June 15, 2026

Thank You by Mat Moberg

Thank You

I think every human

being eventually has a moment

where they are standing outside in sweatpants

holding a trash bag, a divorce, a parking ticket, or some other receipt from the universe. that says, “surprise, this too is part of it.”

And then the sky bruises purple.

And the air touches your face

like it knows your whole story.

And suddenly you realize:

all the real is actually unreal.

The dirt.

The breath.

The weird little bones in your hands.

The fact that we are here,

on a floating rock with pollen counts,

paying bills,

missing dead people,

loving living people

who say “leaving now”

while still
fully naked and looking for socks.

And still,

the moon clocks in.

No applause. No benefits.

No note from management saying, “Great work being ancient and luminous again.”

Just the moon,

working nights like a single mother with no applause,

packing silver lunches

for every dark thing

that still has to rise.

Tell me that isn’t holy.

Tell me there is a better word than sacred

for the way light keeps returning

with no guarantee

we will actually stop and take note.

I know people who believe in therapy,

probiotics,

tarot,

twelve-step meetings,

manifestation journals,

and waiting exactly eleven minutes before texting back

so they do not appear emotionally available,

even though their whole nervous system

is standing in the driveway holding flowers.

And underneath all of it,

every ritual,

every doctrine,

every smoothie with chia seeds,

the prayer is the same:

Please let me be loved.

Please let me be forgiven.

Please let this strange little life mean something

before my lower back submits its formal resignation.

What is going on?

For real tho—What is this place?

This unbearable tenderness

of being alive long enough

to watch steam lift from coffee in winter

like a soul practicing leaving.

To see your friend laugh so hard

they slap the table

as if joy is a mosquito

they are trying to kill.

To hear a child say “pisghetti”

and, for one shining second,

realize language

has finally been improved.

I know I already noted this in the first piece,

but the older I get,

the less use I have for certainty.

Certainty has never made me pull over

because the sunset looked like God

dropped a jar of peach jam

across the whole midwestern sky

and decided to be lazy

and not clean up.

Certainty has never made me gasp at rain on hot pavement.

Certainty has never found me

in the cereal aisle,

holding Captain Crunch,

suddenly remembering

that everyone I have ever loved

was made from stardust,

hunger,

and a
series of decisions

we probably should have slept on.

No.

It has
always been awe.

Awe was the first church.

Before steeples.

Before committees.

Before men got involved

and started making rules about skirts.

Awe was there

with its wild hair

and muddy feet,

saying:

Look.

Look again.

Look until looking

becomes love.

Awe, and soup.

Awe, and
someone rubbing your back

when you are sick.

Awe, and old couples at Target

arguing gently about avocados,

as if
marriage is not one vow

but ten thousand errands

performed beside the person

who knows exactly

how you like the cart pushed.

Maybe gratitude

was never meant to sound elegant.

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Damn.

That woodpecker is trying

to beat that tree from itself.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you, body,

for continuing to drag me through this world

despite the many slim jims

I have done to you

at gas stations.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you to the dogs

who lose their entire minds

when we come home

as if we have returned from war

and not Walgreens.”

For me, that might be my gospel.

That joy that does not wait for us

to be impressive but only needs us

to come through the door.

Because the truth is,

this life is devastating.

And ridiculous.

One minute you are 22 and invincible,

driving too fast,

eating gas station nachos

with the confidence of a Greek god.

The next minute you are googling,

“Can sneezing cause a hamstring injury?”

and the answer is,

apparently,

“Welcome to the second half of your life.”

But even now—

even tired,

even grieving,

even emotionally held together

by iced coffee, playlists,

and one very specific wolves hoodie—

we keep finding reasons

to stay soft.

We plant tomatoes

even though grief is real.

We bake bread

even though the news is on fire.

We send photos of the sky

to people we love

with captions like,

“LOOK,”

as if beauty is an emergency

and we are all volunteer firefighters.

We keep saying,

“You have to see this,”

because wonder

is the oldest form

of resurrection.

So here’s to the believers

and the atheists

and the agnostics

and the people whose entire theology

is just trying not to cry

in the DMV line.

Here’s to the people clinging to faith.

Here’s to the people clinging to Xanax

and oat milk

and the one group chat

where nobody pretends to be okay.

Here’s to the tender-hearted weirdos.

The accidental mystics.

The ones who can contemplate mortality

for six straight hours

and then become emotionally attached

to a perfect peach.

The ones who know

despair has a mouth,

but so does laughter.

May we never stop being drop-kicked by beauty

in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

May we never become so polished

that we forget how to stand

in the Starbucks line of existence

with our dumb, gorgeous hearts open,

feeling the enormity of it all rattle around in our bones

like thunder

looking for somewhere to laugh.

And may we remember:

whatever else this is,

whatever mess,

whatever miracle,

whatever cosmic group project

no one was prepped for—

all’ve it is astonishing.

that we are here.

that we have loved enough to be ruined.

that the moon keeps showing up.

that bread exists.

So pass it on.

Tear off a piece

with your bare hands.

Take it in as you take it down.

And then go outside and look at that moon.

by Matt Moberg THIS LINK on May 27, 2026.

Invitation: “May we never become so polished that we forget how to.…”

Photo by Steve A Johnson on Unsplash

Matt Moberg is a self-taught artist from Minneapolis whose creative journey began in recovery from addiction. What started as a therapist’s suggestion became a lifeline, helping him channel pain, longing, and transformation through art. His bold charcoal drawings and paintings carry a raw emotional honesty that speaks to survival, identity, and the possibility of becoming whole again. Today, Moberg continues to create work rooted in hope, reminding us of the healing power of artistic expression. You can find art, music, and prints at Matt’s website HERE

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Enjoy Dennis Kucinich’s wisdom below.

“Mr. Speaker, we make war with such certainty, yet we are befuddled how to create peace. This paradox requires reflection if we are to survive. Making and endorsing war requires a secret love of death, and a fearful desire to embrace annihilation. Creating peace requires compassion, putting ourselves in the other person’s place, and all of their suffering and all of their hopes and to act from our heart’s capacity to love, not fear.”

Dennis Kucinich, at this link by Robert Shetterly