The following reflection was written by Willow.
“For poems are not words after all, but fires for the cold, rope let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”
— Mary Oliver
Early in my journey with infertility, I discovered poetry. My grief was so consuming that I often had no words to describe how I was feeling. Poetry became the voice for my sorrow. I found Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Rumi. They, too, had experienced deep and painful loss. The words were raw and real, a healing balm for my heavy heart. In that season, I was drawn to the saddest of poems because I desperately wanted to know that I wasn’t alone. Through poems, I heard the simple and quiet encouragement of “me too.”
Poetry is still part of my life and continues to be a source of inspiration and comfort for me in all seasons of life. Here are a few of my favorite tidbits:
“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more
joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds the wine the very cup that was
burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood
that was hollowed with knives?”
— Kahlil Gibran
The way of love is not
a subtle argument.
The door there
is devastation.
Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling,
they’re given wings.”
— Rumi
“In Heaven the starry saints will wipe away
The tears forever from our eyes, but they
Must not erase the memory of our grief.
In bliss, even there can be no relief.”
— Wendell Berry