I don’t do this often, if I do it at all. I wanted to share a poem that stuck out to me:

I remember my grandfather

peering over a cliff

and leaning

down

to grab a flower

growing at the edge of it.

At the time I feared for him—

what bravery

to look down at death

for the sake of the view,

and a small purple flower.

Though recently

I’ve come to understand

standing at the edge

and peering into it,

I cannot say

that I feel brave

for leaning.

I feel bravest

when I stand

upright,

flower

in hand.

sinaani by Aedan Corey

It came in a collection of poems written by one Inuk, Aedan Corey, which was given to me for my 25th birthday. I’ve never really loved my birthdays. Gifts, of course, are nice, and it’s always nice to spend time with loved ones. But the fact that I made another trip around the sun is, at best, wholly unremarkable to me; at worst, it’s an opportunity to contemplate the changes of life, for good or for ill. For while I may often contemplate impermanence, make no mistake: I am not always comfortable with it.

And so, perhaps reading my own feelings into it, I saw in this poem someone who observes the change of perspective in his own life. At first, he’s fearful for his grandfather, thinking of the bravery he must have to grab that pretty flower from the side of a cliff. Naturally, one would fear for someone they love risking their life. But as he gets older, he comes to understand his grandfather more: the real bravery is to hold that beautiful flower with you as you “stand upright”.

That the poet feels bravest when standing upright is perhaps a note of cynicism in what might otherwise be read as an ode of admiration for their grandfather. You see, now the grandfather’s “bravery” in the face of death is unmasked as not being brave at all. On the contrary, the bravery consists in holding that beautiful flower while standing upright, which presumably symbolises a return to the everyday life. That is to say, it takes more courage to go on than to risk one’s life for a pretty view or a flower.

For some, this might strike them as a profoundly miserable view of the world. There’s so much else to live for, after all, and this poem seems to take such trivial things and elevate them to a status where they’re worth the risk. And what of society? Is it not worth “suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”, in the words of one Danish Prince? That would take bravery, especially for one to “stand upright, flower in hand”. The flower—a mark of ascent to vulnerability as one peers over the cliff—betrays its bearer as the bleeding heart they are, who few may understand.

On the other hand, is this not more a bittersweet poem? For while I believe there is a touch of melancholy in the poet’s self-reflection, they ultimately see life not as something to be grasped not for its own sake. They can peer beyond their narrowest concerns about survival and find beauty in the world. To revisit Hamlet’s dilemma, “to be or not to be”, this poet seems to suggest that the answer depends on whether one values the true gifts given by life itself.

Naturally, I could be totally off-base here. As I said, I may be reading into this poem. But the older I’ve gotten, the more I feel I could relate to this feeling: the desire for more, for something beautiful and pure, something worthwhile, something more than bread alone. Call it enlightenment, heaven, paradise, nirvana—whatever. Do we not all want to find something that makes us forget about our own mortality? What do we live for apart from life itself? And more to the point, how do we find the courage to carry that with us as we “stand upright” amongst others?

These are just questions to think about. Maybe you’ve thought about them. If you haven’t, maybe you should. Or maybe it’s better not to. I really couldn’t say. All I can say is that this bit of poetry spoke to me—on my birthday of all days—precisely because I felt in dialogue with that young lad growing out of his own skin. What do I live for? Without fail, on February 23, I think about it every year.