Not Yet

Back in April, my friend Chrisy sent me a link to a session at the Lighthouse Writers.  This informational gathering was held on a Saturday in late April - I attended and knew a fellow poet or two there.  The program is monikered the Poetry Collective and they loosely billed the offering as a quasi-MFA without the two year undertaking and cost outlay.

There was a two month window in which to submit an on-line application along with up to 10 poems, twenty pages of your work.  A working title for a collection was required as well.  There was no application fee.  Just this really long span of time in which I could torture myself.  Should I apply?  Do I have the constitutional fortitude to commit to a year long program?  Do I like people enough to work in close proximity for a year?  Would my life and/or my lifestyle somehow prohibit me from completing the tasks? I am a natural procrastinator and this time frame fed that character trait.  In the end, I pressed send about three days before the deadline and the waiting time commenced.

July was the 'date' given to expect a response.  I both loved and resented the ambiguity of an entire month being a timeframe.  I joked about it to another poet I know who also applied for this opportunity.  We made a promise to one another to be supportive no matter what the outcome for either of us.

Here is what my inbox looked like this afternoon - opened upon returning from the gym and Al-Anon:

Now maybe I did allow my mind get a wee bit ahead of itself, but my heart did indeed skip a beat or two when I saw the subject line from Lighthouse stating that this is my Lucky Day!!  What could be luckier than being accepted to a program that I didn't even know existed until three months ago?  I waited to open the e-mail thinking - Am I ready for this?  Can I indeed partake in something that involves dedication and lots of hard work?   

I look at the next e-mail down, also from Lighthouse.  This no subject in the subject line is the one with the actual "Envelope Please" moment I had been waiting for all July.  Well, ten days, but who is counting?  The first e-mail was about a fundraising casino night to benefit Lighthouse, hence Lucky Day being the hook.  The next one was the form letter rejection, or non-acceptance - of me and my work to the Poetry Collective.  A bit of an anti-climatic moment.  Not because of the NO, but because of the weird timing of the e-mails.

I actually breathed a few sighs of relief.  Sometimes when decisions are made for me, it is easier to accept.  I firmly believe that what is meant to happen, is what happens.  Maybe I am not ready for the reason(s) I listed above or a reason yet to be revealed.  Maybe I am going to be so busy in the next year figuring out where to live next, helping my youngest with her baby and celebrating a milestone birthday that this just wasn't the right timing.  I don't know the reason that a dozen other people heard a yes.  I hold no resentment for that.  My life is rich and full with or without this dimension.  Plus I just saved myself about three grand.

It used to be so hard for me to admit defeat or failure.  Today I am able to write about my life and express the spectrum of emotions that we as humans experience.  I am slightly disappointed, but not devastated.  I can be unhappy about not being accepted, but I can still be happy overall.  I can send positivity to those accepted, attend their readings at next year's LitFest and think about applying again at a future date.  If I want to - who knows what the coming year holds for me?

I won't hold onto this NO as a message that I am not enough.  Not a good enough writer, a good enough wordsmith, a good enough person.  I will hold onto this NO as a NOT YET.  For whatever reason, not yet.  This affirmative mindset leaves me room to grow; both in my writing and my acceptance of what is.  It is a bit humbling to learn that I wasn't accepted this time around.  I can use that as a stepping stone, or stumbling block.  Not yet gives me time to hone my craft, take more classes, write more poems, explore other genres.  

Even though I don't get to hold onto a statuette and gush until the music stops me, I would like to say thank you to my family and friends who supported my journey the past three months.

Time to Write,

Jane

The Receiving End

When I gave birth to my firstborn, I really knew nothing.  Sure my then husband and I toted pillows to a church basement to learn Lamaze.  He thought propping up against the pole and utilizing one of the pillows would be a good way to take a nap, so I was pretty much on my own.  I paid attention while panting my way through class with other oblivious couples.  When the time came my son got 'stuck' in my birth canal, or some such thing.  I ended up with a mid-forceps delivery.  My view of the birth was the blue hospital drape, cascading over the top of my knees.  I don't remember walking around to aid labor.  I mostly recall being bed ridden and in a fair amount of pain.

