Getting older, noticing more
It’s been a week, am I right? I continue to feel pretty shattered by the violence in the headlines, and am weathering a transition moment at home (school is out, our plans are topsy turvy, all the things). Somehow today a poem felt like the right offering for you all. (I write a bit of poetry, but don’t share it very often.) I hope it helps you in some small way today.
And please comment: what do you notice more the older you get?
The older I get the more I notice
my own quiet desires
baby’s sharp intuition
the return of the blackberries
Sometimes I long for an organized drawer
or a morning without the realization that one went to school with unbrushed teeth
but then I remember how short life is
how wide my forgiveness
mostly of others
more and more myself.
The noticing is mostly small.
Sometimes it’s big.
This life I walk through
is not what I expected.
How could I have imagined her first questions upon waking or his tender body?
How could I have known I would birth my own much-needed teacher on solitude?
Or care so much about those two red poppies?
Aging is a long, drawn out experiment in being wrong about how you will live, who you will be, what you will love and see
and love and see and love and see
and that’s okay.
It’s more than okay.
Each day unpromised and fecund.
I am worse than I thought
and also better.
When the violence is too much
I touch a lot of tree trunks
eat some more bread.
watch my kids sleep their sweaty sleep
and try not to let any of it
tragic or tender