the lungs have always been there. We only need to practice going home to them.

Thank you, John, for this wonderful look into our human journey.

Poem by John Roedel and go to his Facebook here to see other exciting posts