I have thought of myself as a poet since I was nine or ten. I liked the label, since it really isn’t a crowded field or outwardly competitive (both things I abhor), but you have to be careful. Subjective people can really stomp on your feelings about how you express yourself. My writing has been called both “unremarkable” and “modern Emily Dickinson.”
My daughter has been tossing off poems this summer that blow me away with their depth and strike of perfect chords. I’m jealous, but only in the best way. If there’s someone’s poetry I want to admire and love more than my own, it’s hers. It’s breathtaking. She has no idea how good she is at it yet.
Then there’s my son, the composter, herb grower, lentil-eating, accepting of all living things, medical student, who wants to learn about everyone and everything’s journey through life. If you have an ailment, he wants to help heal you, so you can enjoy your journey more fully. He’s philosophical and heady in the most gentle and practical way.
I hope you get to cross paths with my kids someday – the children I helped create – who are a healing poet and a poetic healer.