Friday, February 25, 2011
In general, I don't have much of a grasp of anything.
I do know my husband's shoe size. I know that his eyes are a deep chocolate brown, but that's a woman-thing. I know the name of my district representative, but I don't like to think about it. I do forget where I parked. And where I left my glasses (and I'm so blind without them that looking for glasses while not wearing glasses is its own comedy of errors.) I can't remember most of my childhood. I always forget that I'm stranded at home when one of our vehicles is in the shop. And although I am firmly Catholic, and deeply in love with God, I am often confused.
What I do know is this: I love poets. I love their words and the way their brains work. I savor the way they make me nod and sigh and then, at the end, laugh because, yes, that's me they've just conjured, and how did they know?
by Louis Jenkins
The speaker points out that we don't really have
much of a grasp of things, not only the big things,
the important questions, but the small everyday
things. "How many steps up to your back yard? What
is the name of your district representative? What
did you have for breakfast? What is your wife's
shoe size? Can you tell me the color of your
sweetheart's eyes? Do you remember where you
parked the car?" The evidence is overwhelming.
(Read the rest of the poem here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
Sara Lewis Holmes has the round up today at Read, Write, Believe.