“Three times my life has opened.
Once, into darkness and rain.
Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and
starts to remember each time it enters the act of love.
Once, to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple has stepped
from her leaves like a woman in love with winter, dropping
the colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of
light stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor,
or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.”
– Three Times My Life Has Opened, Jane Hirshfield, from The Lives of the Heart: Poems
Happy New Year, dear readers.
I read this poem on one wintry afternoon on my favorite place for words, and it stayed with me. Sometimes my heart seems like an antique store of good stories, and good words. It wants to own them all, because it knows, those words make me fall in love with sunrises, new beginnings, and awakenings, again and again.