confession tuesday

In the past month, I’ve gotten three rejection letters, the most recent last night. That one in particular really chapped my hide because it was a from a religious magazine and while I rarely write religiously themed poems, I felt genuinely pleased with the one I submitted. I had taken particular pains to make it unsentimental yet inspiring (or so I had hoped). And so I took especial offense because, while the rebuff email itself was tactful and encouraging, it was addressed to “Dear Author” and the subject line had been assigned a tracking number. Could it have killed them to cut and paste?

The good thing about repeated rejection is finally I’m developing a thick skin. That initial sharp sting fades a little more quickly each time and I’m finding myself much more realistic about the limitations of my work and myself, and realizing that too often in my exuberance to be published I’ve submitted poems to magazines that are not a good fit for me or my style of writing.

***

Just to offset the horse-pill of repudiation, this morning I heard back from Everyday Poets. They accepted “Waiting for Charon”, though the date of publication is yet to be determined.

***

I turn 40 on Thursday. Depending on the day or even the minute, I do or do not feel old. I’ve gone back and forth over the past few years about whether or not to dye my hair. What can I say? I’m feeling a bit vulnerable about this milestone, so me and Clairol colored my roots yesterday. Even an old barn looks better with a fresh coat of paint, eh?

new day dawning

During the summer I started getting up at a quarter to six and walking several miles before breakfast. The canning frenzy of the past few weeks meant a lot of late nights, which in turn meant sleeping in and no early morning walks, but I’ve been getting back into my groove this week.

I’ve never considered myself a morning person, but when I put in the effort to get up, I’m always rewarded one way or another. This morning, it was with inspiration for a new poem.

New Day Dawning

Passion’s rosy flush
spreads along the east horizon
clouds swollen, aglow
consummated
with the first flame of day
before it has begun

and just by witnessing the wonder
of this passing moment
I am pregnant with
its promise.

confession tuesday

I’m an obsesser. I know it’s part of my addictive personality and I’m trying hard not to judge myself, but rather to just observe and be aware of what my trigger situations tend to be. Recovery has illuminated in a way I’d never imagined that food addiction is only one facet of my obsession, and when I cut out one thing (say, sugar), I can always find something else to obsess about if I’m not careful.

***

Back in July I mentioned I had heard back from Boston Literary Magazine: they accepted my poem “Stardust and Solace” for their fall issue.

So, Sunday night I checked in (which I’ve been doing daily since the start of September–well, actually, since the last part of August–I know; see above). The fall issue was up! Thrilled, I clicked through to their poetry section to see my name in black and white and there it… wasn’t.

Composing myself after a brief fit of hyperventilation, I sent a quick email to the editor, just checking in to see if she had reconsidered. I heard back from her first thing Monday morning. Oops; she had sent it to her webmaster, who had apparently lost it. Not to worry, she had just resent it, and I could check back later in the day to see if it was up.

Commence obsessive refreshing of their poetry page. Multiple times an hour. Except for the hour of school time I spent reading about dinosaurs with my son on Monday afternoon.

Today I limited myself to once every two hours. So. Hard.

But I checked in again just a bit ago after watching the season premier of NCIS, and it’s up.

***

Just one question now: what will I obsess about next?

Don’t worry. I’ll find something.

confession tuesday

Adrift.

That’s me in a nutshell, at least for the past few days. I’m still readjusting back to my usual mode of being, one which doesn’t require me to be so strong, so focused on the needs of others to the exclusion of almost all my own.

It still seems surreal that exactly a week ago, this time today, I was riding an ambulance to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle after my daughter’s accident. And now she’s been home for more days than she was in the hospital, completely herself except for a fading black eye, the remains of a large scrape starting to peel off her forehead, some small scrapes on her right elbow and fingers, and a small bruise on the right side of her belly that marks where her liver was injured. Things you would probably never notice unless you got her to slow down long enough for a good look. Surreal.

I, on the other hand, do not feel like my old self. I am acutely aware, in a way that feels like a new wound that keeps getting touched, of the fragility of life, how precious my children are to me, and my own powerlessness and utter dependence on a power greater than me.

After so much of my attention going to caring for my daughter and supporting my husband, it feels as if I’m suddenly not needed. And I don’t really want to be needed; in fact, I don’t even want to answer the phone. I feel like I need to stay busy, but it’s a supreme effort to even load the dishwasher. I feel guilty for doing things for myself, and yet starved to do them. Overarching all this rollercoaster of emotions is an unwavering, humbling sense of gratitude that my daughter is alive, happy and healing.

