Sometimes I think I am growing invisible,
becoming the color of air.
People, seasons, ownings
more and more pass through me.
I am lighter than I have ever been,
more foolish, more longing,
wrong about so much.
I did not know I could possibly feel
as if nothing had happened yet,
as if it were only now beginning,
breath rising, eyes lifting,
fingers opening for their first
wondering touch of the world.
Deborah Pope, closing strophe to “Lines from the Book of Days,” from Falling Out of the Sky (Louisiana State University Press, 1999)
Submission isn’t something you throw at people and hope they want it.
Submission is probably the single sexiest thing a person can offer. It’s saying ‘I know exactly who I am. I know exactly what I want. I choose to place it all in your hands and let you lead me and love me because I believe the journey will be beautiful.’
Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet.