Love and loss have taken away my desire to study and instead filled me with poetry.
I have tried to open my books on psychological theories, but I can’t.
Instead, I read a message you once sent me until the tears arrive and my vision becomes blurry.
I’ve been told my poetry is a gift.
I fake a smile when I hear this and cry later.
I try to keep my feelings at bay and return to my studies, but I can’t.
Each morning and night, I find myself writing.
I used to take a hot shower to wash away the day.
Now, I take one to trick myself into thinking that its warmth is you.
A magician once told me in Brazil that I was to be a writer one day.
I laughed at this and told him no, I am to be a psychologist.
He smiled gently at me and said, “Maybe, but your greatest gift is writing.”
I woke up this morning and began to read a collection of poems by Rumi I found in this bookstore in a town near the Skagit River in the Pacific Northwest.
I wonder if Rumi wanted to be a poet.
I wonder if he knew he had a gift.
I wonder if he also felt this much.
I think this line says it all:
“Love has taken away my practices and filled me with poetry.” ~ Rumi
Maybe I spend more time writing poetry than I do reading about developmental psychology these days.
Maybe I now wake up and write.
Maybe this is true.
It’s okay, though.
Because just like Rumi, I fell in love a few times.
Several times, in fact.
And now that love has taken me away from my practices and filled me with poetry.
And I can wish it away all I want, but I can’t change it.
I am a poet, and this is my gift.