I was at a business mastermind retreat this past week and one of my friends and colleagues said something that gave me pause. He said that he wished he could have even one slice of the life that I live with my husband Philip. “You live a life of poetry,” he said.
A life of poetry.
What IS a life of poetry?
Maybe one where there are actual volumes of poetry scattered about. On that point, I admit to having many books of poems. And I do love them and read them.
Maybe in a life of poetry there are moments of verse, both read aloud and scribbled by hand into a notebook. Maybe there are quiet moments of watching the sun rise and hearing the birds stir and begin singing in the morning. Maybe there are evenings filled with light only from candles. Maybe there are rainy afternoons of contemplation and cups of tea. Maybe there are times of translating emotions onto a canvas or across the strings of a guitar. Maybe it’s having one hand buried in the fur of a faithful companion and the other holding a glass of beautiful wine. Maybe it’s found in listening to wistful, romantic, classical music.
If any of those things make up a life of poetry, then I guess I do live that way. We actually all can. It’s not hard. But it occurs to me that it does require attention. Intention. And inspired action to create, notice and experience those moments.
So perhaps living a life of poetry (which sounds utterly sublime) is achievable. Perhaps it isn’t something found only in the movies or in a gothic novel (I see you over there Carlos Ruiz Zafon).
I vote we all try to have a few moments of poetry today. Written, sung, experienced. Any of that will do. And to note the way we feel when we pause to fill our vessel with that poetry. To fill our heart, our spirit and our mind with that beauty. It’s easier than we might think and the effects will last into the coming week.
For fun, here is one of my favorite poems from Pablo Neruda:
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
Who is your favorite poet? When is the last time you read a poem aloud, even to yourself? I’d love to hear!
With love, poetry and gratitude,