May your lives be filled with peace and poetry. May you always have life's necessities: pencil, paper, and a bottle of champagne.
And may you always wear the perfect hat.
Happy New Year.
To 2007--
Sunday, December 31, 2006
A Toast--
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Resolutions...
What are your New Year's Resolutions?
Here are mine--
1) Publish Second Book of Poems
2) Continue to work on (and submit) children's book
3) Follow intuition
4) Continue to write daily
Here are mine--
1) Publish Second Book of Poems
2) Continue to work on (and submit) children's book
3) Follow intuition
4) Continue to write daily
Friday, December 29, 2006
My Process--
The other day I wrote out my process of writing a poem and while talking to a friend today (hi A), we thought it might be helpful for others as well.
My process for writing poems--
When I sit down to write at my computer sometimes I just start writing about what's on my mind. It doesn't need to be important or world changing, just what I'm thinking about it. I write with line breaks not in a free write.
If I'm having trouble beginning sometimes I look at poetry books by my favorite writers. These change daily. On my desk now is Robert Hass, I've had many other poets here as well. Sometimes I turn on music to inspire. Currently, it's "How to Save a Life" by the Fray. Other times it's been Los Lonely Boys or Jack Johnson.
Then I just write. I don't think about what I'm writing or if it's making sense. I just write whatever comes to mind. If I get stuck, I grab a book and open to a word or I write ________ in my poem. I just keep trying to move forward. Once I feel I'm at a stopping point, I save the poem either by a title or the first line into my "In Process" file. This is purgatory for poems. It could sit there a day or a month, or a year. The poem may never get looked at again. Or it may get attention in the evening. It's in limbo. It may become a *real* poem or it may live its life as a fragment, a thought, some interesting words on paper.
Later when it's my writing time again, I open my In Process file and randomly choose 5-9 poem titles or first lines that look interesting to me. Sometimes I seek out a certain poem I'm ready to work on. I open them all and begin reading through the poems until I find one that looks interesting to begin revising. I do this process again and again. I keep opening and revising poems. Again, this can go on for a day, week, or years with the same or different poems.
At some point, one of the poems will give me this feeling of satisfaction, of completeness. I will know there is no more I can do and there is no more that I want to do to this poem. At this point, I will either print out the poem to share with my writing group or I will move it to my file called "Completed Poems."
If I bring it to my writing group, it will stay in In Process until I make further revisions. If it moves to Completed Poems, it then becomes a poem I may submit to a literary journal.
For every one poem I complete, there are probably about twenty poems that are not completed. You will never see the majority of the poems. I may never finish the majority of my poems.
Sometimes I move a poem to Completed Poems too quickly and later return it to In Process because it's just not strong enough. Sometimes, I forget about a poem in In Process and then find it and feel it's complete. Mostly, many of my first poems never become poems. But I feel I need to write those poems to get to the next poems.
I think about Elizabeth Bishop here and how Alice Quinn published Edgar Allen Poem and the Jukebox. I don't think she wanted the world to see those poems, just as I don't want anyone to see my In Process poems until they are complete. By knowing that no one will ever see them, I am free to experiment, write about anything, and write freely.
When I write, I do not think of the reader, but of the poem and what's best for it. I do not think, "What will people think of this poem?" or "What will people think of me?" I just write. The world, the reader is so far away when I write those first words, I can't imagine at that point that anyone will read it. In fact, mostly likely, you won't. Most likely, my poem will life a life "In Process," in the file with no backdoor to escape from, the file that makes the poem stay in there until it's earned its way out.
My process for writing poems--
When I sit down to write at my computer sometimes I just start writing about what's on my mind. It doesn't need to be important or world changing, just what I'm thinking about it. I write with line breaks not in a free write.
If I'm having trouble beginning sometimes I look at poetry books by my favorite writers. These change daily. On my desk now is Robert Hass, I've had many other poets here as well. Sometimes I turn on music to inspire. Currently, it's "How to Save a Life" by the Fray. Other times it's been Los Lonely Boys or Jack Johnson.
Then I just write. I don't think about what I'm writing or if it's making sense. I just write whatever comes to mind. If I get stuck, I grab a book and open to a word or I write ________ in my poem. I just keep trying to move forward. Once I feel I'm at a stopping point, I save the poem either by a title or the first line into my "In Process" file. This is purgatory for poems. It could sit there a day or a month, or a year. The poem may never get looked at again. Or it may get attention in the evening. It's in limbo. It may become a *real* poem or it may live its life as a fragment, a thought, some interesting words on paper.
Later when it's my writing time again, I open my In Process file and randomly choose 5-9 poem titles or first lines that look interesting to me. Sometimes I seek out a certain poem I'm ready to work on. I open them all and begin reading through the poems until I find one that looks interesting to begin revising. I do this process again and again. I keep opening and revising poems. Again, this can go on for a day, week, or years with the same or different poems.
At some point, one of the poems will give me this feeling of satisfaction, of completeness. I will know there is no more I can do and there is no more that I want to do to this poem. At this point, I will either print out the poem to share with my writing group or I will move it to my file called "Completed Poems."
If I bring it to my writing group, it will stay in In Process until I make further revisions. If it moves to Completed Poems, it then becomes a poem I may submit to a literary journal.
For every one poem I complete, there are probably about twenty poems that are not completed. You will never see the majority of the poems. I may never finish the majority of my poems.
Sometimes I move a poem to Completed Poems too quickly and later return it to In Process because it's just not strong enough. Sometimes, I forget about a poem in In Process and then find it and feel it's complete. Mostly, many of my first poems never become poems. But I feel I need to write those poems to get to the next poems.
I think about Elizabeth Bishop here and how Alice Quinn published Edgar Allen Poem and the Jukebox. I don't think she wanted the world to see those poems, just as I don't want anyone to see my In Process poems until they are complete. By knowing that no one will ever see them, I am free to experiment, write about anything, and write freely.
