January 25th is Rabbie Burns Day. Well, I mean, sort of.

Who?, you ask.

Robert Burns was the poet laureate of Scotland – I believe the only one ever.  And his birthday was January 25th.  He’s been dead quite a long time but has left a lasting legacy through his poetry.  Before my mother died she began a tradition of doing Burns Night Supper.  This involved haggis, neeps and tatties, cranachan, poetry recitation and lots of whiskey.  The Scottish kind, so I believe it’s spelled whisky but I’m not completely sure.  Maybe I got that backwards?  (I don’t have my phone to google and check so I apologize, this is staying as it is).

One of the great things about Burns Supper is the poetry.  John and I hosted once, years ago now, when my mother was still alive, and every guest was requested to bring a piece of poetry.  As we all ate our Scottish grub, one by one we read our pieces to the group.  It was sort of magical because everyone’s selection reflected who they were – original works, Rumi, T.S. Eliot, etc.

John and I began our poetry collection because of Burns Supper.  This year I bought him a collection by Amanda Gorman.  Last year he bought me Rupi Kaur.  There’s something other-worldly about poetry.  It makes the mundane seem magic somehow.  It is the perfect illustration of the power of language.

This wasn’t what I was going to blog about at all.  I was going to talk about how Ally Love re-posted one of my Instagram stories, and how incredible it felt to be ‘seen’ by a woman i admire so greatly.  But then I typed the date.  And all the memories of Burns Supper came flooding back.  And my mother felt closer.  And that felt soothing.

Anyway.  Happy Burns Night America.

Xox, g