#015 — Where Poetry Begins
A few days ago, I noticed a patch of sunlight moving across the floor.
Nothing remarkable happened. The sunlight entered through the window, shifted slowly throughout the morning, and eventually disappeared. Yet I found myself watching it longer than seemed necessary.
I have become increasingly fascinated by moments like this. When given attention, they often become profound. There is a quiet delight in noticing what was already there. An observation becomes a question. A question becomes an insight. The process is so ordinary that it is easy to miss.
We often think of poetry as something written by poets. A form of literature. A collection of carefully chosen words. Recently, I have started to wonder whether poetry begins long before anything is written down. And whether life itself is poetry when we notice what we usually walk past.
Perhaps poetry begins the moment we truly notice something. The way morning light settles into a room. The way grief changes shape over time. The way a stranger's kindness lingers longer than expected. The way a conversation reveals something neither person intended to say.
Life is constantly offering these moments. Most pass through unnoticed. A few catch our attention. When they do, they open a small doorway between what happened and what it meant. Insight seems to arrive in the space between what we notice and what we begin to understand.
First, there is the sunlight. Then, the noticing. The poem comes later.
Poetry is what happens when observation is allowed to linger. Insight is the bridge between what we see and what we understand. Joy, too, sometimes begins this way: quietly, through the simple act of paying attention.
Perhaps life has been speaking in poetry all along.
One thing worth carrying: Where in your life has something quiet been waiting for your attention?
— Judithe
Notes written while a book is becoming.