When I write, I do not think of the reader, but of the poem and what's best for it. I do not think, "What will people think of this poem?" or "What will people think of me?" I just write. The world, the reader is so far away when I write those first words, I can't imagine at that point that anyone will read it. In fact, mostly likely, you won't. Most likely, my poem will life a life "In Process," in the file with no backdoor to escape from, the file that makes the poem stay in there until it's earned its way out.
Resolutions
I saw this list on another writer's blog and wanted to share it. Here's a link to his original post...
Here are some questions to ponder for 2007, building on the questions we answered in 2005 and 2006:
Goals, Dreams, and Resolutions 2007
1. Take a few minutes to reflect on the previous year. What are you happy with?
2. What are you unhappy with?
3. What unexpected joys did you discover during the year?
4. What were some of the unexpected obstacles that came up, and how did you deal with them? Looking back, would you have done anything differently?
5. What expectations did you find you needed to let go of?
6. Looking ahead, how do you want to structure next year to support your writing?
7. How does the rest of your life support your writing?
8. How can you change/compromise on the non-supportive elements?
9. What new aspect of the writing life do you want to try next year?
10. Where do you need to be more disciplined?
11. Where do you need to ease up on yourself?
12. List your goals for the coming year.
13. List three positive, active steps to take on each goal to get it going.
14. List your dreams for the coming year.
15. List three positive, active steps to transform each dream into a goal.
16. List your resolutions for the coming year.
17. List three positive, active steps to help you stick to them.
Here are some questions to ponder for 2007, building on the questions we answered in 2005 and 2006:
Goals, Dreams, and Resolutions 2007
1. Take a few minutes to reflect on the previous year. What are you happy with?
2. What are you unhappy with?
3. What unexpected joys did you discover during the year?
4. What were some of the unexpected obstacles that came up, and how did you deal with them? Looking back, would you have done anything differently?
5. What expectations did you find you needed to let go of?
6. Looking ahead, how do you want to structure next year to support your writing?
7. How does the rest of your life support your writing?
8. How can you change/compromise on the non-supportive elements?
9. What new aspect of the writing life do you want to try next year?
10. Where do you need to be more disciplined?
11. Where do you need to ease up on yourself?
12. List your goals for the coming year.
13. List three positive, active steps to take on each goal to get it going.
14. List your dreams for the coming year.
15. List three positive, active steps to transform each dream into a goal.
16. List your resolutions for the coming year.
17. List three positive, active steps to help you stick to them.
Christmas, the Finale
<--St. Lucia of SyracuseHow were your holidays?
We have Christmas spilled all over our living and a giant 4 foot inflatable T-Rex looks out our window towards the sea. Our Christmas tree is looking sad in the corner; it will be undressed today and returned to the natural world. We have a hallway displayed with Christmas cards from friends and family, a reminder of how many people in the world we care for and who mean so much to us. I will eventually take them down and the photo cards will move to the refrigerator to keep us company throughout the year.
I am still finishing my Christmas cards, which I'm now calling New Year's cards. I only received part of my order, so I made it to the H's in my address book. The I-Z's will be receiving theirs this week.
For Christmas my husband bought me a St. Lucia of Syracuse who is the patron saint of both writers and eye diseases. Given my blurry (and sometimes missing) December, I really can't imagine a more perfect and appropriate gift.
I also received many poetry books-- the full collections of Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, Czeslaw Milosz, and selected poems of Gabriela Mistral. I also received Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare, which I'm really excited to read.
Other than that, the world is coming back into focus for me as the New Year slides around the corner and into view.
Resolutions anyone? I'm interested. What resolutions are you making this year? I'll post mine in a separate post.
Cheers!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Passengers get $50 bills from bus Santa
Stranger’s generosity brings some in Wash. city to tears
SPOKANE, Wash. - A woman hopped aboard buses, greeted passengers with “Merry Christmas” and handed each an envelope containing a card and a $50 bill before stepping off and repeating the process on another bus.
She did it so quickly that descriptions of the woman varied among surprised Spokane Transit Authority passengers on several routes Thursday, The Spokesman-Review newspaper reported Friday.
“She kind of kept her head down. I don’t remember ever seeing this lady before,” said bus driver Max Clemons.
“I had a young man in the back of the bus. He looked like he was going to start crying. He said in broken English, ‘She don’t know how much this will mean to me at Christmas,”’ Clemons said.
Transit authority spokesman Dan Kolbet said efforts to identify the gift-giver were unsuccessful. Her generosity didn’t appear to be part of a marketing gimmick, he said.
The woman gave envelopes to about 20 passengers, he said. Each was sealed with a sticker that said: “To a friend from a friend.”
The woman, accompanied by one or two young boys, pulled the envelopes out of a cloth satchel. The buses were pulling away from stops before riders even knew what happened.
“There was a lot of excitement. People were making calls on their cell phones,” said driver Terry Dobson, who had two of his trips visited by the mystery woman. “The people on those buses really needed the money.”
Hours after the impromptu gift-giving, Dobson was still giddy.
“It was just a neat thing,” he said. “It makes you tingle all over.”
SPOKANE, Wash. - A woman hopped aboard buses, greeted passengers with “Merry Christmas” and handed each an envelope containing a card and a $50 bill before stepping off and repeating the process on another bus.
She did it so quickly that descriptions of the woman varied among surprised Spokane Transit Authority passengers on several routes Thursday, The Spokesman-Review newspaper reported Friday.
“She kind of kept her head down. I don’t remember ever seeing this lady before,” said bus driver Max Clemons.
“I had a young man in the back of the bus. He looked like he was going to start crying. He said in broken English, ‘She don’t know how much this will mean to me at Christmas,”’ Clemons said.
Transit authority spokesman Dan Kolbet said efforts to identify the gift-giver were unsuccessful. Her generosity didn’t appear to be part of a marketing gimmick, he said.
