First off, let me say that I believe poetry matters. It distills human experience and serves it up in the best language it can find. It may make us slow down in order to really get the flavor of the words, but in return it pulls back the curtain and gives us a glimpse into the mystery of being alive or lets us see something ordinary in a whole new way.

The Academy of American Poets recently shared this poem by an 11-year-old from Michigan named Charlie.  Charlie already knows something about the lure of poetry and its rewards.

Poems open your eyes
Secret things become visible
Another world waiting for you to explore
Tell
Me what you find
Let curiosity take over

And if Charlie will share his, so will I.  I wrote this whimsical little poem on an April day some time ago. It’s called “Spring Fling”:

Your turn. Go ahead. Write a poem.  Share it with someone.  Or read some. You’ll find plenty on-line. Or go browse the poetry section of a good bookstore and treat yourself to a book that speaks to you. Savor it. Read your favorites to somebody you love. Memorize one.

Don’t be a stranger to poetry.  It’s your birthright.

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I realized we all have our own buried things—memories, dreams, talents—which might get covered over by trauma, but for the most part are just obscured with the passing of time and the accumulation of days and experiences. Some old memories might help give us a sense of identity, of family, or of meaning. They might get us back in touch with dreams long buried that still have power, or remind us that once we thought we were good at something and maybe it’s not too late to build on that talent.

For me, writing a memoir meant going after many buried things from my past. It was a process that took time; it couldn’t be hurried. But at the end of the process, I felt more whole, more content with my life.

I invite you to consider a little personal archaeology of your own. Pay attention to glimpses of memory. Watch for signs of old longings. Do they point to something that is missing from your life and might still enrich it?

Possible outcomes: possibly taking a bold new step, maybe telling someone from your past how much they mean to you, or perhaps you will just feel grateful for being alive and for getting to where you are today.  

Worth the digging, yes?

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I had dismissed it as too touristy, but my parents insisted we go.  I relented, and, as I climbed through the old dark castle, began to get more devout feelings about this whole thing.  What if kissing the Blarney Stone did confer on me a little eloquence? Would I complain? Or maybe a touch of poetry–hadn’t I been carrying my paperback Yeats all over Ireland?

Here’s what happens at the Blarney Stone: lying on your back, you lean your upper body over a precipice with your head lowest, clinging to safety bars while an old man holds your legs and the local photographer snaps your picture.  It’s over before you have time to wonder if it’s dangerous or if you look foolish.  I went first and then watched my father.  To my dismay, he was being directed to kiss the stone just below the one I had.   Of course! You could see it was worn.  But upside-down, things hadn’t been so evident.  I had kissed the wrong stone! Did that mean that in five minutes I would start to talk in jibberish?

The others went off to the gift shop.  I would try to redeem the day by visiting the sacred Druid groves on the grounds.  Since it was past high tourist season, I found myself alone inside the ring of ancient cypress trees where Druids had placed ceremonial rocks, offered sacrifice and, I presume, taken cover from the eternal Irish rain.  It was a different world, shadowy and mysterious.  I could understand why it had been considered a sacred place.  Nearby I saw a small sign, “Wishing Stairs.”  I ducked under the stone arch and down the stairs, inventing large, happy wishes, including one for eloquence, all the way to the bottom.  There!

Looking for my parents near the parking lot, I heard a woman telling her friend, “Yes, you walk down the stairs backwards and your wishes are granted.” What did going down frontwards mean, then? I dared not imagine.

I could almost hear the ancient spirits of the isle having a good chuckle over this silly American.

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Have you ever looked at something ordinary–something you’ve glanced at hundreds or thousands of times–and suddenly seen it as extraordinary? It’s almost as if I’ve just landed on this planet from some far-away galaxy and I see something as common as the trunk of a tree–in this case it’s a crape myrtle tree–and I think, “How lovely!” I understand for a moment just how miraculous it is to be alive. My friend Jose would say, abandoning himself to the moment, “Que bueno!”

If it’s happened to you, let it happen again today, maybe even right now.  If it’s never happened to you, hold still, take a deep breath, and look at something or someone familiar, as though you’re looking for the very first time.  Stay with the experience for a few minutes.  Enjoy.

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It’s been beastly hot around here, oppressively hot.  But I got myself out this evening to hear the somewhat hokey pick-up band doing their summer pops concert on the lawn of the local high school anyhow.  An occasional squeak from a clarinet, flutes sounding a bit timid, but then a trumpeter floats  his solo out on the evening air like magic,  and together they capture the spirit of the music and sweep you into it.  A young father and his two little sons lie on the grass in easy affection.  Dogs rest contentedly next to their contented owners. Occasionally a child’s voice rises from the edge of the crowd. Fireflies make you forgive the day’s heat, and a breeze brings universal mercy. The simple things. The simple beauties. You come away feeling younger, happy to be alive this summer evening.

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“There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say “It is yet more difficult than you thought.” This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

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His name is Noel Calloway. I watched the trailer of his new film, “Life, Love, Soul,” on You Tube, as well as an interview with him.  The man has talent.  Ok, so maybe it will be just one of the hundreds of pleasant encounters you can have with strangers in New York City.  But he’s ordered my book, he tells me, and said that from the description of it, he thinks it would make a great film. But a pleasant, chance encounter with a talented young filmmaker on his way up? That’s enough of a gift.  You gotta love New York.

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So I felt fortunate to open The Oprah Magazine today and see an article on vulnerability.  In it, Dr. Brene Brown writes that vulnerability–being brave enough to “show up and let ourselves be seen”–is the catalyst for human connection and a way to live a whole-hearted life.  In other words, the risk is worth it.  I didn’t know all this when I wrote the book; I just followed my instinctive desire to write it.  But, as a result, I’m finding that my conversations with people are indeed deeper and richer.  I guess that at 72–or any age–you’re not too old to finally be open and authentic. And you don’t have to write a book to do it.

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