Bit by Bit

"Putting it Together," as Sondheim might write it - and in particular, as the wonderful Mandy Patinkin sang it, in Sunday in The Park with George. (A musical that I have only heard excerpts from and have not seen.)

The rain is tapering off and today will be devoted to Spring-cleaning: in particular, tackling the attic in preparation for the garage sale and the roofers. Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise, the next three or four days will be the kind of lovely productive work that makes me happy. I like to be active. I like to “get things done.” 

I suspect my biggest challenge will be not dropping into quicksand pits of nostalgia as I go through boxes such as the never-compiled-into-a-scrapbook bits and pieces from my Europe trip in 1989 and my great-grandmother’s fabric. What to keep is always a question of what purpose it serves, who cares now, who will care a generation from now, where to put it, and whether I’ll want to move it. 

I am recklessly living with the assumption that someday, somehow, we will have a house “in the country” with a little land to garden our own food and keep more chickens and bees. Every day I try to do one thing, even one small thing, towards that goal. Sometimes it’s just working in the yard – because I love it, and there will be plenty of that work in that future home. Sometimes it’s getting rid of one more little thing, to lighten the load. Even going to the gym could be seen as part of that dream, because its hard work living rural, and I would like to be fit enough to do it for many years to come. Writing, too, is something I do with an eye to being a writer in the country. 

I wouldn’t have guessed that we’d be where we are now, with chickens and bees (and my cat, and N.’s cat!), and an MFA in poetry, and a job at the library, and two reviews published, and a fantastic writing group – I wouldn’t have guessed any of those things would be possible three years ago. So even if I don’t know where or how we’ll live in the country, I believe it pays off to have goals and work towards them.

The Small Rain Down

One of the few poems I've memorized comes to mind this morning, because it has been raining for more than 12 hours straight, and because I overslept:

Western wind when wilt thou blow
the small rain down can rain
Christ if my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again

So my blogging time is brief indeed, especially because I expect bits of flooding on the way.m and have to leave a bit early.

Yesterday was odd in that I spent the afternoon working at another library branch, one of the two from the system that I had never visited. It is normally quite busy, because it is near a High School and a Middle School. But it's Spring Break, so my time on the Children's Desk was spent primarily seeking lost books. There was the lovely distraction, however, of Oso the Golden Retriever, visiting for the afternoon's Read to a Dog program. Oso charmed every small child and parent who visited by being a sweet-faced patient listener to every word the children struggled to read. He didn't care about pronunciation or inflection, or how long it took to read a sentence. What a valuable literacy teacher!

It is Friday, and I am already excited about going through the attic and otherwise cleaning, organizing, and amassing a huge collection of garage-sale items all weekend. The rain should clear by Sunday. Otherwise, we'll have to wait two weekends for the sale, as next weekend my dance card is full.   

Just a Little Note

Although blogging daily means I run the risk of more "had tea with the Joneses" entries, I'd rather articulate my life in little increments anyway, and keep up the habit of going to the computer regularly, than stall out because there's nothing earth-shattering to share.

I can also think of it as a practice of living in the moment. Sometimes the moment is simple.

I’ve had a lovely email from the poet whose book I just reviewed, thanking me for what I wrote and how I wrote it . My particular blend of pride and historically low self-esteem make this kind of message extremely gratifying on a personal level, but more importantly, I feel as though I am starting, very slowly, to establish new relationships with new poets and the world of poetry outside of my comfort zone. And this is a good thing. It’s scary, but in a good way, to put yourself out there in the world with the work that matters to you.

On the home front, the latest news is that we shall have a new roof soon! It’s probably been over a decade—perhaps closer to two!—that we’ve needed one, and although the stress of the expense is significant, it’s bound to be less than the stress that I know D. feels, and has felt, every single time it rains. 

Here's a roof from the website of PFR Roofing in Milford Haven, Wales. Although we're not getting slate put on a stone cottage, a girl can dream. 

Now it’s a question of cleaning out the attic, which we need to do anyway, for the garage sale S. wants to have to raise money for herself for tracker school. Lightening the load!

This Just In

I’m delighted to announce that my review of Kathleen Winter’s I will not kick my friends is now up on Colorado Review. Her book is complex and lovely, so of course, I am not satisfied with the review. But I’m honored to have something accepted there, and grateful to the very kind editors for encouraging my new writing pursuit. This editing of poetry books is both labor-intensive and very enjoyable. This is only my second published review. I hope to have more to send out into the world as I come by new books by poets I don’t directly know. The criteria given by many editors seems to be that one come by the collection in a natural way, but not be closely associated with the poet – which rules out a review of my friends’ new beautiful books. 

