My parents were willing to let me follow my nose, do what I

Host: The evening sun bled into the kitchen window, spilling soft amber light across the table. The faint hum of cicadas seeped through the open screen door, and the air smelled of rain-damp grass and the lingering warmth of a long summer day.

A teapot hissed on the stove. Dust floated lazily in the golden air. The walls were lined with old bookshelves, their spines faded and uneven — the kind that tell you stories lived here, not just words.

Jack sat by the window, sleeves rolled up, thumbing through a weathered poetry book, its pages yellow and frayed. Jeeny leaned against the counter, her hair loose, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea. The moment felt suspended — like time itself was holding its breath between one era and the next.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You know, Donald Hall once said, ‘My parents were willing to let me follow my nose, do what I wanted to do, and they supported my interest by buying the books that I wanted for birthdays and Christmas, almost always poetry books.’”

Jack: (looking up) “I’ve read that one. He said it like gratitude, but there’s something else in it too — something heavier. Like he knew how rare it was to be allowed to chase what he loved.”

Jeeny: “Rare, yes. But beautiful. Imagine that — being raised not to obey, but to explore.”

Jack: “Exploration sounds romantic until it empties your pockets.”

Jeeny: “You’re too pragmatic, Jack.”

Jack: “No, just realistic. Most parents don’t want dreamers; they want survivors.”

Host: The light shifted, turning from gold to the soft blue of early dusk. The teapot whistled, a thin, steady sound that broke the silence like a reminder of something simple — that warmth could still be made.

Jeeny: (pouring tea) “But isn’t survival empty without joy? Hall’s parents didn’t just raise a poet — they raised a man who understood wonder. That’s what support does. It teaches you the worth of what others call useless.”

Jack: “And yet poetry won’t fix a leaky roof or pay for medicine. Wonder’s great, but you can’t eat it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But without wonder, you stop being human.”

Jack: “You think humanity lives in verse?”

Jeeny: “No — in permission. To ask, to feel, to wander. His parents gave him permission to follow curiosity, not conformity. That’s where poetry begins — in the freedom to listen to what others ignore.”

Host: The clock ticked softly. The room dimmed further, and a firefly’s glow flickered through the screen. Jack turned a page in the old book, running his thumb along a line of verse as if it were a scar.

Jack: “I wanted to be a musician once. My father told me I’d starve before I made a living. So I learned to fix engines instead. Useful things. Practical things. But sometimes… when I hear an old song, I wonder what might’ve happened if someone had just bought me a guitar.”

Jeeny: “You see? You just made Donald Hall’s point. It’s not about poetry. It’s about trust. The kind of trust that says, ‘Go ahead, the world’s waiting for your voice.’”

Jack: “And what if the world doesn’t want it?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ll know it was yours to offer.”

Host: The rain began, slow at first — a few gentle drops tapping the tin roof — then steadier, like applause from some unseen sky. The sound filled the spaces between their words.

Jack: “You ever think Hall’s parents might’ve been foolish? Investing in something as fragile as poetry?”

Jeeny: “Foolishness is often the birthplace of faith. What’s more fragile — poetry or fear?”

Jack: “Fear keeps you alive.”

Jeeny: “So does meaning. People don’t die from hunger alone — they die from emptiness. Poetry feeds the part of us that refuses to become machinery.”

Jack: “You talk like poems are medicine.”

Jeeny: “They are. For the quiet sickness we don’t have names for.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, and the light flickered across her face. Jack stared at her, the sharp lines of his skepticism softening in the hush that followed.

Jack: (slowly) “Maybe I envy him. Hall. To have parents who didn’t confuse rebellion with failure. Who bought him poetry books instead of lectures.”

Jeeny: “That envy is honesty. You wanted to be seen too, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Everyone does. But not everyone gets that kind of permission.”

Jeeny: “Then give it to yourself now.”

Jack: “Too late.”

Jeeny: (gently) “No, Jack. That’s just another practical lie. The soul doesn’t have deadlines.”

Host: The rain intensified, a steady drum against the glass. Jeeny crossed the room, picked up one of the old books, and handed it to him. The spine cracked softly as he opened it — a poem about a child chasing clouds across a field.

He read a line under his breath. Then another.

The room changed. Not its shape, but its texture — as if something invisible had awakened between them.

Jack: “You know… this language. It’s simple. But it feels like breathing.”

Jeeny: “That’s what real writing does — it reminds you you’re still alive.”

Jack: (half-smile) “Then maybe I should’ve bought my own guitar.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the songs you were meant to play are just made of words.”

Jack: “You think people can still reinvent themselves at my age?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every time you listen to your younger self instead of your fear, you’re reborn.”

Host: The lightning flashed once through the window, illuminating the small kitchen — the books, the faces, the rain-slicked glass. Then darkness again, soft and enveloping.

Jack: “So, Hall followed his nose. I followed everyone else’s rules. Guess which one of us ended up happier?”

Jeeny: “You don’t know that. Maybe happiness isn’t the point. Maybe it’s presence — the ability to be moved. He found it in poetry. You might find it right here, now, in this rain.”

Jack: “You think meaning hides in ordinary moments?”

Jeeny: “Always. You just have to stop demanding it to announce itself.”

Jack: “You sound like one of his poems.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s starting to believe one.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped them both — the kind that feels like an exhale after years of holding your breath.

The rain slowed, tapering into a rhythmic patter. Outside, the sky cracked open — not with thunder, but with clarity.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe support isn’t about parents. Maybe it’s about anyone who tells you it’s okay to feel again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe we all owe each other that — the courage to follow our nose toward what calls us, even when it doesn’t make sense.”

Jack: “So poetry isn’t the gift. Permission is.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And when you give it to yourself, you start living instead of remembering.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them sitting at the small kitchen table, surrounded by stacks of old poetry books, their faces illuminated by the dim lamplight.

The rain outside shimmered, reflected in the window like a moving poem — every drop a word, every ripple a verse.

Jack turned a page and began to read aloud, his voice slow, uncertain at first, then sure. Jeeny listened, smiling, as if hearing both the poem and the man being written anew.

And as the scene faded, the echo of Donald Hall’s truth lingered gently in the air —

that support is not in instruction,
but in permission;

that love is not in control,
but in trust;

and that the greatest gift a parent — or life — can give,
is the quiet faith to say:

“Follow your nose. The world will meet you where your wonder leads.”