The woman gave envelopes to about 20 passengers, he said. Each was sealed with a sticker that said: “To a friend from a friend.”
The woman, accompanied by one or two young boys, pulled the envelopes out of a cloth satchel. The buses were pulling away from stops before riders even knew what happened.
“There was a lot of excitement. People were making calls on their cell phones,” said driver Terry Dobson, who had two of his trips visited by the mystery woman. “The people on those buses really needed the money.”
Hours after the impromptu gift-giving, Dobson was still giddy.
“It was just a neat thing,” he said. “It makes you tingle all over.”
Saturday, December 23, 2006
No Poetry Today, Just Holiday (or Holly Daze)
Right now, I should be wrapping, I should be cleaning the house. There are Graham Cracker Snowflakes in the oven(renamed from Outrageous Cookie Bars or Seven Layers). But I am taking a break from my domestic Christmas goddessness and reflecting for a moment on the season.
Some highlights and moments of the holiday season--
Magic--
Yesterday at the grocery store, Santa was there. Not the fake mall Santa with his sweaty hands and pull-away beard, but the real guy whose beard is homegrown, who comes with his own elf (named Brandon). There was no charge to see Santa, to one to pay for photos, just Santa and a bag of gifts he graciously gave away. I don't know who, or why, or what made Santa come to our our small town, but there he was, a little bit of magic in the hustle of the world.
Do you see what I see?
In the season of holly daze, I am thankful that my vision has returned and I am healing. I am thankful for my good health.
Eliot the Naughty Kitty--
After wrapping and hiding everyone's gifts, I was surprised to see Eliot in the family room with a red little mouse toy since that is what I bought him for Christmas. It seems that after my late-night wrapping, Eliot chose to find and open his gift early. Buddy Holly (our golden retriever) ripped the ears off, but the toy (which is now making its way through my office) seems to be loved by all.
Christmas by the Sea--
Yesterday, two bald eagles flew by my home while we were outside. Then on the way to the market we passed a kingfisher on a telephone wire and a heron in the mud flats. Out on the dock, someone decorated a Christmas tree. At night, it becomes its own Christmas card.
What I Am Thankful for This Christmas--
Friends and Family
Being alive and well
The Christians and the Pagans
Music
All the good people in the world
Christmas cards arriving in my mailbox
Secret Santas
Surprise Blessings
Christmas cookies with green sugar frosting in the shape of reindeer
The neighbor who put the word "PEACE" up in his yard in blue and white lights
___________
I hope you each find something magical in your day and evening. May everything you ever want not be under your Christmas tree, but next you, always.
Merry Christmas, baby.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Random Acts
There's a part of me that doesn't want to share this, but there's a part of me that does because maybe you, wherever you are in the world, can do something good to make up for the bad that I saw today.
Today when I was shopping and small woman in her 80's came up the cashier that was ringing me up and said, "While I was looking at the greeting cards, someone took my purse out of my basket." She never said stole, but that's what happened. Three days before Christmas, someone stole the purse from a woman in her 80's in the middle of the day, in a crowded store and no one did anything, myself included. My only advice to the stunned cashier was to say, "Call 911 and get her some help."
It was absolutely shocking to me to hear this. I had been in pretty much every aisle as I went in as the beginning shopper, not really knowing where anything was. The store was chaos. And when I tried to think if I saw anything suspicious, I realized how much I was in my own world, completely oblivious to what was going on around me. I was no help. I saw nothing. Even waiting in line for fifteen minutes, having nothing to do, but watch the world, I was in my head. Really, I can't tell you what I saw, who I was standing by, who came in and out because I wasn't paying attention and that frustrates me to no end.
I don't know the end of the story. I don't know if the police came or if she ever recovered her purse (I doubt it). But I keep trying to think how I could have reacted differently, better--how I felt I didn't know what to do when she told the cashier. How now I look back and wished I would have stayed instead of feeling as if I just wanted out of that store and back to my family that were waiting for me outside.
And no one really did anything but shake their heads, acknowledging the wrongness, but nonetheless, not responding to it, just accepting it. I am just as guilty in this as well.
If you are reading this right now, in the next two days, do something generous for a stranger, or something kind--not opening the door kind, but something you wouldn't have done. I need to hear of some random acts of kindness, I do. If you want to post anonymously here to say what you did, please do. I know the world is full of good people...remind me again. I'll do something as well.
Today when I was shopping and small woman in her 80's came up the cashier that was ringing me up and said, "While I was looking at the greeting cards, someone took my purse out of my basket." She never said stole, but that's what happened. Three days before Christmas, someone stole the purse from a woman in her 80's in the middle of the day, in a crowded store and no one did anything, myself included. My only advice to the stunned cashier was to say, "Call 911 and get her some help."
It was absolutely shocking to me to hear this. I had been in pretty much every aisle as I went in as the beginning shopper, not really knowing where anything was. The store was chaos. And when I tried to think if I saw anything suspicious, I realized how much I was in my own world, completely oblivious to what was going on around me. I was no help. I saw nothing. Even waiting in line for fifteen minutes, having nothing to do, but watch the world, I was in my head. Really, I can't tell you what I saw, who I was standing by, who came in and out because I wasn't paying attention and that frustrates me to no end.
I don't know the end of the story. I don't know if the police came or if she ever recovered her purse (I doubt it). But I keep trying to think how I could have reacted differently, better--how I felt I didn't know what to do when she told the cashier. How now I look back and wished I would have stayed instead of feeling as if I just wanted out of that store and back to my family that were waiting for me outside.
And no one really did anything but shake their heads, acknowledging the wrongness, but nonetheless, not responding to it, just accepting it. I am just as guilty in this as well.
