Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.—David Whyte
The difference between “wise” and “wisest” are the letters s and t—the abbreviation for saint. So what does it take for a saying or psalm or line from a poem to be not just wise, but saint-wise?
The line quoted at the top of this post is from David Whyte’s poem, “Sweet Darkness.” It is (spoiler alert) the closing line, the mad, loud gong that resounds in the reader’s mind long after the poem has gone silent. “Sweet Darkness” is one of the three poems I know by heart, the other two being “Reflection on Babies” by Ogden Nash and “Against Broccoli” by Roy Blount, Jr.
Anyone who in discussion quotes authority uses their memory rather than their intellect.—Leonardo da Vinci
And that is the first criterion: Saintly words are ones you know by heart, which is different from merely memorizing. If you memorize words, it’s more than likely you will forget them eventually, or at least some of them. Something you know by heart doesn’t rely on memory to kick in when you press PLAY. The words well up from someplace deep within, often unbidden. They are not spoken; they emerge. That is because they don’t come from your brain, for they aren’t stored there.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
—1 Corinthians 13:13
The second criterion for saint-wise words is that you often want to share them with someone because you think hearing them may improve their lives. But you don’t. You don’t want to be that person who, out of nowhere, intones some couplet or sonnet or biblical bit while looking at the listener knowingly—and, often, expectantly—hoping they recognize your above-average intelligence.
To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old.—Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Instead, you come to live those words, perhaps not literally, but figuratively, in the fullness of their meaning. You have come to embody those words; they have become part of you.
Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door.
—Emily Dickinson
The third and final criterion for what makes words wisest is that they are instantly—and mysteriously—recognizable as such. Upon hearing them, you immediately want to pack their syllables into the spiritual suitcase you always carry with you. From there you hope they will travel to your heart and take up permanent residence there. You promise yourself you will live those words by and by. You trust that from time to time, they will emerge unbidden, preferably when no one else is around so you can be reminded that you are never alone. As those words dance across the universe laid before you, you smile as you realize that in their discovery you are communing with saints.
I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.—Maya Angelou
They bring you alive, these wisest of words. They are not too small for you. In fact, maybe they stay with you because they are just the right size for the person you hope you are. Then they grow in meaning as you become the person you hope you’ll be. And there’s the crux of it: We don’t become wise. We just become.
Thanks for the many and well loved words. Mine is the first line of Dawna Markova's poem Fully Alive : "I will not die an unlived life."