Near the end of A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L’Engle, Mrs Whatsit tries to explain Free Will to Calvin and Meg.
She says (and I am editing for clarity) “In your language you have a form of poetry called a sonnet…It is a very strict form of poetry…There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That’s a very strict rhythm or metre…And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet…But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants…”
“You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.”
I don’t know that I agree that an entire Life is a Sonnet, but I do find many components of my life are sonnet-like.
Tango is one bit. There are certain ways to do the steps, but you can dance any pattern you like. There is something of a sonnet in my labyrinth walking habit.
There are other things, but they aren’t coming to mind right now.