I’m in need of a bit of self-soothing today – the grind of the pandemic is weighing a little more heavily on me these days, and my psychic ache feels a bit more tender.

We all have our go-to’s when we’re in need of comfort. And while I find things like going for a run or walking Pinkerton to the park to be helpful, sometimes I need something I can do quietly, in stillness, alone, gently curled up into myself.

I enjoy reading in general, but I find reading poetry to be particularly soothing. Perhaps something about the rhythm, or the conciseness of thought, or the open-ended imagery? A poem is a miniature world unto itself, a realm I can slip into for a few moments, far from my own.

I recently came across this one, by the Japanese poet Izumi Shikibu (she was one of the Thirty-six Medieval Poetry Immortals of medieval Japan, and a fascinating character) – it’s both incorporeal and tactile at the same time, a question that isn’t looking for an answer, but is begging for more questions. It’s a quick read but a long thought. And for those few moments I’m transported, and my mind is soothed.

What color is 
this blowing autumn wind, 
that it can stain 
my body with its touch?

Izumi Shikibu