Pronouns and Mom Hugs

Last week I crammed five craft classes in writing into three days.  I'd love to do more, but the venue is a good forty minutes away and not in the best neighborhood.  Of course money comes into play as well.  A five pack for Lighthouse members is $285.00 and I'm not willing to spend more than that.  So, I make my selections carefully, and occasionally whimsically.

The first class I chose was Tips on Writing and Assembling Your Short Story Collection.  This was geared more toward writers of fiction; novellas, short stories and flash.  But the time slot suited me as immediately following this presentation was the Poetry Collective Reading.  My interest in this was a bit bittersweet.  Last year I applied for the program and did not make the cut.  I wanted to go and listen with an open mind to the poets who were chosen, and who spent the last year working really hard and now have a manuscript.  Mostly, I wanted to be wowed!  In a knock the socks off kind of way.  Because I think I am a good poet, and I like my poetry and I'd be pissed if these ten chosen people weren't good.  I wanted them to be excellent and profound and poetic. 

The class was good for me.  It gave me clarity on how I may assemble my poetry into a cohesive collection.  A mix of short and long pieces.  Ones that may be hard on the emotions to process mixed in with a few light-hearted ditties.  (Do I even have any poems like that?)  Then I hung out on the porch of the beautiful Victorian mansion that houses Lighthouse Writers Workshop before making my way to the tent to be a good listener.  

I did listen intently.  The first poet blew me away.  Her subject matter of being a young army wife, was written in beautiful contemporary language.  I settled in for the show.  The final score was three masterful poets, four really good poets and three HUH?  WHAT?  MEH!  Each poet was presented with an artful, wooden plaque with their name and a poem on the edges.  If there was going to be a pang in my belly moment, this would have been it.  When I was four, I took ballet.  Just a leotard, nothing fancy kind of practice class. I didn't continue, but Geraldine, my friend next door did.  When she left her house for the recital in her frilly pink tutu I experienced that regretful pang for the first time.  I wanted a tutu.  I wanted to be a ballerina.  Instead I watched her get in the family car and that was that.  

At sixty, I'd like to think I am more mature than that girl long ago.  This time I warmly congratulated the poets I knew and a few I didn't.  I watched them shine in the moment - a moment they worked hard to revel in.  I was happy for them all.  And gratefully, not jealous or regretful.  Maybe I even gained some clarity about my work ethic, my time restraints and my physical limitations living with Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Not everything is for everybody.  

The next day was a heady form class - From Sestina to Pantoum: Fixed Lyrical Forms.  I had this  instructor last year and wanted to take a class with him again.  I came away inspired to explore the freedom that can come with form.  An oxymoron in action!  My next class was billed as Writing Life and Death: Poetry and the Multiplicity of Self.  I'm not sure the class followed the description, but it was good!  

Day three started like days one and two.  I got up early enough to go to the gym, because if I just sit all day, I will not be a physically happy person.  I need to keep moving, to keep moving.  Each day I packed a lunch and snacks and lots of water bottles because... I'm cheap.  And there are many good restaurants in this part of Denver, but practicality and frugality rule!  Especially if I want to stay retired.

Elements of Narrative Structure was also a fiction forward class.  I needed a good refresher on first, second and third person and Point of View.  I already know about verb tense - I did pay attention on some of the days I was in Tappan Zee High School.  Lastly I chose to explore Writing Through Tarot. The best was saved for last.  Not really - they were all good - but this cliché just fits here!  This instructor was so qualified and knowledgeable and had the most radiant energy.  I dug this class.  I used to dabble in Tarot as a teenager and young adult.  A little shaking of my intuition occurred in this class - I've been spot on all week!

All of the classes at the Lighthouse start with participants briefly (hopefully) introducing themselves.  The young person next to me said their name and pronounced they identify with 'they pronouns'.  I became distracted by this statement.  Is this a new way of saying hello?  Should I tell people I identify with female language?  Do only LBGTQIA get to do this?  Then the person behind my table companion said the same thing and I thought  - Is this a new trend?  Am I missing something?

This was the Friday before Pride weekend in Denver - where our gay governor and the first gentleman would be the Grand Marshalls of the Parade.  So maybe it was timing, or being open and bold (bravo!) or just something I had not heard before.  Nonetheless, we worked together and shared some stories as well as a Tarot deck.  They were very nice and on a whim - or maybe intuitively - when it was time to bid adieu, I told them I give Mom hugs, if they missed that. I almost cried when they told me they never remember having one. We hugged a long time. I'm pretty sure we both had tears in our eyes.

Driving home gave me time to reflect on the past three, intense days.  I learned that I wasn't ready and may never be ready to undertake a year-long program with a vigorous commitment.  I had a basic refresher on the elements of writing.  I dug a bit deeper into some difficult poetic forms.  I renewed my belief that I am not meant to be a Central Denver dweller. I affirmed that I like brown bagging over hipster dining.  But you know the most important take-a-way of the week?  The single most profound, eye-opening lesson?  It is simple and it is easy and we can do it all the time.  Over and over again. It was the hug on my last day, my last class. From a person who showed me how to be bold and be yourself.  We are put here to love.  We are put here to love.

Time to Write,

Jane

Not Yet - my blog on not being accepted to the Poetry Collective