I have crushes on many people —Leonard Cohen, Pablo Neruda, Mary Oliver, Rilke, Rumi, T.S. Eliot, Billy Collins, to name just a few. My blog is peppered with posts inspired by things they’ve said. That, and wishes for them never to die, which of course they will. And have. (R.I.P. Leonard Cohen). But it excites me no end that my crush list is ever-growing:
To think that there are a thousand and one artists I’ve not yet discovered, a thousand and one things I’ve not yet read, and a thousand and one fantastic songs that at this very moment I don’t even know exist… To think!
Like just yesterday when I discovered a song I really liked on a Spotify playlist called “Chicas Indie.” This morning I looked up more music by this one chica in particular. She goes by “Niña Tormenta” and what do you know: she is from Chile, the place many a homesick thread of mine traces back to. And now I can’t get enough of her comforting, soothing, one-of-a-kind songs.
To find that there is someone else in the world that puts into words — or melody, or paint, or clay, or movement or really any of the endless ways we human creatures find to express— something I have felt or thought or dreamed, well, that right there is some kind of something like love.
Writing helps me notice what I’m carrying. To care about myself kindly and fiercely, in all my smallness and in all my bigness, in all my outstandingness and in all my failure, in all my naked truth and in all the ways I’ve hidden from it, at noon and at midnight, in calm and in upset, at any weight, at any size, at any age, in any company…
Writing brings me home, wherever in the world I am.