Who remembers when POST meant power-on-self-test? For those who do, you also know that a system that took a very long time to POST was a potentially failing system. So am I failing? Nope. Fortunately, the long delay before posting for me only represents priorities that have been elsewhere.
Since last I blogged, D. has recovered from pneumonia (mostly), and R. and I have spent a week looking at colleges in Northern California and Oregon. She's a great traveling companion, and apart from a stressful hour in Portland trying unsuccessfully to find the Old Spaghetti Factory in the rain, I would consider the trip a very positive experience.
The time away gave me an opportunity for a little perspective, and I'd like to think I've come back with more balance. I worked only a hair over forty hours last week, and got home with a touch of light still in the sky more than once.
The longer days are such a blessing; I dread the time change coming later this week because of how difficult it may make mornings, but I welcome the ability to come home and accomplish domestic chores before sunset - sunset, which heralds the complete waning of my energy.
There may be no activity that gives me more satisfaction after a hard day than weeding the yard.
I realize that I'll never make my house feel like a HOME until I spend more time there, getting rid of things that hold me back and building the things that help me grow. Watching an episode of Hoarders in the hotel room with R. was at once a traumatizing and inspiring experience. And yes, R., I'm scarred for life.
Often when Lent comes along, I use it as an opportunity to commit to some kind of discipline. This year, in addition to avoiding alcohol during Lent (so far, so good!), I'm writing notes toward a poem - if not the actual first draft of a poem - every day.
11 entries for the 11 days. I had to go back and fill in a couple of blanks, but I'm on track and am grateful for the magic that happens when I show up to write. I may start thinking I have nothing but mundane grocery lists or reviews of the say to scribble, but end up with a metaphor that has made a guest appearance or (in some cases) shoved its unexpected way into the poem and transformed it. I am grateful for the appearance of the poetic mindset whenever it comes.
As I have before, I wonder what it would be like to live more than a few minutes every day as a poet. The upside is that I feel I could produce truly valuable work. The downside is that I don't think I'd be very capable of meeting normal obligations, like feeding the family, for example. Thus the crazy balancing act implied by giving myself the handle "Practical Poet."
I'm trying to do both here, people. Fold the laundry and compose the sonnet. Dishes and villanelles. Driving children while scanning a line, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel to count the feet in a phrase.
And I know I can't be the only working middle-aged mom doing this. Not all poets are either drifters or doctors, after all.