If you are reading this right now, in the next two days, do something generous for a stranger, or something kind--not opening the door kind, but something you wouldn't have done. I need to hear of some random acts of kindness, I do. If you want to post anonymously here to say what you did, please do. I know the world is full of good people...remind me again. I'll do something as well.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Bridesmaid
Tupelo announced the five books of poetry they were going to publish over the next year and alas, mine was not one of them. I received word a month ago that mine of 1 of the 25 being considered, but looks like not this time. As David Wagoner would say, "Sorry to say no..."
I've been putting together my own list of the winners and 25 finalist and here's what I have--
Winners:
Angela Shaw of Swarthmore, PA, for The Beginning of the Fields.
Karen An-Hwei Lee of Santa Ana, CA, for two books: Ardor and Erythropoiesis Joshua Marie Wilkinson of Denver, Colorado, for The Book of Whispering in the Projection Booth.
Christopher Buckley of Lompoc, CA, for Modern History—Prose Poems 1987-2007.
The other twenty-five finalist included Diane K. Martin, Colleen Abel (I think...), and ...?? If you were one or know of any, drop me a line or leave me a note. I'd love to see who almost caught the bouquet.
I'm surprisingly bummed about this, even with the good health news I had recently. I was so sure I had put my priorities in their place, yet still it's funny how poetry can sometimes sting a bit. I guess that's just part of being human, or caring.
But congrats to all the poets who will have upcoming books with Tupe. I was only familiar with one poet J.M.W. as my friends rave about him quite a lot. To the next prize...
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Recovering/Poetry/Happy Feet
Recovering--
I still feel as if I'm recovering from the last week, from the storm, from December. I have Christmas cards I need to send out scattered all over the coffee table. I have a load of laundry in the dryer. But I closed my office door and have come into my warm room with my two cats (Eliot & Emily) to write (and to balance the checkbook).
Poetry--
I wish I had some interesting poetry things to share. Let's see. A friend bought me Barbara Hamby's book "Babel," which I've started reading and loving. What a poet, she is. You can get lost--in the very best way--inside her poems. They are so thick with living in Paris, with black-jacketed girls. Every line is treat for the reader.
Oh, here's something. I was at the Poetry on Wheels, bus poem anthology reading on Sunday in Seattle. The room was full and great poets. Madeline DeFrees read as did Joan Swift. My friend, Martha Silano read, as did friends Ronda Broatch, Ann Hursey, Paula Gardiner. Oh, there were more, more, more.
I purchased Nancy Pagh's new book, No Sweeter Fat. I highly recommend this book. In the beginning of the book are a series of "fat lady" poems which are both funny and poignant.
Here's part of one from "Fat Lady Reads"
A fat lady reads a book
she reads a book all day
and all day
she is not a fat lady
unless she reads a diet book
or Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone
and there's a good chance she reads
one of those.
A fat lady reads a book
and enters a world
where there really are no fat people
of consequence
except old Mrs. Manson Mingott
in Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence
whose "immense accretion of flesh
descended on her in middle life
like a flood of lava on a doomed city"
. . .
Truly, she is a poet to watch. I can't believe this is her first book--incredible.
Happy Feet--
I saw Happy Feet yesterday and well, I loved it. Maybe it's too easy, how can you not like a dancing penguin? But really, I liked that it was Footloose meets An Inconvenient Truth for children.
Not your parent's Christmas music--
Best streaming Christmas songs-- The Mountain KMTT FM Seattle
I still feel as if I'm recovering from the last week, from the storm, from December. I have Christmas cards I need to send out scattered all over the coffee table. I have a load of laundry in the dryer. But I closed my office door and have come into my warm room with my two cats (Eliot & Emily) to write (and to balance the checkbook).
Poetry--
I wish I had some interesting poetry things to share. Let's see. A friend bought me Barbara Hamby's book "Babel," which I've started reading and loving. What a poet, she is. You can get lost--in the very best way--inside her poems. They are so thick with living in Paris, with black-jacketed girls. Every line is treat for the reader.
Oh, here's something. I was at the Poetry on Wheels, bus poem anthology reading on Sunday in Seattle. The room was full and great poets. Madeline DeFrees read as did Joan Swift. My friend, Martha Silano read, as did friends Ronda Broatch, Ann Hursey, Paula Gardiner. Oh, there were more, more, more.
I purchased Nancy Pagh's new book, No Sweeter Fat. I highly recommend this book. In the beginning of the book are a series of "fat lady" poems which are both funny and poignant.
Here's part of one from "Fat Lady Reads"
A fat lady reads a book
she reads a book all day
and all day
she is not a fat lady
unless she reads a diet book
or Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone
and there's a good chance she reads
one of those.
A fat lady reads a book
and enters a world
where there really are no fat people
of consequence
except old Mrs. Manson Mingott
in Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence
whose "immense accretion of flesh
descended on her in middle life
like a flood of lava on a doomed city"
. . .
Truly, she is a poet to watch. I can't believe this is her first book--incredible.
Happy Feet--
I saw Happy Feet yesterday and well, I loved it. Maybe it's too easy, how can you not like a dancing penguin? But really, I liked that it was Footloose meets An Inconvenient Truth for children.
Not your parent's Christmas music--
Best streaming Christmas songs-- The Mountain KMTT FM Seattle
Friday, December 15, 2006
December the Drama Queen...
If it's not sudden one-eye blindness, it's 74 mph winds blasting by our home. As the Counting Crows say, A Long December...As a prairie girl (or perhaps, Camp Fire girl) at heart, I'm one of those who doesn't mind a power outage, in fact I actually *like* them. I know, in my last post I admit I found the MRI machine relaxing, now I'm saying how much I enjoy no electricity--though you might have overlooked me as a poet for my sense of style, these eccentricities give me away. Yes, poet of candles, poet of the expensive white cave.
Mostly, I'm thankful nothing flew through our windows. There were times I thought I'd look outside and see that witch in the tornado scene riding by on her bicycle, but mostly I saw darkness and the houses across Puget Sound with their glowing lights, while my neighborhood closed it eyes, tucked itself into the hillside and went to sleep.
