What Makes the Desert Beautiful...

Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

For years—for most of my life—I’ve loved poetry. I read it, I occasionally wrote it. It was a medium through which I could experience and express life experiences that were otherwise untranslatable.

And then life got in the way. And by life, I mean working through trauma in daily, close proximity to someone who bore a great deal of (sadly, unacknowledged) responsibility for that trauma. My creativity and inner world narrowed to a point. Poetry should have been an anchor for me during this time. But I felt I had no anchors at all, and was adrift in a shoreless sea for a very long time.

Image by Peter Arvell from Pixabay

I was recently approached by the owner of Raven Croaks Publishing and asked if I would be willing to join the team as an editor. It sounded exciting, and I enjoy editing, so I readily agreed. The first book assigned to me was a book of poetry. I wasn’t sure I was up to it. It had been so long since poetry was a part of my life that the rare occasions when I read it now, it merely washed over me like water over parched earth. It didn’t sink into my soul, not even my favorites. I let the manuscript sit for awhile, unsure of myself, but I knew I couldn’t put it off forever.

Today, I finished editing it, and along the way have rediscovered my love. The poems were beautiful. They sank into my soul. Until I read them, I didn’t realize the desert I’ve been living in. But as the little prince once said, “Ce qui embellit le désert… c'est qu'il cache un puits quelque part...”

What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.

I found my well, the first of many, I hope.