Give to Others What You Would Receive
The Door Is Open
I wrote once, at the end of a long letter about why these poems exist, that the lamp is no longer mine alone — that it is in your hands.
This page is where I make good on that.
From the beginning, Smilegiving has moved in one direction: outward. A poem is written, a hand opens, something passes from one person to another and grows in the passing. For years the giving here has flowed mostly one way, from this table to yours. But a table where only one person sets out the bread is not yet the table these poems keep describing.
So here is the invitation, as plain as I can make it.
If you write — poems, letters, stories, small essays, a paragraph that came to you at a kitchen sink — bring it.
If you make things — drawings, photographs, songs, recordings, anything shaped by your own two hands — bring it.
If you give in ways that never touch a page — you teach, you visit, you repair, you sit with people, you carry meals, you show up — bring the story of it. The act itself was the gift; the telling lets it travel.
And if what you carry is simply a moment — a smile given or received, a kindness that found you at the right hour, a memory of someone whose generosity still lights your way — that counts. That may count most of all.
Whatever it is, if it was made or done or witnessed in the spirit of giving to others what you would receive, it belongs here.
You Don’t Have to Sound Like Me
Let me say this clearly, because it matters: I am not looking for imitations of my voice.
A living tradition does not require sameness. It requires a continuity of purpose spacious enough to welcome difference. Your gift should sound like you — your streets, your music, your griefs and gratitudes, your own way of turning toward the light. The only compass I will hold your gift against is the one I hold my own work against:
Does it increase love?
Does it deepen understanding?
Does it make room for beauty, wisdom, compassion, and the flourishing of actual human beings?
If it does, we are already in the same book.
How to Give
Send your gift to
Writing can be pasted right into the message. Images, audio, and documents are welcome as attachments.
Please include, along with the gift itself:
Your name as you’d like it to appear. First name, full name, a family name, a pen name — however you wish to be known at this table.
A line or two about the gift, if you like. Where it came from, who it was for, what occasioned it. This is optional, but these small histories are often gifts themselves.
A simple yes. A sentence confirming you’ve read the gentle terms below and that the gift is yours to give.
What Happens Next
I read everything myself. Every gift that arrives here is received, and I mean that word fully — received, not processed.
Smilegiving is a curated home, so I choose what is shared, and I cannot promise that every gift will be posted. Some will wait for the right season. Some will remain a private gift between us, no less real for that. But the gifts that are shared will appear in the Friends section of this site, with your name on them, presented with the same care I give my own work.
There is no fee to give and no payment for giving. That is not an oversight; it is the point. This room runs on the older economy — the one where love is the strange coin that grows by being spent.
The Gentle Terms
I want the understanding between us to be as clear as the invitation, so here it is in plain language:
Your work stays yours. You keep the copyright to everything you send, always. By sharing a gift here, you give Smilegiving permission — a non-exclusive, royalty-free license — to display it on this site and in Smilegiving community communications, always with your name attached. You remain free to publish it, sell it, or share it anywhere else, anytime.
It must be yours to give. By sending a gift, you’re telling me it is your own original work, or a true story you have the right to tell, and that sharing it here steps on no one else’s rights.
Tell me about your tools. I disclose it when AI tools assist my own editorial work, and I ask the same openness of you. If AI meaningfully helped make your gift, just say so. It won’t close the door; honesty never does here.
Please be eighteen or older. If a younger writer in your life has made something wonderful, I’d love to see it — sent by a parent or guardian, with their blessing.
Sharing is at my discretion. As curator, I decide what is posted, where, and for how long, and I may lightly format a gift to fit the house. I will never alter your words or your work without asking you first.
That’s all. No fine print hiding under the plain print.
Before You Go
Maybe you’ve been reading here a while, and something in you has been leaning toward the door without quite knocking. Maybe you wrote something years ago that has been sitting in a drawer, waiting for a reason. Maybe the reason is this page.
You already know the secret these poems keep telling: the good things don’t divide when they’re shared. They multiply. A smile costs nothing and may interrupt a loneliness you’ll never know about. A poem can sit silent for years and then speak to a stranger at exactly the hour it’s needed. What you made, what you did, what you noticed — someone out there is waiting for it, and neither of you knows it yet.
So bring what you have, friend. The table is long, and there has always been a place set for you.
Smile first. Say yes. Give to others what you would receive.
— Rob