When we climbed the slopes of the cutting
We were eye-level with the white cups
Of the telegraph poles and the sizzling wires.
Like lovely freehand they curved for miles
East and miles west beyond us, sagging
Under their burden of swallows.
We were small and thought we knew nothing
Worth knowing. We thought words traveled the wires
In the shiny pouches of raindrops,
Each one seeded full with the light
Of the sky, the gleam of the lines, and ourselves
So infinitesimally scaled
We could stream through the eye of a needle.
-by Sheamus Heaney
As I laid awake in bed last night the words of this poem, among other things haunted me. Lately I have caught myself in the act of trying to live a large life. Trying to prove that I can think big thoughts. Insisting that I am wise enough to be of some worth to someone.
To be small and know nothing is hard.