"I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut burr; and my eyes, like sherry in the glass that the guest leaves."
Praise God that Emily Dickinson wandered the earth, that she called it good, that her fascicles were not burned upon her death. For a poet so fixated on Immortality, how fittingly her sage words have sung throughout the ages. She has become like Shakespeare, whom she so admired.
I will never be able to satisfyingly articulate the comfort to be found in Dickinson's words; her letters are like missives received from a dear friend, a catalyst for laughter (thanks to her sharp wit) as well as great inspiration and solace. I believe Emily Dickinson to be one of the most brilliant minds to have ever graced this planet—a mind held within a being of such gentleness yet unflinching fortitude of character. An apprentice to awe, a devotee of mystery. The openness of her faith is radical and once challenged me, her comfort in a suffering Savior whilst rejecting the judgement of a harsh God.
Being immersed in Emily Dickinson's work for a quad course during my first year at Wheaton was deeply impactful, and I only continue to grow more in love with her wordsmithing and her way of seeing the world. I would not be who I am as a writer without her influence.