Writing Through the Threshold: How Poetry Helps Us Sit With Unfinished Emotion

Grief isn’t tidy. Mine came crashing in, like an anvil from the sky. I lost my sister unexpectedly. She was only 46.

Then the pandemic hit and I, like everyone else, was in an existential crisis.

That’s where poetry came in. Or maybe better said, it’s where poetry came out.

(List of Poetic Forms for Poets.)

I was confused, overwhelmed, frightened, on-guard. So, I began writing in the early mornings in that milky space between dreamland and wakefulness. The words and images emerged out of the morning mist, like figures walking toward me. Sometimes I would hear them instead of see them, but they showed up every day. The must have known how much I needed them.

I was in no position to demand anything of them. They came as they were and my job was to receive them. To honor them by documenting their arrival. By seeing them. By listening to them. By acknowledging their very existence.

Nothing was linear or orderly. That was not of interest to them. That was not of their realm. And I knew instinctively that if I tried to impose too much structure or demand some explanation that they would vanish.

They showed up as metaphors. Each day I was tree. Parts of myself revealed. Angles I had never witnessed, like seeing myself in a mirror from behind. I didn’t recognize parts of myself. I was being shown things I needed to see. Not all of them pretty or flattering, but unquestionably mine.

Grief abolished my walls. The stones and metal spikes that had towered around me were in rubble at my feet. It was only for that reason that I could see more clearly. Everything I thought I knew and all that made my world feel safe and orderly was rudely shaken down.

Cracked open and vulnerable, I learned to sit with ambiguity. Rough edges went unhoned. I left spaces blank where there were no answers.

Unlike me, poetry is comfortable in this space. It does not ask us to over-explain. Or fill in every detail. Or write in full sentences. It only asks for a feeling. An image. A metaphor. It’s OK in fragments. The page allows for it.

As we know, sometimes less is more. Others can see themselves when we don’t give too much away. Not trying to answer every question or make all the lines and corners join. It leaves room for others to enter.

Ironically, that’s often the hardest part. It’s our inclination to explain. To fill in gaps. To ensure we are understood.

But not everything makes sense. My sister’s death does not make sense. Sometimes I have a gaping hole in my chest. I can tell you exactly where it is. Exactly how big it is. Yet no machine can see it. I know the hole is real, like I know that I have 10 fingers. Not everything makes sense.

At the bottom of my very practical to-do list on my phone. (You know, the list of things I do to keep the trains running.) At the bottom, it says, "All important matters are invisible." I don’t know where I saw it or when I added it as a permanent fixture to my to-dos.

I like it though. It pulls me out of the day-to-day. It reminds me to close my eyes. To go inside. To listen. To hear. To pay attention to what else I need to learn. About myself, my environment. To connect to love. To anger. To rage. To injustice. To beauty. To hope.

We live in a world where people and technology clamor for our attention. Trying to convince us to believe something, to buy something, to need them in some way.

Poetry is the opposite. It sits patiently waiting for us come. To ask it our deepest questions. To seek its wisdom.

It never answers everything all at once. Because loss cannot be fixed quickly. The hole cannot be refilled on demand.

But poetry does nourish. It gives us what we need. It fills some of the deep cracks with light. And others with tar. It mends parts that have shattered. And leaves the rest for another day.

So we keep coming back. Every day brings something new. A new word. A new image. A fresh look at ourselves. And, when we’re lucky, a fresh look at the deep beauty of everything.

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