And for some magical years I will have been alive
And had some chances
And been brave enough to take them.
These years will have been magical because life is magical.
I don’t know what the thing is that powers my brain and my heart
And neither does science.
No matter how hard it tries.
When time has passed and I’m no longer here,
For a short time after, you might hear my name,
You may see a photograph of me,
But you will not know the warmth of sitting in my company
And I will not know the charm in moments of yours.
…
I am not sure when I wrote this poem, but according to the notebook it is written in, I can guess sometime in the last three years. I found it recently and it touched me. I like when this happens – when a younger version of myself manages to send a message to my present iteration.
The poem is apposite to a situation I found myself in a couple of months ago. At a gathering, I was among a couple of people who seemed not to possess a sensitivity or curiosity towards others unlike them, and consequently to life itself. I choose who I spend my time around very carefully, so this genre of situation will always catch me off-guard.
After a routine evaluation, I have concluded that this personality type had elected to kill off a more vulnerable part of themselves at a primitive stage in their lives in order to get-by, to be more palatable or easily accepted by others. Or simply to feel less strange. But the paradox of life is that life itself is strange.
This poem is a call to action to appreciate the seemingly mundane quiet moments with others. To remember every now and then to look at the person sitting across from us as though they are a wild flower; beautifully and furiously in full bloom, and as all flowers are – not here for long.
Warmest,
Rachel
