I think we are all born with poetry in our souls and a sense of wonder and magic. As we grow, our life experiences change us, give us new things to focus on, and gradually steal that romance and awe from us.
I, of course, live in MN. A land of folks proud of their pragmatic and stoic way of life. A land of gossipy old Church Ladies, leathery farmers, resourceful farm-wives, and Grumpy Old Men. A land where the only appropriate comment when the weather is -30 degrees is "So, is it cold enough fer ya?"
We are obscenely proud of the fact that we will go ice fishing in temps that keep Polar Bears under wraps, and no snowstorm on earth is enough to keep us all from getting up at o-dark-hundred to take our little selves off to work. We are private people, unwilling to air our arguments in public and terribly embarrassed when others do.
Sometimes, especially in small towns, it seems that the cold has frozen the hands of time. It seems that everything is the same as it has always been; the same as it always will be.
But it is not a land of poets or dreamers. It is a world where often those who are a little bit different receive sidelong looks. Those inclined to take long flights of fancy are thought of by all as "just a little off, if you know what I mean".
And so the poetry we are all born with is slowly suffocated, fading away to nothing as we grow older and leave behind childish things. Daydreams are left behind in favor of "good, solid plans". The pristine beauty of snow-topped pines fades as we focus on shoveling our drives. The orchestra of evening birdsong is lost as we strain to hear the first tell-tale buzz of the dreaded mosquito. The thrill of sledding down a great hill at break-neck speed is eclipsed by the terror of slipping and sliding your way down poorly plowed town roads.
And it is sad.
The poetry in my soul has not died quite yet, and I am trying to revive it the best I can. I don't want to lose that vital part of me that sees the romance in life and the dreams in every waking moment. I am trying to breathe; to remember the joy of finding magic in the smallest flower, the wonder in the change of seasons, the peace of really hearing the world around me. I am focusing on the small things, and remembering that the journey is more important than the destination.