“Everyone has a purpose in life…a unique gift or special talent to give to others. And when we blend this unique talent with service to others, we experience the ecstasy and exultation of our own spirit, which is the ultimate goal of all goals.” — Deepak Chopra
I wrote a poem today.
I know—I call myself a poet—writing poems is what I’m supposed to do. But I haven’t been doing it, for what feels like an eternity.
What can I say? It felt great, in the way work feels great. It was the checking off of a task on my To-Do list. It was getting the thing done that’s been begging for it. It’s the thing only I can do. That’s satisfaction enough.
I think of my early phases of writing, the ecstatic pleasure of creating a beautiful line, the endless nights with words as my only company. The falling in love over and over again with them. The brain and heart shifts I continually felt as I was learning.
The reading and learning of poetry is still a mind-blowing experience, for sure. But the writing …
If the early years are bouts of blind obsession, then my middle years here, they are the rote days of dishwashing, of laundry folding, of monitoring the tire pressure. As today has proved to me, I do find satisfaction in the completion of the small things. The poem I wrote as rough, but OK. No one’s perfect. Not every poem is either.
The doing is the thing. There is no moment we can take back ever. Do it now or never. As I wrote today:
But I have been opened. And there is no time traveling
Back to the way things were.