All through the night I heard the wind, but our home didn't shake and the trees around it didn't uproot, didn't break apart. It was a strange wind as the boots we left on the deck remained, but the heavy metal fireplace stand I was using in my garden as a small fence, tumbled over, but did not break.
24 hours later, our power came on. 30 minutes after the pizza delivery man visited (okay, not very Little House on the Prairie, but convenient) and ten minutes before we would need to change the candles. Mostly, these storms revolve around my cat's insulin and trying to make sure it's kept cold. The rest is easy--booklights, candles, reading, resting, playing cards, just listening to the wind begin to take over the town.
On the radio this morning, a newscaster said he saw a man outside his house hooking up his coffee machine to his Toyota Prius. Yes, that's a perfect snapshot of Seattle for you...
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Thanks!
Thank you all who have sent thoughts and prayers and notes and put me in the world of good vibes, it has paid off. I've learned since I've last written that I have an inflamed optic nerve. I'm happy to report that my MRI came back perfect & clean-- no lesions on the brain, no spiders, no gooneybugs, no tumors, just healthy happy poet brain. I am thankful, thrilled, and feeling very blessed. Thank you all for your good thoughts.
I am someone who truly believes in the energy of thoughts and I feel so thankful to have had so much good energy around me this last week. Truly, I'm so fortunate to have so many on my side, it's made a difference. Thank you.
My vision is returning and will hopefully return to normal in the next couple weeks. It may be 100%, it may be less, but I feel fortunate in where I am right now. If you have any questions or want more info, drop me a line, I'm happy to share what I've learned.
Oh and this might seem twisted, but I actually enjoyed the MRI, which I called "the relaxation tube."
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
We lost power last night and with the lost power, I lost my post for this blog. Mostly, the post was about how I'm worrying instead of writing and that many of my best poems have come from when I've directed my worry to paper. My over-active imagination is both a blessing and curse, when I'm writing it comes in quite handy, but when I'm thinking about what's wrong with me and my vision, it immediately goes to the worst possible reason.
So, I'm trying not to walk that road, which is hard for me as thinking the worst is something I'm quite skilled at as I've been practicing it since childhood.
I've always been impressed at people who don't think the worst. I always wondered if these people didn't have fairy tales read to them as a child. I know if something bad could happen, it would in the magical world of fairy tales: grandmothers eaten by wolves, children were abandoned in the woods only to find a candy house that a witch inhabits, poison apples arriving to your doorstep. And I always wanted to hear more of these—read another! Just as I had a love/hate relationship with the TV show Flipper, how I loved that dolphin, but had to turn the TV off every time he became caught in a net (which was probably every show).
I think my life as a reader has shown me how it’s not the man with the gun who is the murderer, but the sweet woman in the white dress who knits in the background. The twists and turns are never expected, you turn a page and your world is turned upside down. Maybe today I will return to the page to see what worry can do for a new poem. Maybe I'll allow myself to wander the road the worst case scenerios and to see if worry can be converted to art.
* * *
In other news, my poem “You Ask Why I Write About Death and Poetry” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by 32 Poems, which is quite exciting.
And my poem “Funeral Perfume” is in the new edition of Red Mountain Review. A beautiful journal I recommend you submit to.
* * *
Quote of the Day--
I am the blossom pressed in a book,
- Jane Kenyon, “Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks”
So, I'm trying not to walk that road, which is hard for me as thinking the worst is something I'm quite skilled at as I've been practicing it since childhood.
I've always been impressed at people who don't think the worst. I always wondered if these people didn't have fairy tales read to them as a child. I know if something bad could happen, it would in the magical world of fairy tales: grandmothers eaten by wolves, children were abandoned in the woods only to find a candy house that a witch inhabits, poison apples arriving to your doorstep. And I always wanted to hear more of these—read another! Just as I had a love/hate relationship with the TV show Flipper, how I loved that dolphin, but had to turn the TV off every time he became caught in a net (which was probably every show).
I think my life as a reader has shown me how it’s not the man with the gun who is the murderer, but the sweet woman in the white dress who knits in the background. The twists and turns are never expected, you turn a page and your world is turned upside down. Maybe today I will return to the page to see what worry can do for a new poem. Maybe I'll allow myself to wander the road the worst case scenerios and to see if worry can be converted to art.
* * *
In other news, my poem “You Ask Why I Write About Death and Poetry” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by 32 Poems, which is quite exciting.
And my poem “Funeral Perfume” is in the new edition of Red Mountain Review. A beautiful journal I recommend you submit to.
* * *
Quote of the Day--
I am the blossom pressed in a book,
- Jane Kenyon, “Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks”
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Friday, December 08, 2006
“It’s not a too-mah” Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop
I’ve spent the last couple days with doctors trying to diagnose why I lost my vision in my left eye 4 times in 15 hours. They seemed to have ruled out the scary stuff (brain tumor, aneurysm, stroke), and are guessing it was an odd ocular migraine, though they are following up with me today and next week just to be safe.
What’s been interesting about these events is how much I take for granted in life. First, the big one—just being alive. After going to bed with a pressure in my head so strong that I was sure that something important was going to burst while I was sleeping, it was absolutely thrilling to wake and find myself alive. Like winning the life lottery—hey, you get to live another day. The other thing I really take for granted is my sight. Even the loss of sight in one eye made a great difference. I was walking up the stairs and my hair fell in front of my “good eye” and the world disappeared.
The good things that have come out of this is that I’ve given up diet soda (I had been drinking a diet orange drink when the headache/loss of vision occurred the first time) and I’m reminded that I’m not some sort of superhero who will live on forever—so stay in the moment, treat myself and others well, and enjoy what I have. Or maybe I’ve learned that the effects of a stressful ornament party can wreak havoc on your nervous system the following day.
