The Mind Is A Poet

Microseason No. 56, November 13-17

We cannot possibly hold it all.

For every microseason, our minds must choose what to keep.

Somewhere in Virginia on the way to my dad’s funeral.

In a complex, yet effortless process, the mind subtracts. It refines and edits the images, smells, feelings, and sounds of each moment, deciding what to save and what to discard.

Our days are distilled down into their essence: a few vivid scenes and snippets of sensation, written words, emotions, music, fragments of conversation.

We call these memories.

In this way, I think memories are a form of poetry.

The mind is always writing a poem about its human life.

Whenever I go through a trying time, a great sorrow, or an upheaval of any sort, I need have a way to process the experience without trying to make sense of it.

At least initially. Sense-making may come later. Or never. It’s ok, either way. For now, I just want to enjoy the current hazy micro-poem of this time.

My hometown: Oregon, Illinois.

Here is a collage. These are some random things my mind decided to save from my father’s funeral a few days ago. He was a beloved firefighter and police officer:

The long, long drive north through saffron hills; family and old friends; hands to hold; tears in the eyes of others who knew my dad (these tears were so beautiful to me) the smell of incense rising like prayers; the powerful drone of bagpipes filling the church; dissolving communion wafer on my tongue; the procession of emergency vehicles with lights flashing; blue sky; quiet streets; a fire truck at the entrance to the cemetery, ladder hoisted and bearing a huge flag; red roses on his grave; my sister’s name and my name on his tombstone; Father of Ann & Sharri; Dispatcher’s voice on the police radio broadcasting my dad’s Final Call: “Thank you for your dedication and service. May you rest in peace. We’ll take the watch from here.”

What we save are flashes and fading images, things that are beautiful and strange, comforting, confusing and somehow worth keeping.

Why? The mind has its own reasons.

The mind is a Poet writing a memory-poem about its bodily human experience.

I only hope to savor this ongoing poetry every day, and from it I’ll try to draw enough energy to stay in love with my life in this microseason— and in all the ones to come.

Thank you all for your sweet words of condolence over the past few weeks. You kept me steady in all the sadness.

Love & Peace to You,

Ann