When I was in middle school I read a poem in front of the school. I got to pick any poem I wanted, but I can’t remember any details beyond that. I have no idea what poem I picked or what the event was for or who was in the audience.
What I do remember is that every year until her death, one woman in the audience let me know what that poem meant to her.
“It was my life,” Celina said in a thick Eastern European accent, chubby and smiling with eyes that popped out of her face.
“I could not believe you found a poem that describe my life!”
Every time I ran into her for the next 20 years, Celina would thank me for reading a poem I don’t remember.
Celina was a Holocaust survivor who spent her life sharing her story. I was a little kid doing a homework assignment. Between us was art.
If you’re wondering “Why bother” or “What’s the point” or “Who cares” or “What right do I have” to do the work that lights me up, I wonder that too. Most days I wonder. Most days I wonder if I’m being selfish, self-involved, or tone-deaf.
And I wonder if that poet, the one who described Celina's life, asked themselves the same questions.
I wonder if that poet knew their words would change an old woman’s life, reinvigorate her spirit, and help her feel seen. I wonder if that poet knew the words would endear Celina to me, at a moment when I felt invisible and wanted to feel seen.
You can’t know the effect of your work. You can’t know who will read it or who will care. Maybe no one. Maybe four people. But if me and Celina are the only two people in the world that read that poem - if those words gave her relief and a bridge between the atrocities she suffered and the story she wished to share - then it was worthwhile.
I will never be able to tell you to paint, sing, or dance when the world is crumbling all around you. I can only tell you that when I am uncertain and afraid - books, song, dance, and light are just about the only things that get me through.
Written by Margo. Edited and made readable by Kristin.
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I know this to be true deep down to my core. I’m so humbled when I watch my children create art when they are sad, happy, excited and angry for no other reason than to express themselves and make sense of their life. Why should it be different when we are in our bigger bodies? Xx
I could cry, this is so good. I feel like I was there when Celina reacted to your reading of the poem. I feel like I can keep going because of what you wrote here. THANK YOU for making all the difference to me today!