I have also been invited to submit something to an upcoming anthology, so that’s the second piece of news this week related to writing. It feels like confirmation that I’m on the write track, focusing in this way, more deeply and daily, on my “craft and sullen art.”

What's On Your Bedside Table?

After a year working at the library, I can say for certain that my childhood habit of reading for pleasure is back, and with something of its old strength. It’s a shame that it ever waned as much as it did. I went from reading avidly for myself, to reading for college, to a period of mostly watching films rather than reading, to reading to children. Then I was too busy to read anything much beyond a hundred work emails every day and the instructions for some packaged meal at night. Sad but true. 

Now, I typically have one eBook, one audiobook, a Book on CD and a good old-fashioned paper and ink book in the works. Up until recently, I envied (and even suspected of fibbing) those poets and famous people – funny that I put them in two different categories – who rattle off impressive titles and summaries when asked what they’re currently reading. But I am reading The Joy Diet by Martha Beck for self-improvement, and just finished a 3-set Pema Chodron Book on CD for the same. I also listened to Emily of New Moon to make up for that hole in my childhood syllabus, and am reading on my little phone screen The Corruptible Crown by Gillian Bradshaw, because she is my guilty pleasure. Her historical novels are as good as Mary Stewart or Rosemary Sutcliff, and her speculative fiction is like that of Connie Willis, although with a bit less wry humor. 

I have a long list of books to read next, but I’m aiming for about one a week on average. I think listening in the car is cheating a bit, and reading on my phone while on the elliptical machine at the gym is a good way to enjoy both activities. Because really, especially when you factor in a full night’s sleep and meditation or other doing-nothing time, which I now consider as important as anything more “productive,” there aren’t enough hours in the day. But I will say that already, three days into it, this renewed focus on writing has had very positive results for me. I’ll see if they continue before I jinx it with more details.

Easter ennui and sugar-crash malaise defeated by Spring Cleaning

Easter was lovely, with the four of us and two of N.’s closest friends over. The “kids” found the Easter candy while I cooked, then C. collected it and re-hid it more diabolically for everyone. In the end, they all helped make the meal, and we had a late brunch together. 

S. eventually reached a place of decision about whether she was going to try to raise a significant amount of money in the next few days to go to a week of tracker school mid-April (she’s not), and then I was off to the gym before it closed, but was derailed by observing hive inspections at a beekeeper’s home followed by by an opportunity to observe another a swarm pick up (bum steer, only a few clustering bees and no queen in sight!). 

The evening was spent fighting post-sugar Sunday-night blues/malaise, although N. said, “It’s not that, it’s ennui,” claiming she was too tired to sleep." But we also started to gather all sorts of things from closets and shelves to prepare for a garage sale next weekend. Here’s to Spring cleaning!  

Greening

It’s April first. I wake up thinking, first, the writing. I know that writing means jumping up to let the dog out, let the dog in, feed the cat. I know that writing means waking up when it’s cold or dark out, but more to the point, fighting off the sleep in a warm bed. It means believing in myself, believing that regardless of whether I’m “good enough” (whatever arbitrary thing that means), this is something that I love, that makes me more me, and that feeds me in a way all the sugar in the world can’t feed me – that can make me feel better than any red wine. Writing, or maybe I should say whoever I am when I’m writing, is like a best friend that I love to spend time with, no mater what else is happening in my life. I don’t do it for other people, but I do it for myself, and when I am fulfilled in that way, it’s easier to be generous. And of course, it helps that the world is greening, buds of brightness coming out of every tiny branch of our little oak tree, which D. planted from an acorn, the iris swords about to be joined by stalk and flower, the lilacs returning from the dead in a way that works for me as well as remembering Jesus no longer in a cave might work for some to foster hope. 

Because it’s April first, and it’s also Easter, and I have pulled out all of our Easter things from the blue bin up in the attic: enough baskets for the Von Trapp family, 

crafts the kids made when they were little, two puppets my mother made, little cloth rabbits 

             

and little ceramic rabbits, and dozens of plastic eggs. I will dust the surfaces of the house and spread out the little bit of candy I bought this year – what’s left of it after a couple of evening binges, I should say – and I will create a hunt for the mostly-adult kids who will be awake or back home or coming over for brunch. And I’ll make brunch. Welsh cakes, and bacon and eggs, and potatoes and cantaloupe. Lots of coffee, and potentially, mimosas, since I have the ingredients. Later in the day, I’ll go to a hive inspection (having inspected my own two beehives Friday). 

