I just realized that I start almost every poem with “And…” as if the words that follow are simply the next breath.
Because these days I write poetry like breathing.
It began again one day about two months ago with a sudden spark of inspiration from an obscure corner of the web where one brave soul had posted beautiful, honest words.
It drove me to pick up my peach felt tip and for the first time in forever, I scrawled halting lines in the yellow notebook. Suddenly I can’t stop.
Suddenly everything and everyone is a poem and I tuck it all away in pages both physical and digital.
I chuckled to myself the other day about how my brain works – how I can bookmark certain thoughts or moments that I know will become poetry – return to them like dog-eared pages in my mind the next time I have a moment.
And every spare moment is a moment to write…to dream, to think, to process – in meetings, in coffee shops, tucked behind friends on motorbikes.
Some days I can’t see straight until I scatter thoughts across paper to clear the fog of them all.
Some days I can’t make sense of my heart until feelings are emptied and dealt with in lines and rhythm.
Rhythm has always been healing for me. It’s why I write, really – to breathe easy and deep.
I have discovered the stability of a soul that lives in rhythm. And even in the craziness, the absence of schedule and routine, this soul finds her rhythm.
This rhythm of inhaling and exhaling beauty and heartache in each one’s time.
And in this way you can find delight even in the tired days.
“Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered…” Luke 12:7 ESV