The Saints And The Poets

Maybe They Do Some | Matchbook 7.31.26

Jul 31, 2026

Emily: Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? – every, every minute?

Stage Manager: No. The saints and poets, maybe they do some.

I never got to meet Glen Hansard, never had the good fortune or happenstance of two bodies occupying the same little bit of space at the same little fraction of time, but I’ll miss him all the same.

I don’t know why this passing, this headline I woke to yesterday morning in a sea of other bad news about this poor planet and it’s confused inhabitants, affected me as much as it did, but I have ideas about it.

I think the quote above says it plainly, the final bit of monologue and the response from the Stage Manager in Thornton Wilder’s play Our Town. I think it gets it right.

An Irish wish, somewhere on the Ring of Beara, Ireland.

Human beings don’t realize life while they live it. Not every, every minute, some not even a second of their days. Too busy living it, too busy concerning themselves with things that they’ll one day see never mattered at all. Too lost in distraction, in desire, in mistaking constant movement for meaning, acquisition for understanding.

Do any humans ever realize life while they live it? Stage Manager says no. Single word, definitive, sure. Then adjusts a bit, just a bit, then adds a line that means everything to me:

The saints and poets, maybe they do some.

Glen was both, and I think that means he realized double.

The flood of remembrance that came yesterday, and continues today, floored me. The posts popping up like new clover after some Spring rain, scattered over Instagram and Threads, Substack, YouTube, and everywhere else we silly humans distract ourselves. Only this time, the Internets proved their worth, the social medias proved their value.

What a wake the world was giving him.

Grainy videos shot on mobile phones of two dozen different models, bits of him busking somewhere else on this spinning ball of light. Videos of his interviews, little gems of wisdom that fell out as though effortless, as though wisdom was a universal thing, and the sharing of it somehow natural. A thousand songs shared in a thousand places, it’s what we get to keep, it’s what we are so graced to hold now that he’s gone.

This is what happens when a life is spent in kindness, I cannot help but notice. This is the consequence of a legacy of compassion, of open-heartedness, of a gentle spirit. This outpouring, this bathing in shine.

All this got me thinking, and more got me looking closer at the way I live, at the realizing I am, or am not doing at this magical life while I’m here, living it.

I hope I’m doing it right, I hope I’m a fraction of the poet that Glen has always been, though I know I’ll never be the saint.

Sarah on ground not far from where Glen last sang, last laughed, last taught us to see.

All I know is I hope I’m doing it right along the way. I hope I’m giving more than I am getting, I hope I’m showing up even when it’s hard. I hope I’m charming, like Glen is, I hope I am gracious and quick to forgive. I hope I have hope, even when it’s hard, and I hope I, like Glen, like the Irishman he is and the long line of Irishmen I come from, turn my sufferings into songs.

We’re here such a short time, some shorter than they deserve, than we deserve, and this often makes me tremble. I do not know what will come when I lose the ones I love, I do not know what will be whenever it is that I go. When my time in this body, with these hands, these words, these thoughts, is through.

I just know I’ll keep trying to do better, to be better, to offer more, to complain less. I’ll hope to charm but never swindle, to offer stories freely, and tell them with passion, the same he sang with every single time he performed.