I've started finding symbolism and meaning in the smallest of things, almost bordering on superstition, so I wanted to start my twenty-sixth year out in a way that felt calm and meaningful. I woke up early this morning, showered, made the bed, drank two glasses of water, and tidied the apartment. I listened to Verdi's Rigoletto on the radio, walked slowly to the train, and read a few Mary Oliver poems on my ride to work. Everything felt fresh and intentional, like seeing through an altered lens, a slightly altered lens. Nothing has changed, really—only in my mind, and only because I welcomed it; I invented it.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
- Excerpt from When Death Comes by Mary Oliver