Song of Myself

Everything that I hold dear, I hold it all for you.

The light warming my back as I knit in the sun. The smell of a passerby's perfume. (what scent was that?) The laugh I hear across the room. A hand brushed lightly across a knee.

The breeze that just lifted my scarf so gently, it flowed over her skin and his and hers. Around the corners and through the city until I know that it touched you, too.

It touched everyone. (as did the sun)

And I felt you sigh with me.

I recently discovered Walt Whitman and I am simply taken by his work. I can't imagine how I had never read anything of his before. And it's such happenstance that I even came across it.

Someone left a bunch of National Geographics in a local laundrymat and I happened to pick one up and start paging through it last week. I came upon an article about Walt Whitman and was drawn in by his lovely and evocative words. Key exerpts were paired with photos and a short story of his life. After reading and rereading portions of Song of Myself and other poems, I wanted to run out and buy a book of his work, but for reasons beyond my control I had to wait a few days.

So I ended up purchasing Leaves of Grass about five days later and had much time to read it. And when I say much time, I mean real, spacious, I-could-be-doing-anything-I-wanted-to time. You see I got to have a wonderful little vacation in Atlanta last week. Just Me, my lovely friend and Whitman.

So as I explored and strolled and hustled around Atlanta I always had Walt close at hand. I could sit down at any moment and open him up and be thrilled by his connection to the world. And know that I knew it all already, but needed him to point it out again. And I did pull him out frequently and let him take me to a higher level of mindfulness, sending shivers up my spine as I ascended.

But enough of Walt. I want to tell you about Atlanta.