This weekend I spent about 10 hours stretched over two days in a hospital conference room with my 24 year old daughter who is due any week now.  This is not the Lamaze class of yesterday.  There was not too much breathing instruction, no panting like puppies.  From my 10+ years of yoga practice, I am confident I know more breathing techniques than the average bear.  My daughter is a shallow breather, and didn't like being prompted to breathe deeply.  The forceful exhale seemed more natural to her.  Perhaps when she is in labor she'll be glad I know how to breathe - it does keep me alive!  For the class, I just let it go.

This class focused on the myriad options for the mother and the few choices for the birth partner.  I am the partner.  I may have had three babies in five years, but this is her show.  She gets to call the shots.  Standing, kneeling, bouncing on a birthing ball, sideline with a blow-up peanut between her knees.  A true plethora of choices.  They really don't want mom in bed hanging out with stirruped legs.  It is now known this is the worst position to birth a baby.  Mom also gets to decide if she wants analgesia, an epidural or even nitrous oxide.  Imagine that - one can now laugh their way through labor.  Not really.  It is to help mom rest between contractions.

There was a mixed message of bring what you need - but everybody brings too much!  Home pillows are to be in brightly colored pillowcases, or they WILL be left behind.  The hospital has "comfort kits" for those who forget to grab anything.  Ice pops are available in the four familiar flavors; grape, cherry, lime and orange.  Ice chips are on the house!  Coaches can eat during labor, but not in front of mom. Slippers or slip-on sandals since it is 95 degrees as the daily temp in Colorado nowadays.  So much to remember.  It is hard to believe women in other cultures can rely on intuition and community, foregoing hospitals and classes and manage to deliver naturally.

Episiotomies used to be routine.  I had one and lucky me, lost my sutures.  NO said the nurse, that's impossible.  Till she looked in the loo and saw for herself.  Most women don't get an episiotomy automatically these days.  That's a good thing.  Encouraging the downward positions to deliver has helped lower these numbers.  In class we were encouraged to ask at every turn, with every recommendation "Is this necessary?"  That will be my job as a coach.  I think Natalina will be busy with other important details.  Like laboring.  And panting.

Am I ready for this?  I don't know.  I've only been on the giving end of this activity three times.  First a mid-forceps delivery, then two by C.  C-Section that is.  A surgical procedure that I pray my daughter is spared.  I feel more prepared than I did before devoting my weekend to this class and to my daughter and to my soon-to-be granddaughter.  I'm pretty clear that I am there to support, advocate and remember to ask the questions.

I've not had the privilege to be on the receiving end.  I'm not sure if I want to be that up close and personal with my daughter.  I mean, you can't un-see something once it has been seen.  But I'd like to 'catch' the baby if possible.  And I feel confident I can cut the cord.  I am a bit concerned about my stamina for this long haul.  I have rheumatoid arthritis and will need to take care of myself during this process.  Eat, drink a lot of water, rest when I can.  Sit if possible.  I might need a plan to call in a reinforcement, if need be.  I could start taking some adrenal support herbs to boost my fight or flight response to help with the duration.  Somehow I think I will muster up the needed resources and deliver on my promise to my daughter.  To be there when she needs me.

My valise* to stay a while at her apartment is packed, and my bug-out bag is also refreshed and ready to go.  Medicine for three weeks. Cell phone charger.  Tablet.  Pads and paper, 'cause a girls gotta write, right?  There is always the Sad Blue Store for last minute essentials.  If I can't sleep on the foldout in the mom/baby room, a hotel is conveniently located right next door to the hospital.  I am a firm believer in this regard; things work out the way they are supposed to.  I can't stress over what I don't know and most assuredly can't control.  But positive vibes, well wishes and prayers are always gratefully accepted.

Time to Write,

Jane

* valise

Poetic of Jane in the Garden

If one motivates early enough on the Front Range of Colorado the rewards are many.  Our quasi-mountain air stays cool till about eleven in the morning.  Many of our 'loved-to-death' places are quiet and relatively empty.  This is the time where young parents are still feeding and motivating toddlers.  Hipsters are at work or in line at Starbucks.  Seniors are at those up and at 'em Silver Sneakers offerings at the gym.

