I've always been interested in such wonders that move my soul like a summer breeze blows small green leaves, lifting lightly, gently, but still lifting. Sometimes the pieces that stir my soul hold it close, watering and delivering sunlight, making my eyes and heart bloom with curiosity. Many times when I find myself enthralled and embraced by certain stirrings of the soul, chills spread over each of my arms and over every light brown freckle.
There's a humbleness concerning my humanity when such stirrings whirl my soul about. I remember reading something written by Anne Lamott, which is directly on writing & reading, but I find it applicable to the stirrings I am speaking of. In her book bird by bird, Lamott writes powerfully,
"Because of the spirit, I say. Because of the heart. Writing and reading [stirrings] decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life; they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again" (257).
The glistening warmth of the jumbled, miscellany stirrings are not exclusive to only one outlet such as literature or song-- but it's the world around me, each jagged, smooth, radiant piece of it freely dipping and stirring my soul.These are the things that keep me floating over life instead of being bruised by the black, clogged foot of it. These stirrers, the ones that whirl my soul about, are such that "deepen and widen and expand [my] sense of life; they feed [my] soul" (257).
Though it may seem trivial to rattle off a list of those things, I want to. These are few of the many, many, many stirrers, but they are recent-- some old too, I suppose.
Really good ice cream.
"XVII" by Pablo Neruda.
Casadh an Tsugain. (From Brooklyn).