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March 19, 2016

The Milk of my Morning Meditation. {Poetry}

coffee, simple things, hands

 

Bitter tea,
out of milk,
we learn to live without
wanting,
knowing
mostly what flies by
does not want to be caught:
a ladybug, a bat, a hummingbird, a heart, hands,
or that shooting star,
& we learn to love
what we can hold
in this impermeable space
where bitter tea tastes less and less tannic
& the cup warming my hands
is the milk of my morning.

.

For me, poetry is an act of meditation.

The moment is caught in between my fingertips—and then the words hit the page, taking on a life of their own.

Sometimes the poetry makes a reader feel centered and alive, and at other times, my words may incite a bit of resistance in the gravity of perceptions.

I wrote the above poem in the very realness of living. On that morning, I could’ve cried over spilled milk, but instead I embraced the bitterness of Irish Breakfast tea without milk, stepping out of my morning routine.

Sure, I could’ve cursed or stomped off to get milk from the corner store—but I didn’t.

I stayed in that space of learning to live without, because sometimes—that’s when we truly see all that we do have in our world.

The poem has become a reminder for me to return to meditation—over and over again—because there will always be moments when we run out of “milk” or uncomfortable moments like when our headphones break while we’re stuck on a crowded bus.

The realness of living is our poetry—and even the most ordinary moments can become the magic of inspiration, so embrace the space where our writing hand connects with our hearts in the creation of poems.

.

Author: Jessie Wright

Editor: Yoli Ramazzina

Photo: Flickr/Alexandra E Rust

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