I cry now. For no apparent reason. Several times a day.

parting the red sea

That was the title I originally planned on giving this poem. But rethinking it, I went for the more cryptic (and I think much more appropriate) title “She is Yours”.

The poem is based on events from this past week. Last Tuesday my daughter (who is almost two years old) fell from a second story window onto a concrete driveway at our friend’s home. During the long ride from our small-town hospital to the ER at Harborview in Seattle, I watched with amazement as the cars moved aside for our ambulance. And thought, there’s a poem here. It’s still very rough, I think largely because the emotions are so close to the surface and that makes it difficult to edit objectively, but I’m going to keep at it because I think there’s something good here.

Edited to add: My daughter is doing well. She was released from Harborview on Friday, and has been making a very speedy recovery. More details about it on my other blog.

***

She is Yours

I walk beside Moses
as he stretches out his arm
and before him waves build
into seething walls on either side
walls that dwarf us as we walk between
our feet making feathery prints
in the dry sea floor’s fine sand
and behind us
the hosts of Israel follow
raising not even a cloud of dust

except

it’s not Moses beside me
it’s not the Red Sea before us

instead

a sea of cars parts
before siren and red lights
cleaving to each side of the street
and then to the far right shoulder
of an endless freeway
and for one long hour
the skin pulls taut over my knuckles
in a way that has nothing to do
with how fast he’s driving

for one long hour
and two wet wads of twisted tissue
I bargain with God
my life for hers
and when at last I admit
my life is not even my own to trade
I surrender
I say

she is yours
take her if you will

hoping
wanting to trust
that even though I cannot see
the dim line of hazy shore
over the horizon
those waves will part
until I reach it.

never too late

Thursday 6:15 a.m.
a man dressed in red and blue
is hitting tennis balls
against the green boarded wall
of the courts at the far end
of the middle school track

I can’t tell how old he is
from this far away
but as I get closer I see
the fresh painted lines under his feet
are golden yellow
and his close-cropped hair
is soft gray
like the wings of a pigeon

when I’m twenty feet away
he sees me and calls out
good morning
and I return his greeting
breathing a bit heavy he says
I haven’t done this in a while
at least you are now
I say over my shoulder
as I walk past
and immediately wish I had said
something slightly more clever
like
it’s never too late

so I’m silent on my next pass
around the track
then on my third lap
he asks me how far I walk
and I tell him
twelve laps
which is three miles

we don’t speak for several more laps
but I watch him
wiry hands wrapped around the handle
of a worn wooden racket
sometimes missing and sending balls
over the top of the wall
warming up
he strips off his long-sleeved
button-down red shirt
to a white ribbed tank top
his arms, back and legs are sinewy
under his slackened skin
and I realize
I’ve seen him somewhere before

it will only be later
as I’m turning the key at my back door
that I will remember
I saw him Monday
at his desk behind the library checkout counter
I will remember how
I had to stop myself
from clearing my throat
or saying excuse me
that I waited a full minute
before he looked up and saw me
and then relaxed
at the quiet efficiency
of those hands retrieving my book
from the hold shelf

but now
halfway through my last lap
I call to him
it looks like you found your rhythm
and he laughs
thank you
and I say
have a great day
before walking home
to remember where I’ve seen him.

confession tuesday

I confess, above all else, that at this moment I’m reveling in gratitude.

***

I’m grateful for January’s suggestion to start my own poetry group, which is now in the works. My husband made the same suggestion months ago, which I dismissed out of hand, I think because I wasn’t sure I was up to it. But I’m in a different place now, even a few weeks later, where I am more openminded and excited about the opportunities opening up.

***

I’m grateful that one man’s junk is another’s treasure; for the kind family who answered my ad on Freecycle with the offer of a gently used mattress, box springs and bed frame for my young daughter. Now we can take the money we would have spent on a new one and start a savings account for her.

***

I’m grateful for the email that was waiting in my inbox this morning when I got back from taking my daughter to the dentist: my first acceptance, from Boston Literary Magazine! I haven’t been published since college, and this makes my whole year. Possibly even my whole decade.

***

Lastly, I’m grateful for a dear friend, who passed away yesterday. I’m grateful she’s not frightened or in pain any more. I’m grateful for how she touched my life with her own brand of brassy affection and concern. I’m grateful that she allowed me to be doubly blessed by being of service to her, too.

confession tuesday

Three months since my last confession session. It feels good to not put pressure on myself to make excuses.

