Time is moving. Does anyone even know what to make of it anymore? Should we make anything of it? Maybe it’s not personally my job or my role to make anything out of anything. And maybe that’s how we can see beauty. Not, like, use beauty. But like just see it. Not even witness it. We can just be explorers.
And that brings me to my encouragement. That we can rest. I wonder if poetry comes from rest. If poetry is what happens. And then we just write it down or say it out loud. Or if we do poetry. Some call it surrender. With no mandate to know, no imperatives that press on our existence. I wonder if poetry can come out when we exercise the faith to come out. When we come out. When we come out from under the burden of knowing where we’ll go.
If you don’t know what else to do, then just be. Then it’s like rest is at work, and then poetry is at work. It’s happening and we can say it, say things we never said. Divinity is at work. So I think my encouragement is to risk taking rest. Poetry, art, music, whatever, are like signs of life. And signs of life, perhaps, are just sounds of rest.