Poems that move my world

Poetry was my inspiration ever since I was little. I read and wrote poems all the time. All kinds, many that I didn't even understand because I was too young, the words too intense. At some point, the love for poems transformed into an obsession with deep lyrics. And then, somewhere down the line, I lost it all. The music, the words, the poem. Even the motivation.

The last few months have been a journey of rediscovering myself. My spirit. My soul. My freedom. The irrepressible desire not to be tied down or be held back. It’s been tumultuous, but hey, that’s what makes it so exciting! Through this process, I've started rediscovering the words that move me. And so, in an attempt to read more poetry, I have decided to share one new piece here everyday. It could be a song, a poem, a verse, a prose, a quote. Anything at all. After all, poetry comes in all shapes and forms. On particularly inspired days, I might even share something I've written, either recent or old (though I don’t have almost any of my poems with me anymore).

I’m going to start with today’s poem — The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. A colleague shared it with me back in 2010, when I was going through a particularly difficult time (happens quite often with me ;-)). At 3:30 am, while I sit alone, feeling very peaceful and content, the last line of this poem seems particularly pertinent — a question I find myself asking people very often.

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.