I was teaching students about emotions, but I don’t know what to do with mine. I’m on a cliff; soaring above it, barely. How do I feel: Happy? Sad? crumbly?
I then remembered reading Emily Dickinson’s poem in high school, and I understood my feelings better:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.