These words come from a tribute that moved me beyond words today, beyond the “should” I can dress up in or hide behind to a place that is never far away, not over the rainbow, not someday, not a means to an end, not a carrot and not a stick.
It’s called being alive. And it’s what’s happening the whole time we’re busy looking everywhere but here for the life we think we should be living.
If you read, you’re a poet. If you write, you’re a poet. If you speak, listen, shout, cry, rant, sing, live or die, you’re a poet.
Her words also echo almost verbatim something I said while recording an interview for a women’s radio program that will air later this week. You know that saying? If you can walk, you can dance. If you can talk, you can sing.
We’re all poets.
Song, breath, poetry, being: It’s all one truth. And it lives where we live–right here, on the ground where you’re standing, which is the same ground where I’m standing.
This is what her words, and the spaces between them, keep teaching me. (She may not remember, but I do.)
But don’t just take my word for it. Head over to Cheerio Road to see for yourself.