I believe in that little voice inside us that says, do this or do that. Sometimes it may lead us astray, but other times it tells us something we need to hear or be reminded of. For the past couple of days, my little voice has been saying, “Emily Dickinson.”
Weird, I know, but safely stowed away in one of my many book nooks is the “Collected Poems” by Miss Emily Dickinson. I bought this book 12 years ago on the bargain book shelf at Barnes & Noble for $4.98.
I’ve rarely opened it until today. When I bought it, I only bought it because I believed it’d make me look well read while it sat on the bookshelf of the library I’d inevitably have when I married my soon-to-be rich husband. Well, I don’t need to expand on that fantasy, but I still have the book, and today, I went to it.
Although I’m constantly shifting things in my condo to make my life fit neatly within the wall of the 900sq feet I call home, I instinctively knew where Miss Dickinson was. I opened the book and this is what I read:
Each life converges to some centre
Expressed or still;
Exists in every human nature
Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,
For credibility’s temerity
Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
Were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment
Yet persevered toward, surer for distance;
Unto the saint’s slow diligence
Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture,
Eternity enables the endeavoring