***

I’ve been continuing to go to OA and work the Twelve Steps. As my abstinence progresses, I’ve realized that I’ve never been so grounded in my emotions as I am now. Which is exhilirating, painful and joyful, all at the same time.

I’m on the ninth step (making amends to those I’ve harmed). I decided before I could make amends to anyone else, I needed to do it for myself. That was a joyous moment unlike any other.

***

I’ve sent off two different submissions in the last month: the first, to a magazine that’s rejected my work twice before; and the second, to someplace that only came onto my radar a couple months ago. Come what may, I’m really proud of these submissions because I know how much work went into revising and polishing the poems I submitted. Just committing myself to that amount of revision was a personal victory, a milestone in my growth as a poet.

***

I’ve been looking for a couple months now for a local poets’ writing group I can join. I did make contact with one poet, and she belongs to a group made up of faculty and staff at CWU. She said they’re not meeting over the summer, and so she’ll have to wait to talk to them about whether they are open to someone new joining the group. But she did say if it didn’t work out, she’d be interested in the possibility of forming a second group.

It’s not that I don’t feel worthy to run with the big dogs (I do), but I know academics can be snobby and I don’t want to go in feeling like other group members look down on me or expect me to prove myself. If they will even let me join.

In the meantime, still looking…

confession tuesday

I’m only half-way into the month of NaPoWriMo and I’ve already had writer’s block twice. Right now I’m two days behind. And closing.

***

I had my husband take Easter pictures of us for me to put on my other blog so all the out of town grandparents could see the kids looking cute. And I still haven’t posted them because even though I felt really pretty on Easter morning, wearing one of my favorite dresses that I’m fitting into again (!!!), it just doesn’t come across in the pictures. I was tempted earlier (and still am) to use bovine ephithets to describe how I look in them but I know better than that: I know better than to be ungrateful for the serenity I’ve found in my recovery and better than to be impatient with a process so completely beyond my control. Because God is in the driver’s seat and I’m turning it all over to Him.

I’m still not sure if I’m ready to post those pictures, though.

***

I miss chocolate. It’s a pale substitute for serenity, but it does taste better.

***

I’m going to stop blogging right now so I can go remind my husband of at least one of the reasons he married me.

confession tuesday

I didn’t realize it had been a whole month since I posted until I looked at the date of my last post. Sad but true, I’ve been spending more time on my other blog. Actually, it’s not sad; I’ve written and posted a few poems, and even shared my first foray into open mic poetry reading. I’m realizing more and more as I’m looking for balance there’s an ebb and flow to where I spend my time, and I’m okay with it. So it may be a while in between poems. Or posts.

***

I’ve been reading poetry to inspire myself for NaPoWriMo (which is probably going to be posted on that other blog of mine). I’ve read One Stick Song and The Business of Fancydancing by Sherman Alexie, and now I’m in the middle of Vertabrae by Samuel Green, Washington’s first poet laureate. My anniversary present this year will be going to a workshop with Samuel Green on May 9th, which ought to be interesting so soon after the exhaustion of thirty poems in as many days.

I’d only read one poem by Sherman Alexie before now and am kicking myself that I missed out on hearing him do a reading at the local college last month. I had some excuse, some conflict for missing it: too many people, right in the middle of the kids’ bedtime, hadn’t read his poetry so I wasn’t prepared, something else but all of it lame. Kicking myself that I missed the chance to witness those powerful, agonizing words out loud.

Maya Angelou is next on my list after Green. I remember meeting her at a young writers conference at the University of Washington when I was an angsty fourteen-year old. Thinking I could understand what she was talking about in “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.” Silly little white teenage me. She was so gracious and gentle, but somehow steely at the same time. Saw right through me and still gave me the time of day.

***

Last night I left the dishes undone in the sink and I’m going to do it again tonight. Which is only remarkable because I actually did them the two nights previous after days, possibly weeks of not doing them before going to bed. I think I hate doing dishes because I had to do them as a kid and my dad would always stand over my shoulder and inspect my work. If I didn’t do a good enough job, I had to do them over. I’ve heard people say there’s a Zen to doing housework, the calm that comes with a simple job well done, but I’ve got a ways to go yet. Although I’m the first to admit I will probably find Zen washing dishes long before I do so scrubbing the toilet.