You’re a poet and you didn’t even realize it
I’m no poet.
In the past, I have fretted over the fact that I am not a poet. How can someone who loves words and beauty and communication and emotions so much not have a poetic soul – a deep spring of sparkling and devastating words, words that cause others to pause and reflect and absorb? How will I ever write a good song if I am not a poet? For the life of me, I cannot write eloquently or metaphorically or artistically. I can only write simple, tongue-in-cheek, authentic accounts of what I know to be true – which, I suppose, can work in country music and, well, blogging.
But I appreciate when other people craft their words in a way that makes me stop and think, and to emerge on the other side with a certain familiarity with myself that I didn’t have before.
Today, I got an email from my friend Miranda. Miranda occasionally offers these zingers of sentences – words that stick to my ribs and cause me to return to the idea again and again.
This is what she said:
“When part of what is in your deepest fabric is silently remembered by what is in another’s deepest fabric, you are so much more at rest.”
What a beautiful idea: silent remembrance.
That is love.