But I’m feeling better and will see how this little jolt to my system (and world) plays out in the next couple weeks.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Not My Flamingo
This post has nothing to do with poetry, so if you're looking for poetry here, return.
I'm just back from an ornament party. Before I went I found a note that my husband had left me that read: Have fun at the ornament party. I love you. P.S. It's not a competition.
Here's the thing about me, probably my biggest character flaw. I'm competitive. Not in poetry (submissions, contests, etc.-- if you know me you'll know I'm the first to share information, to help with a grant or book submission) nor am I competitive with friends (I don't try to the biggest or best of anything, I don't want to show anyone up), but when it comes to certain games, I am. I'm terribly competitive. I'm especially competitive if I'm playing a) tennis or b) chess against my husband.
But here's the deal, tonight at this "ornament party," we all were to bring an ornament wrapped up then we each roll dice until we get doubles. The first person to get doubles gets the first choice and so on. (The interesting thing here is you don't know what you're getting so sometimes the one that's wrapped the prettiest, is not the nicest ornament). Once all the ornaments are unwrapped, the hostess sets the timer for 10-15 minutes (though she doesn't tell us) and a box with dice is passed around the group. If you roll doubles, you can "steal" someone's ornament (basically, you trade your ornament for theirs).
When I opened my ornament it was this cool pink flamingo in a santa hat that came in a retro felt bag. Now, it's much cuter than what's in the photo I thought this story needed a visual. There is a whole series of events I will not bore you with including me rolling doubles and not trading, flamingo stolen from me by drunk woman, winning it back twice only to have it stolen one last time by another woman and the buzzer goes off.
What was interesting was when I showed this ornament around, no one wanted it, but when other people saw the interest in the ornament, it became the catch of the day. I want to say I was kind, but wasn't. I coughed "Karma" when the drunk woman stole my ornament. I rushed an old lady to roll the dice so I could get my turn. I want to say I was the sweet poet of my daily life, but I was not, and the karma gods got me back and I didn't leave with a flamingo, but a bell with a snowman painted on it...and it's dented.
What's funny is I know the shop where I can purchase this flamingo, it's not even expensive. But you know how sometimes you find yourself in the thrill of something and lose sight of everything else. . .I think it's why people get hooked on eBay, it's the thrill of winning not of having. My friend asked me if I was going to buy the flamingo ornament since I lost it and I said, "No...well, unless it's the last on the shelf and someone's reaching for it." It was a good reminder to me that I still have so much to work on in this lifetime, my path to enlightenment is decorated with pink flamingos and they are all wearing santa hats.
What To Do Before Publishing Your Book & Dirty Windows or Perfect View
I finished reading ORDERING THE STORM: How To Put Together a Book of Poems edited by Susan Grimm. It was definitely interesting, I mean, I'm also the one who has the book WRITERS DREAMING, so it's in my DNA to like to listen to other writers talk. But did I learn anything new? Anything I didn't know?
Well, I learned a lot about personalities. One poet in her essay kept moving off subject and returning to what went wrong with her books. Her first book was not enough pages (she thought it was a first book, but it was under 48 pages, so technically it was a chapbook). Her second book had problems with the printer, then the judge suggested she should remove the note section in the back and she said the reviewers/critics were confused with her book and wanted more notes, etc. etc.
Occasionally, she'd talk about ordering. The essay was probably my least favorite in far as suggestions for ordering a book because it was so intensely focused on her own personal problems. The thing is, I did learn from her. I learned that with ever press, ever experience, every book, it's not going to be perfect and things are going to happen that you don't like. In the last year, I've known quite a few poets who have published book, good books, and each of them has a couple things they either don't like about their book, the printer, or the press that published them. It's common. It happens. But the best poets highlight what went right and don't take out a list of sins every time someone asks them about their book. I'm not saying hide that information from others, esp. if you feel it's something important they should know if their considering publishing with the same press, but don't dwell on it. Don't dwell on the page where there's a misspelling of your college or a comma instead of a semi-colon.
I look back at my book and can see how things could have been better, how I could have done things differently. But I also realize, publishing is learning. It's learning to understand how things work and also, what you like. I think a good exercise for poets getting ready to publish their first book is to create your first book in house (and when I say "in-house" I mean, in your house). Set it up, table of contents, acknowledgment page, dedications, note to friends, and then your book. Now put it in a manuscript binder, also called a spring binder (I have to thank Peter for introducing me to these little things, in our town they are available in the UW bookstore) and live with it for awhile. Proof it with red pen. Pretend that this is your book because it is. Learn what you don't like about it-- you never noticed how the chronological order flip-flops halfway through, or you have a misspelling, or more likely, a forgotten word like "a, for, an, to."
This exercise also helps you really visualize your book being published. Plus, it gives you the time just to experience your book deciding for yourself what you like and don't like about it. Make notes. Make your own cover with artwork for it. It allows you appreciate its themes and to strengthen them if you wish. It gives you the gift of time with your book that once accepted, you won't have. You'll receive your proofs and have X number of days to get them back with any changes or mistakes you've found.
I have my second manuscript in this binder and I've created a faux book cover for it because I'm someone who needs a complete idea or picture of what I'm trying to create. The book has taken many forms, but I finally think I have it where I want it (I say *think* because I, like Whitman, could revise a book all my life...) But it feels complete and if one of my favorite presses said, "I'd like to publish this," I'd be happy where it's at.
Of course, the best experience I've ever had publishing a book was with Floating Bridge Press when they published my chapbook. Starting out with "the best" raises one's expectations a bit. But I also realize, they publish one book a year, so the poet and the book is the focus. There are no others taking away from that. It made a difference. But I also think the attitude one brings makes a difference as well. I think if I had the personality of the poet who wrote the essay, I could found problems. But that's life, all around us there is ripped wallpaper and dirty windows. We can see that or we can realize that we're warm inside and enjoy the view of the evergreens and the snow melting from its branches.
