Day 10: healing

a poem a day in the month of may

At my recent speaking event, a retired teacher approached me and said, “I’ve never really liked poetry, but I like yours.” And I said, “Well, maybe you’re a poet, too. You don’t know until you try it.”

I’ve seen this same sentiment from a lot of you here, from people I’ve met from all over the world. What makes a poem, who gets to be a poet, how do words get formed?

I don’t know if you know this about me, but I don’t have a degree. Do I have enough hours for a degree or two, yes, but that’s another story for another time. :)

People often assume I have an MFA, or that I went to seminary. No to both. I’m a poet, a storyteller, an author, a public speaker. I practice the gifts that I’ve held and worked on over the years again and again through learning, practice, and a whole lot of passion.

So, I’m a bit of a skeptic when it comes to this idea that we have to be formally trained in something, but I also get it. Here I am, in the liminal spaces once again, saying that maybe anyone can be a poet, and maybe those trained in poetry and writing are also some of our greatest teachers.

It’s all true at once. All the liminality, all the sacredness, all the care.

Sometimes I forget how important words are. Words are hope.

I pray you’re experiencing that here, right now.

Words are hope.

And today’s word embodies that so much: healing.

Photo by William Farlow on Unsplash

Photo by Darius Bashar on Unsplash

Photo by Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash

Healing


Why didn’t somebody tell me
that healing is an endless stream
of tears and angst and wonder?

Why didn’t somebody show me
that healing happens on my own
timeline, and nobody else’s?

Why didn’t somebody explain
that we can’t get healed 
unless we fully trust ourselves?

Why didn’t somebody make it clear
that my healing could trigger
somebody else’s lack of it?

Why didn’t somebody inform me
that we heal through all the
complexities that make us human?

Why didn’t somebody sing to me
when I was deep in it and
wondering how I’d make it through?

Why didn’t somebody remind me
that the tears are worth it, and 
every moment matters?

Why didn’t somebody refuse
to label me as too far gone
to really find my way home?

Why didn’t somebody hold me
when I was asking what the hell
healing even is?

They did. I remember now.
They told, showed, explained,
made it clear, informed,
sung, reminded, refused to label,
and held, held, held me.

And they still are.
This is where healing 
finally begins.

I'm ready now.