Yesterday's treasure was a forenoon write at the Denver Botanic Gardens.  There are five ladies, including myself, who have formed a subgroup from the official Write Age gatherings where we first met.  It is not a clique.  Rather five women of various educational and religious backgrounds who come together to talk about life, politics - albeit briefly, offspring if applicable and grandkids.  The last one is me, guilty as charged.

I enjoy these ladies and I am always up for a good reason to motivate and write.  As Heloise Jones says in her book The Writer's Block Myth "Change the scenery.  Take a new route.  Go on a retreat".  Good advice and the Garden is always a lovely place.  Different at each visit.  Changing with every season.  While I did drive the same route up there, being in the garden was quite inspiring.  And to me a morning away from my keyboard or the gym totally counts as a mini-retreat.

I was at the intersection of University and Alameda when an idea came to me.  Many times when I am in a museum I see paintings or sketches titled "Portrait of the Artist in His Garden" or some similar take.  Why not try to write today as writers in the garden.  A somewhat immersive experience to put ourselves in our writing in the garden, while actually writing in the garden.  A loose suggestion, or prompt if you prefer.  Just a whiff of a concept to get the groups creativity flowing.

We broke off to explore the garden in our own ways, and agreed to meet to share our writing in an hour.  I wrote a poem indoors, near the tropical conservatory, and a prose piece sitting near a pool of lilies.  Here they are.  Enjoy!

but a human-bird

Oftentimes I find myself

Perched

The canopy my nest

My eyes not eagle

But soft

I am but a

Human-Bird

Watching below

My brood has flown

No longer needing my

Regurgitations of

Worms, advice, stories

My breasts are fallow

My nest is empty
I puff the hollow-boned
Cage that surrounds my
Warmly beating heart
To crow about
My children

I need only preen myself
Long ago I molted those colorful plumes
Once use to attract lovers
Now adorning unknown children’s dreamcatchers

My flock was once other mothers

We’d spread our wings just
To sweep up our own
Little starlings

Now I fly a solitary flight

Ever reaching to the heavens
Seeking a life that
Formerly eluded me

Praying

That fable of Icarus
Ignores me

Self-Poetic of Jane in the Garden

This is about me.  It is mostly, always about me.  My paint is my ink and a notebook serves as canvas.  Painters may gesso to create a smooth surface.

I prefer to skip that step, I write to be real and to be raw.  If I wanted to recite a slick list of facts, I’d be a prosaist.

I seek the sounds of running water in the garden.  To remind myself that I am mostly aqueous as is Mother Earth.  Mother Earth is my mentor, my everlasting teacher.  The Goddess I worship.

She shows me how to be a flower.  How to bloom not only in daylight, but also in the darkness.  The obsidian value of etiolation.

She is gently quiet in the morning; as am I.  No rushing of children.  No shooing a husband out the door.  No longer snatching solitude as snippet.

I seek the inhale and the exhale of the membrane of the atmosphere. Solitude, serenity, courage and divinity can be mine in this garden of life.

Once I was a riotous orange flower with frenzied foliage.  I couldn’t shed the anxiety of reproduction.  Needing to afford my children both shade and fertilizer. 

Now I bloom slowly, each day as I arise.  My plumage is different each morning.  A different flower each season.

In winter I am holly.  Thorny, waxy and very deep green.  Small berries sustain the birds that overwinter in my heart.

In springtime I am lilacs, as was my mother and her mother before me.  Softly scented, boldly feminine.  I last only a short while, but my fragrance lingers in your memory.  As well as mine.

In summer I am pansies and posies and roses and rhododendron.  I am every flower.  Everything.  I am ubiquitous and unctuous.  I am a visual umami of my senses.    

In fall I am the lone leaf hanging on the promise of a deciduous tree.  I will re-bloom, re-blossom and return to wax poetic another day.  Another season, another year.

Time to Write,

Jane