Well, I learned a lot about personalities. One poet in her essay kept moving off subject and returning to what went wrong with her books. Her first book was not enough pages (she thought it was a first book, but it was under 48 pages, so technically it was a chapbook). Her second book had problems with the printer, then the judge suggested she should remove the note section in the back and she said the reviewers/critics were confused with her book and wanted more notes, etc. etc.
Occasionally, she'd talk about ordering. The essay was probably my least favorite in far as suggestions for ordering a book because it was so intensely focused on her own personal problems. The thing is, I did learn from her. I learned that with ever press, ever experience, every book, it's not going to be perfect and things are going to happen that you don't like. In the last year, I've known quite a few poets who have published book, good books, and each of them has a couple things they either don't like about their book, the printer, or the press that published them. It's common. It happens. But the best poets highlight what went right and don't take out a list of sins every time someone asks them about their book. I'm not saying hide that information from others, esp. if you feel it's something important they should know if their considering publishing with the same press, but don't dwell on it. Don't dwell on the page where there's a misspelling of your college or a comma instead of a semi-colon.
I look back at my book and can see how things could have been better, how I could have done things differently. But I also realize, publishing is learning. It's learning to understand how things work and also, what you like. I think a good exercise for poets getting ready to publish their first book is to create your first book in house (and when I say "in-house" I mean, in your house). Set it up, table of contents, acknowledgment page, dedications, note to friends, and then your book. Now put it in a manuscript binder, also called a spring binder (I have to thank Peter for introducing me to these little things, in our town they are available in the UW bookstore) and live with it for awhile. Proof it with red pen. Pretend that this is your book because it is. Learn what you don't like about it-- you never noticed how the chronological order flip-flops halfway through, or you have a misspelling, or more likely, a forgotten word like "a, for, an, to."
This exercise also helps you really visualize your book being published. Plus, it gives you the time just to experience your book deciding for yourself what you like and don't like about it. Make notes. Make your own cover with artwork for it. It allows you appreciate its themes and to strengthen them if you wish. It gives you the gift of time with your book that once accepted, you won't have. You'll receive your proofs and have X number of days to get them back with any changes or mistakes you've found.
I have my second manuscript in this binder and I've created a faux book cover for it because I'm someone who needs a complete idea or picture of what I'm trying to create. The book has taken many forms, but I finally think I have it where I want it (I say *think* because I, like Whitman, could revise a book all my life...) But it feels complete and if one of my favorite presses said, "I'd like to publish this," I'd be happy where it's at.
Of course, the best experience I've ever had publishing a book was with Floating Bridge Press when they published my chapbook. Starting out with "the best" raises one's expectations a bit. But I also realize, they publish one book a year, so the poet and the book is the focus. There are no others taking away from that. It made a difference. But I also think the attitude one brings makes a difference as well. I think if I had the personality of the poet who wrote the essay, I could found problems. But that's life, all around us there is ripped wallpaper and dirty windows. We can see that or we can realize that we're warm inside and enjoy the view of the evergreens and the snow melting from its branches.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Questions About Poetry
I was "tagged" by Michael Wells to answer this series of question (notice I didn't call it a meme). If you start to nod off, don't hit your head on your keyboard, you could damage it.
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was....
when my mother read me nursery rhymes. I knew them all. I remember being concerned about how Peter put his wife in a pumpkin shell and the Old Woman in the Shoe-- "who whipped them all soundly and put them to bed." The newer nursery rhymes have been updated so child abuse is kept to a minimum. But I remember how much I loved to repeat the rhymes to my family. Of course, I'd end each recital with a request for them to "clap! clap!"
The first poem I taped above desk in college was by Thomas Hardy as I thought it was so surprising the first time a professor read it in class:
Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?
"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"
"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"
"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.
"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"
"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"
"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."
2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and...
I went to public school and all I was forced to memorize was my name and address in case I became lost or was kidnapped and needed a ride home.
However, in college I took it upon myself to memorize "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Two years ago, I almost *accidentally* memorized "The Waste Land" (Eliot) because I was listening to it on tape. Shakespeare's sonnets, which I also have on CD, are also quite similar in the accidental memorization. I learn much more through listening than reading; I always have.
3. I read/don't read poetry because....
I'm looking to somehow be changed emotionally. I want that gut-feeling that something has happened because of what I've read. I read it because I want to be taken somewhere else not just through story, but language.
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is .......
Here are two I always return to:
I Stop Writing the Poem
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I'm still a woman.
I'll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I'll get back
to the poem. I'll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there's a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it's done.
--Tess Gallagher
--and--
A New Poet
Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don't see
its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way
its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled
red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day—the odor of truth
and of lying.
And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only
in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.
Linda Pastan
Heroes In Disguise
W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
5. I write/don't write poetry, but...
I'm not a poet in real life. In real life, I am everything but a poet. I'm a wife, a student, a mother, a pet owner, a daughter. This is what I am to everyone else, I'm only a poet to myself.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature.....
because I am more thankful and appreciative for what has been written because I am on that same path. Though I write in other genres, I feel a deeper connection with poets because I know if you're writing poetry, it's because you have to. It's not for the money or fame, but you have that switch inside you that has been turned on. I tend not to question the motivation of poets, but trust that like myself, they too are writing poetry because they cannot not write poetry. Of course, I may have had a few imaginary friends as a child, so I do tend to project.
7. I find poetry......
while I'm folding the laundry, in the shower, or digging beneath the clematis vines. When I've been away, I find poetry in my postcards, on my desk waiting, in my purse, and on scraps of paper in my jeans. I find poetry in most places, but seldom on tv.
8. The last time I heard poetry....
I was sitting in a theatre behind four of my poetry friends, three of them have naturally curly hair. It was the first time I really noticed that.
