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Parking lot 

Your life is a poem, Naomi Shihab Nye says in the podcast. You have known this to be true, even if lately the stanzas of your life look like unmetered scratches on a page.

So write something, even if it is sad. Admit that even the pollen on the dashboard looks mournful to you: evidence that you cannot keep pace with life.

Then look again, dear one. Because the pollen is golden, like the dragonfly that swoops then hovers over the Ford in front of you. And the fingerprints in the pollen belong to your own beloved husband who sits at home with the dog and cat.

Look again at this singular moment. Feel the sweat beading on your neck. Hear the lone cicada’s hum. 

Someone has left a bottle of chocolate milk atop an SUV. You imagine a mother with her arms and mind too full to notice. You may never rush around with her worries, her joys, her sacred exhaustion. But you can hold her in your mind. You can repeat the words for her and for yourself:

Your life is a poem.

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