Almost every young girl that sees herself as a writer becomes a poet at some point in her life. For me, that was 17, and full of emotions that I didn’t know how to pin down without rhyming. My poems were moody, and ever changing, but they were also an outlet for how I was feeling.
I am now 34, divorced after a 15 year relationship, barren, a single mom for a special needs child, a mom of two children dead, a questioning Christian, a striving minimalist, and a business owner. Life has not been easy, or kind, and poetry is again a balm for my soul.
I listen to spoken word poets, I read books filled with rhyming words that soothe my soul, and set it on fire. I sink deep into words that are comforting, and understandable. I never thought that I would go back to poetry, but now I drink it in again. I can see that I have become dehydrated by the struggle that has been my life, and I need to be quenched by souls that relate to mine.
I have always had a love for words. Growing up, I was likely found in a tree, or a corner with a new book every day. The world around me was not always kind, and I wanted an escape. Words were my escape.
After my divorce, I wrote all the time. I filled journals, and blog posts, and little papers scattered about with my thoughts, my dreams, my fears, and my hopes. Words came out in ink, and filled pages with the pain of reality, and the hope of fantasy. Lists became my life. I had a list for everything, and I do mean everything.
Then my son died, my words dried up. I didn’t know what to say. What could you say when your heart was bleeding so profusely? I tried to write. I tried to make words into sentences that I could hit publish on. But, nothing seemed right, or good enough. Nothing made sense. It wasn’t right, because my world was all wrong. When you love someone so deeply, marriage shouldn’t end. When your 17 year old baby boy dies suddenly it’s not right to never hug him again. When the little girl you begged God to give you spends more time feeling frustrated, and going to therapies than being a little girl, you think about how you should be playing at the park, instead of filling out paperwork for yet another doctor. And when your body fails to preform the way it should, your world is not right.
So my words stopped. Everything spins so fast when it’s all crashing down around you. When you feel like Alice, falling down a hole, you try to grab at whatever you recognize. There was nothing about my life that I could recognize. So the words stopped.
Poetry started showing up in my news feed. It was suggested in ads. It was there on the library shelves staring back at me. So I picked it up. I read a few lines, and my brain begged for more. Give me more words that feed my soul. Give me more people that understand. Give me more pictures in my mind of what I had been feeling.
I drank in the words, slowly at first. Then I searched for more. My soul is still twisted with all of the pain, but a little bit at a time, the words are saving me. And I am finding that the more I drink, the more I am filled, and I start to hope that one day my own words will come again.