Complications are what make life beautiful (and complicated)

Hi there! I bet you thought I forgot about you, didn't you? Well, I haven't forgotten about you, dear blog readers. I just got a little bit busy and a little bit superstitious. There's so much to catch up on - new things going on in our lives and some wedding news to report. But I'm not quite ready to do those things yet. There's a little back-tracking I need to do first. Humor me?

::insert time warp music here::

When I was a little girl, my Mema (my maternal grandmother), gave me me two poetry books. Actually, she was a retired teacher and gave me lots of books, but there were two books that were very important in establishing my love for poetry. (Did you know that about me - that I love to read and write poetry? I should really do it more often. Anyway, back to the point.) One was a beautifully bound copy of Emily Dickenson's complete works because she was one of my grandmother's favorite poets. It's kind of fitting, if you know anything about either one of their lives. The other was a well-loved copy of Khalil Gibran's The Prophet that I'm pretty sure came from the library's used book sale. I remember reading both books cover to cover, sometimes in the middle of the night and sometimes in the bathtub. In fact, The Prophet was so water-logged by the end of middle school that the binding broke in half.

Mema also had a wonderful habit of cutting stories out of the newspaper when she thought you might enjoy reading them. Sometimes the clippings came tucked inside birthday cards, and some times she would mail them with a little note on pretty stationary with birds or flowers. When I was older, the clippings came in instant cappuccino tins with quarters she collected for me to use in the coin-operated laundry. However they came, though, the clippings seemed to come just when I needed a kind word or some guidance. I miss those clippings, and I wish I had saved more of them than I did.

So . . . last night, I couldn't sleep. All the wheels in my brain just wouldn't stop spinning, and I found myself thinking about family and love and how things are just so complicated. By the time I finally fell asleep, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed.

Fast forward to this morning when I was sitting at my computer and checking my daily blogroll (yes, I read A LOT of blogs.) One of my favorite writers was talking about how her daughter was learning to read under the sheets with a flashlight, and she mentioned a poem from The Prophet. I know the method was a little more 21st century than a newspaper clipping in a cappuccino tin, but the note felt destined exactly for me and my heart.

Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against your passion and your appetite. Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody. But how shall I, you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements?
The Prophet

*** I promise a return to the less introspective side of things next time. Stay tuned.