9. I think poetry is like...
the odd but friendly cat that keeps returning to my back door.
Poets I'll tag: Peter Pereira, Jeannine Gailey, and Paul Guest
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was....
when my mother read me nursery rhymes. I knew them all. I remember being concerned about how Peter put his wife in a pumpkin shell and the Old Woman in the Shoe-- "who whipped them all soundly and put them to bed." The newer nursery rhymes have been updated so child abuse is kept to a minimum. But I remember how much I loved to repeat the rhymes to my family. Of course, I'd end each recital with a request for them to "clap! clap!"
The first poem I taped above desk in college was by Thomas Hardy as I thought it was so surprising the first time a professor read it in class:
Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?
"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"
"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"
"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.
"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"
"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"
"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."
2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and...
I went to public school and all I was forced to memorize was my name and address in case I became lost or was kidnapped and needed a ride home.
However, in college I took it upon myself to memorize "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Two years ago, I almost *accidentally* memorized "The Waste Land" (Eliot) because I was listening to it on tape. Shakespeare's sonnets, which I also have on CD, are also quite similar in the accidental memorization. I learn much more through listening than reading; I always have.
3. I read/don't read poetry because....
I'm looking to somehow be changed emotionally. I want that gut-feeling that something has happened because of what I've read. I read it because I want to be taken somewhere else not just through story, but language.
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is .......
Here are two I always return to:
I Stop Writing the Poem
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I'm still a woman.
I'll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I'll get back
to the poem. I'll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there's a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it's done.
--Tess Gallagher
--and--
A New Poet
Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don't see
its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way
its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled
red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day—the odor of truth
and of lying.
And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only
in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.
Linda Pastan
Heroes In Disguise
W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
5. I write/don't write poetry, but...
I'm not a poet in real life. In real life, I am everything but a poet. I'm a wife, a student, a mother, a pet owner, a daughter. This is what I am to everyone else, I'm only a poet to myself.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature.....
because I am more thankful and appreciative for what has been written because I am on that same path. Though I write in other genres, I feel a deeper connection with poets because I know if you're writing poetry, it's because you have to. It's not for the money or fame, but you have that switch inside you that has been turned on. I tend not to question the motivation of poets, but trust that like myself, they too are writing poetry because they cannot not write poetry. Of course, I may have had a few imaginary friends as a child, so I do tend to project.
7. I find poetry......
while I'm folding the laundry, in the shower, or digging beneath the clematis vines. When I've been away, I find poetry in my postcards, on my desk waiting, in my purse, and on scraps of paper in my jeans. I find poetry in most places, but seldom on tv.
8. The last time I heard poetry....
I was sitting in a theatre behind four of my poetry friends, three of them have naturally curly hair. It was the first time I really noticed that.
9. I think poetry is like...
the odd but friendly cat that keeps returning to my back door.
Poets I'll tag: Peter Pereira, Jeannine Gailey, and Paul Guest
Poem of the Day: Security by William Stafford
Given what's been on my mind and the last month of 2006, I thought I'd share this poem. There's been a lot of synchronicity in the air today, watch for it in your neighborhood.
Security
Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.
So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go.
William Stafford
Security
Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.
So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go.
William Stafford
Someone Who Knows A Lot About You...
Someone recently asked me about the role of the "speaker" in poems. Many times, people begin reading poetry and assume the voice in the poem (also known as the "speaker") is the poet. This is an assumption that shouldn't be made. The best quote I've heard about this topic is from Marvin Bell who said, "The speaker in my poems is not me, but someone who knows a lot about me."
Writing from autobiography is natural and normal, but it can limit your poems if you believe you must stick to the facts. So your grandmother's sweater was red, but blue sounds more sad and better for the poem. You always do what's best for the poem. Poetry is not about honesty, but truth.
Poetry is creative writing and not memoir. We draw from our experiences because we are human and we write about our obsessions, passions, and what is interesting to us. We write what we know, but we also write about what we don't know...and if we do it well enough, the poem is successful.
I don't think poets should pretend to be something they are not, like creating a whole false backstory to their lives to make themselves more marketable (and if you want to be more "marketable," you should be writing fiction, or memoir, or something else besides poetry because this is not the table where the money is being handed out. . .)
I write poetry because I cannot not write poetry. Being a Capricorn and a poet who likes nice things, sometimes I have to laugh at the path I've chosen. But I realize, this path though rarely with a secure paycheck, is the path where I want to be.
Yesterday in the mail, I received "Your Social Security Statement," that report that has your life's work in dollars documented for all to see. I went back to the time in my life when I was making the most money at my corporate job: 1995. If money=happiness than I should have been delirious that year, but actually, that was the year I started planning my escape from corporate America. That was the year where I wanted to run away. That was the year I had no idea what was going on in the world because I was underwater in reports and budgets.
Yes, 1995-- the year when I felt the least happiest because I had no time to write and I knew I was on the wrong path. I was becoming my father. I worked long hours and my husband would call me at work to ask when I was coming home. That year I planned a trip to London to get perspective on things, to retrace the steps of T.S. Eliot and the Bloomsbury Group, to visit the Manuscript Room in the British Museum, to take remember who I wanted to be and how far I was walking away from that person.
This year, according to the SS report, I actually made some money writing, however, it was a little less than the money I earned at a part time job my senior year in high school when I was saving for my graduation trip to Hawaii. Still, this last year as an MFA student, making the least amount I've ever made, not working (for the first time in my life since 1986) was probably one of the happiest in my life.
Today in the shower I couldn't get that Beatle's song out of my head, "Can't Buy Me Love." And I couldn't figure out where in the world that song arrived from, but maybe it was part in me that knows that, the "speaker" in myself who steers me back on track when I start making decisions not from my heart, but from my head. I know (though I have to remind myself this again and again) that I need to live from that place of trust and not of fear. If someone were to ask me what I am here to learn on this earth, this would be answer.