William Stafford was asked once, "When did you decide to become a poet?" and he replied, "Now thats a wrong question, it should be 'when did you stop being one?' We were all poets when we were little, some of us just keep up the habit."
I came across this beautiful rendition of a piece or poetry by the beautiful Naomi Shihab Nye. The following is one of her pieces, which were things that her son said when he was 2 or 3 years and she kept a written account of them.
Listen to the piece. Its wonderful. Click on the link to hear her : "Poetry Everywhere"
I have been reading a very inspiring writer/photographer/blogger since the last 5 or 6 years of my blog span. And never even once her words or her pictures have failed to create that immaculate sense of void in me, gnawing away at my empty heart telling how worthless a life we all lead.
A 9-6 job, weekend get-aways, the endless desire to earn more n more. Arent they mere whimsical mirages that are so all-consuming? Never ever have I not been inspired by the poetic delight in her words, and the simple purity of her soul who finds her soul in not the fallacy of a mirage of happiness the materialistic world makes you think you have. She finds them in the simple nothings instead. And I completely second here. But then that's just my perspective.
Somebody asked me yesterday what is my dream and you know what, I was unable to come up with an answer. I simply said "There are so many, its hard o narrow down cz there is just so much I wanna do". And he replied "There cant by many; for a dream is always one."
Though I dont agree with that, it made me think. If I were to bring it all down to just one word, what would it be ? And that was when I thought of "contentment".
A lil teakwood cottage replete with lil brik-a-braks,
a front porch over looking a smallish garden,
a work-station by a large white window letting in a beautiful day,
a colorful message board with all sorts of random photos-quotes-pieces of poetry,
a lil kitchenette with a window facing a small backyard with a tiny plant sitting pretty on its sill as the pot brews green tea,
a cozy lil bedroom with a yellow wall with chrome sunflowers smiling at me everytime I looked at them,
while the bed had pillows bearing puny flowers of all kinds; lounging on my crumpled white bedspread as the sun streams in and kisses you good morning.
That is contentment for me. That is what life means to me.
I can do with solitary walks to the nearest thrift shop and buy a second hand book of "Love in the times of Cholera" with childish delight.
I can do making cozy homes for rich duds and see the glee on their faces as their walls come alive one by one, smiling to myself as they try to fill it up with inconsequential substances, thinking how easily people get happy.
I can wait an entire day to watch him cross the deck and smile at me from the picket gate only to curl up together and watch "Love Actually" after dinner, for the nth time; not on a huge plasma but on my laptop perched gloriously on his tummy.
This is my dream. And every time I see my beautiful writer live this in everyday of her life, I frantically search for such bits and pieces in my empty life that seems so insignificant to my ignorant eyes !
Whats your dream ? Would you tell me what it looks like ?
Down the Rabbit Hole
19 hours ago