When I told people I was going to give a presentation about journaling as a practice earlier this year, so many people were quick to say to me, “I don’t journal” or “I hate journaling” and so on (not you bloggers, those other people). When I asked them why, many said, “because I have nothing of any importance to say” or something similar.
Poetry can invite some related insecurities, “I don’t understand it” and “I don’t know what I would write.” In noticing the moments of poetry in my life, I begin to feel confidence to find the words, to write a poem.
A few moments of poetry in my week:
Standing in the bathroom, I lean against the counter eye-to-eye with me. The continued awareness that I greet an old friend. I am not afraid.
Millie watches every move my husband makes. He turns the page of the newspaper, he scratches his head, brings his mug of tea to his lips, she is there with every movement. I wonder what she thinks, hopes, “will this movement bring dinner?”
Closing my eyes and losing myself, just for a moment, in the music of Loreena McKennitt. While listening I imagine myself in a long flowing skirt of layers and layers of fabric, flowers in my hair, spinning in circles and dancing beneath a huge, full moon while women play the drums and other instruments in celebration.
Observing the interactions between a mother and son. Though he is an adult, there is still the expectation between them that she does and he lets her.
An argument with my husband about the way he cooked dinner for us after I get home from yoga class. I wonder if I am the same person who gently leads my class through pose after pose to remind them who they are, who can then come home and expect perfection for dinner.
Resting my head back in the basin at the beauty salon while the color seeps into my hair, I close my eyes and just listen to all the voices around me.
I walk through the house and light candle after candle.
For the second time in two weeks a woman reminds me of my life’s path. And this time I listen.
I am crabby and still in my pajamas at 1:00 in the afternoon because the work has piled up and it feels like it has taken over my life. I am becoming my parents.
A friend gives me a glimpse into her experiences, her journey. I listen and nod. The gift of the opportunity to understand.
My foot leans into the pedal as I move the fabric through the foot of the machine. Feeling the rhythm, what was once only in my mind is now a reality.
I look in the mirror and giggle. Wearing my hanky pankies, my silk camisole, my cardigan, and a flower in my hair. I am a redhead!