The charcoal grey sky provides the perfect backdrop for the vibrant colours on display. If you step outside, you might catch the faint smell of wood-smoke hanging in the air.
We hold on to our jackets tightly, with our hands planted deep inside our pockets. The atmosphere is filled with nostalgia, and evening comes more swiftly than expected.
“Even if something is left undone,
everyone must take time to sit still
and watch the leaves turn.”
On Friday, I gained the experience of having my wisdom teeth removed. Now that I am on the mend, I could almost try to romanticize it as a rite of passage, but most of you know the truth:
It is unpleasant and I’m hungry all the time.
In order to aid the healing process, I’ve been focusing my limited energy on staying well. Every day it’s been early to bed, early to rise. Breakfast is consumed every morning (a meager one, but it’s better than nothing) Medications have been swallowed with more regularity than vitamins. I haven’t had a hot cup of coffee in six days (but that’s going to change, let’s be realistic).
In recognition of April being National Poetry Month, since 1996.
Over the last few months, I’ve been setting aside time to read a few lines of poetry every day. Its difficult to explain, but somehow it lessens the weight of the burdens I carry. The noise around me turns to stillness, and my soul is renewed in those quiet moments.
Though I am reluctant to confess, I will admit there was a time when I thought poetry was very dull. Attempting to understand the meaning behind the riddles seemed difficult and tedious. They contained rhymes, but I could see no reason – and this left me with little enjoyment.
Foolishly, I concluded romantic verse had no place in the life of a realist. It was no small task for me to learn I was completely mistaken. For those of you who find poetry a little lackluster, consider this a modest attempt to persuade you otherwise.
It is a beautiful privilege to be someone’s confidant.
Many people may share in our joys, but only a few know the depths of our grief. This is as it should be, for only a few can be trusted with the secrets we’ve held under lock and key.
Over the years, some of the dearest people have come to me with their joys and heartaches. When you are considered trustworthy, you learn so much about yourself and those around you.
Every one of us is fragile. We fight desperately for hope, but we can break so easily.