One of my favorite Robert Frost poems is only two lines:

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

The enigma is the Secret. The Secret is the enigma. In one’s writing life I think the Secret is faith. As the poet Yanyi notes at the end of his considerate and caring advice post,

“Someone is on their way. Practice letting them stay when they arrive.”

This is what Rumi called a “sublime generosity”. I call it reciprocity. In the end it is care. Care for someone’s writing today in some small way.

I wrote a poem that steals Yanyi’s post and translates it into a poem.

 

 

In the desert

nothing but the wind

holds forth.

You can be forgiven

for imagining in this desolation

that you have nothing to offer the world.

No talent.

No wait, not ever any talent.

Forlorn unto giving up,

it is so easy to have faith

in your own mediocrity.

It is a shield against disappointment

that erases all the waste

of your writing life.

 

Don’t give up yet,

Not yet, please.

What you are missing is care,

reciprocation,

that sublime generosity

that keeps you writing.

Caring

is that sublime generosity

coming toward you singing,

“I am on my way.

May I stay when I arrive?”

 

Here’s a musical accompaniment to the poem above: