I’m in the middle of a bunch of books: The Book of Embraces by Eduardo Galeano, Rifqa by Mohammed El-Kurd, among them. This is from Galeano’s opening, a vision of an indigenous man from Colombia: 

“Each person shines with his or her own light. No two flames are alike. There are big flames and little flames, flames of every color. Some people’s flames are so still they don’t even flicker in the wind, while others have wild flames that fill the air with sparks. Some foolish flames neither burn nor shed light, but others blaze with life so fiercely that you can’t look at them without blinking, and if you approach you shine in the fire.”

I’m old enough that I’ve seen at least two period styles rise and fall, so I try not to attach too much significance to the aesthetic of the moment. We, the descendants of Aristotle and his mimesis, find so much pleasure in imitating each other. Last year’s irony cedes to this year’s earnestness. Last year’s free verse experiments yield to this year’s latest new formalism. But the greater soul hunger, at least for me, is to answer an echo that feels as much interior as exterior.  

Be kinder to yourself. 

Read more. A lot more. 

Risk more, on the page and off. 

But mostly, keep doing the work. 

Stay steady and focused on what you can do, and leave the rest to God/Fate. 

Keep the faith.

I keep reading and rereading the stories and plays of Anton Chekhov, probably more than any other. I find his work heartening precisely because each character bridles against their suffocating fates and God remains silent. Yet Chekhov’s attentive, observant witness of these souls struggling feels like a kind of a (divine) love. 

Heading into college, I thought I’d either be a therapist (my parents’ vocations) or a diplomat. I hope that I’ve done some of that work through my poetry, but if poetry were banned, I would throw myself into one of those two modes of being.