“I was so willing to pull a page out of my notebook, a day, several bright days and live them as if I was only alive, thirsty, timeless, young enough, to do this one more time, to dare to have nothing so much to lose and to feel that potential dying of the self in the light as the only thing I thought that was spiritual, possible and because I had no other way to call that mind, I called it poetry, but it was flesh and time and bread and friends frightened and free enough to want to have another day that way, tear another page.”

Excerpted from “Notebook, 1981” written by Eileen Myles

I would see poetry if I tore a page from my notebook in 1981. I sang songs, explored trails, baked cakes, and rode bikes. Tap dancing and playing fiddle. In the middle of all that, I would write sitting on the basement stairs and hide my thoughts in a red folder marked “Top Secret.” (Labeling my poems “Top Secret” was inspired by chapter book heroes that always seemed to mark things “Top Secret.”) I chose the basement because that is where I would roller skate and play ping pong. I liked the joyfulness of it. I chose the basement because there was a little spot there where I could hide. I chose the basement because that is where I listened to Tapestry and Blue. I sat on the basement stairs and wrote poems. I had no other thing to call them. I took them very seriously. I never showed them to anyone. They helped me make it all make sense.

Poetry and prayer occupy a similar space in life’s creation. In that way, I write prayers. I remember learning different types of prayer— thanksgiving, intercession, glory and praise, and others. That makes sense to me, like a beautiful hymn, a stained glass window, or a candlelit altar. I have written all of those prayers at one time or another in my life. After many years of “answered” and “unanswered” prayers, what stands out to me now is that my 10-year-old heart still beats today. My hopeful, heartbroken, joyful, scared, urgent, grateful, and lonely heart filled up to the top, and my heart still beats. 

That is why I write. If writing is thinking, I write to make things make sense. I write to celebrate being alive. My notebook looks more like blog posts and scribbles in a journal. If our lives are poetry, I long for precise language, beautiful turns of phrase, and an economy of words built on love. If our lives are prayer, I long for soft hearts, eyes that see, and stories to shatter separation. Sitting in rapt attention, we create our days. That is what Myles means when she talks about life being the tearing of a page. Each day. Tearing a page.