I sat in the bathtub for a solid hour the other night finishing Lisa Brennan-Jobs’s memoir Small Fry. After the book ended, my thoughts swirled like the bathwater going down the drain.
I recently tried, for the first time, to read Pride and Prejudice. After eighty pages, I gave up. My friend Sarah, who lent me the book on request, called it one of her “comfort books,” and I fully expected to find my place in the story. Perhaps it’s not my time yet, so let’s just say I hope to try again some day.
I already knew from my own experience that memorizing poetry was doing a work on my interior spaces, but I haven’t tried especially hard to put language around what that work is. I have felt it and known its power, and I have returned time and again to seek out beautiful poetry, to commit the lines to memory, and to give them safekeeping in my heart.