The fact of the matter is that the most unexpected and

Seamus Heaney, son of the Irish soil and master of the living word, once confessed with reverence: “The fact of the matter is that the most unexpected and miraculous thing in my life was the arrival in it of poetry itself—as a vocation and an elevation almost.” In these words, he places poetry not among the luxuries of life, nor as a mere pastime, but as a sacred visitation, an unlooked-for gift that came upon him with the force of destiny. To Heaney, poetry was not simply something he did; it was something that claimed him, called him, and raised him to a higher vision of life.

The origin of this reflection lies in Heaney’s journey from rural Ireland, where he was born into a farming family, to the luminous heights of Nobel Prize-winning poet. Nothing in his early life foretold such a destiny. His childhood was bound to earth, to labor, to the ordinary rhythms of mud, plow, and cattle. Yet into this simple life came the thunder of verse—the discovery of language that could transfigure clay into spirit, toil into song. He calls it unexpected and miraculous, for it was as though the gods themselves had placed a lyre in his hands.

The ancients would have understood him well. Did not Hesiod speak of the Muses who visited him as he tended sheep upon Mount Helicon, suddenly granting him the gift of song? Did not Socrates say that the true poet is possessed, carried beyond himself by a divine madness? Heaney’s words echo this ancient belief—that poetry is less a craft chosen than a vocation, a calling, a summons from beyond. It descends like a flame, and in its light the ordinary becomes radiant.

We see a similar story in the life of William Blake, who as a child saw visions of angels in trees and fields. For Blake, as for Heaney, poetry was not acquired like skill in trade; it was a revelation. It lifted him from the common path and placed him upon the way of vision. To call it an elevation is to speak of how art raises the soul—not by wealth, not by power, but by opening the eyes to truths invisible to most. Heaney felt his life altered, lifted by poetry, as though he had climbed from earth into air, from necessity into wonder.

Yet Heaney’s humility is also clear. He did not claim poetry as his conquest, but received it as a gift. That is why he names it miraculous—for miracles are not earned, but bestowed. He teaches us that sometimes life surprises us with callings we did not expect, and that in answering them we find our true elevation. His story is not only about verse, but about the discovery of one’s sacred work, the labor that makes the soul whole.

The lesson for us, then, is to remain open to the miraculous arrivals in our own lives. What may first seem small, accidental, or trivial might in truth be the door to your vocation. Just as Heaney stumbled upon poetry and found his life transfigured, so too we must be watchful for the moment when something enters our lives that demands our devotion and offers our elevation. Whether it be poetry, music, teaching, healing, or some other labor, the sign of a true vocation is that it feels at once miraculous and inevitable.

Practical wisdom follows: listen deeply to the stirrings of your heart. When you find the thing that gives you both joy and purpose, treat it not lightly but as sacred. Honor it with discipline, for vocation is gift, but it is also responsibility. And when it elevates you, do not hoard its light—share it with others, that your calling may become their illumination.

So let us remember Heaney’s confession: “The most unexpected and miraculous thing in my life was the arrival of poetry itself—as a vocation and an elevation almost.” In his words we hear the truth of all who have been touched by a calling: that life is not only to be endured, but to be transformed. Seek your vocation, embrace it when it comes, and let it elevate you, until your days themselves become poetry, and your life a hymn to the miraculous.