Many years ago, I was enjoying a silent moment home alone. It was a rainy day and as I was looking out the window, I found myself weirdly moved by the weathered Adirondack chair sitting on my front lawn. My husband and I found it on a curb waiting for the trash a few weeks earlier, but I thought it was such a beautiful chair so we took it home. It was Tardis blue but the paint was chipping away, revealing the green paint underneath. giving it an earth-like hue.
So I'm sitting there, looking at this chair and feeling so incredibly moved by it. The chair itself, this moment, felt like a poem to me. I went ahead and wrote a short poem about that solitary old chair despite knowing that whatever I wrote could never capture the poetry of that moment.
I'd written poetry before this, but that was the first time I realized that I actually thought like a poet. It's a pleasant memory and a teachable one. I learned to pay attention to the beautiful little moments; those seemingly insignificant parts of our experience. I learned to find a muse in trips to the town dump, motes of dust passing through a sunbeam, or the way my hands remind me of my fathers... I haven't thought about this in a long time. Thanks for the reminder :)