Little Oak Hive March 30, 2018

I’ll start to gather items for a garage sale that S. will have to raise money for tracker school, grateful for the opportunity to lighten the load and lessen the belongings, even though I know it means the living room will be a temporary dumping ground of stuff for a week. And I’ll write. April is National Poetry Month, and again, I think, as good a month as any to (re)start a more serious daily habit of writing. And sending poetry out. Here, for the record, are the goals: write at least 30 minutes daily (60 is better); blog at least once a week (daily is better); send out at least 5 poems at least once a week (daily, too, would be a fun exercise, if I could find venues that I wanted to be published in enough who are currently accepting poems to make it happen). In the light of this cool, quiet morning, with everyone else asleep and the pets behaving, it seems so do-able.  I’m at the magical moment when I’ve just finished my first cup of coffee and I know a second is coming – the absolute prime moment of optimism for me, every day.  So of course it seems do-able. As doable as meditating daily (which I have been doing, briefly, and sometimes in a prone position, but still…) or losing that pesky post-menopausal ten pounds, or scrimping together enough money to pay of credit cards and someday have a house in the country. It all seems doable at the moment. May it be so as well once the caffeine wears off! 

December

With the beginning of December, comes the end of Nanowrimo, National Novel Writing Month.

And this is the year that I was able to complete 50,000 words toward a brand new,  never-thought-of-before novel.

I don't know whether this extremely embryonic and malformed first draft - more a collection of 100+ pages of scenes and dialogue in absolutely no order and with no shape - will ever become anything other than what it is, however it did help me prove to myself that I have a certain degree of writer's discipline, if not writer's concentration on coherence, quite.

I am eternally, it seems, trying to prove things to myself. I should prove to myself that I can break the habit of proving things to myself....

Accomplishment

I would never make the grade in Mr. Darcy's eyes when it comes to being an accomplished woman.

As a reminder, Miss Bingley defines the accomplished gal this way: 

A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, all the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.

And then we have: 

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

Okay, so I read in general. And today I read a little Spanish (boning up before a bilingual test on the 28th) and some Albert Schweitzer biography. And I also accomplished (here used as a verb rather than adjective) the following: slept late to fight off feeling under the weather, got up and fed the chickens and dog, cleaned the kitchen, accompanied D.  to Walnut Creek to visit his declining father (with a side trip to pick up pizza for everyone after we'd arrived), drove the hour plus back, went to OSH to get jars for the next harvest of honey, went to the gym to work out, took the dog to the pet store to give him a bath, ate a healthy dinner, started a more formal will (with software and book from the library, due back soon and because lord knows the old one is out-dated), replied to a few emails, washed laundry, took out the trash, pulled some weeds, and then generally fretted about how little I did today and how the day felt wasted. This is probably some kind of worked-Saturday-cum-Sunday-night-blues.

Okay, so I didn't do any of the many things that are continuing to press down on me. But heck, now that I think of it, this isn't bad. And I should be kinder to myself. Besides, Darcy's taken anyway.

It's Official

I now hold an Masters in Poetry from Pacific University's MFA program.

This is a post I started in January, when that was fresh news, and that sentence was all I have to say.

More importantly, since then, I quit the job I'd held for 19 years and now work for the local county library system, at the central city branch. A simple shift, but a huge one with significant repercussions.

Like so many other changes over the last two or three years - publishing a chapbook, keeping chickens then bees, getting a cat then an MFA - this career shift has enriched my life and has awoken a part of me that had been dormant for so long, one couldn't even call it hibernation. Bears wake up sooner, is all I'm saying. Rather, think about some seed (like a nelumbonaceae) that lies encased in itself for years while conditions are too poor to allow for survival, let alone growth.

As wikipedia tells me, "True dormancy or innate dormancy is caused by conditions within the seed that prevent germination under normally ideal conditions." And the nelumbonaceae family (also known as sacred lotus) is subject to what's called "physical dormancy" where the seed doesn't germinate because it is requires an external force to break through its impermeable coat. "In natural systems, physical dormancy is broken by several factors including high temperatures, fluctuating temperatures, fire, freezing/thawing, drying or passage through the digestive tracts of animals."

So maybe I just had to go through the belly of the beast and some freezing and fire before I could reach this place. This thought may prove helpful in my efforts to move forward without spending much time kicking myself for not having done so sooner. I didn't, perhaps because I couldn't have. And at any rate, I can't change the past. I can only move bravely into the future with (ever increasing) energy and a positive attitude and focus.