For Tony
When you ask for a sip
of the holy water I carry
in my backpack like an offering
to a minor god, tucked
beneath the bird bones,
gray and splintered, that rattle
when I walk –
sweet broken flight –
I look at you,
cat at the window,
a coming-home sister
who can’t arrive too soon.
You were the rust
on the side of the house,
pink-washed blood
on my spring-lace blouse.
Now here you are,
second birth.
This roundness of family
is wilderness itself.
Our lungs billow
with what surrounds us:
alpine wind, teeth
sharpening in the woods at night.
We fear what others think:
that what surrounds us
has lost its holy pulse.
But home stretches out before us,
cord after cord of forgotten wood.
We draw our lot in prayer.
Tonight, in so many winds,
the songs we sing
tumble down the mountain.
We peer to the well below,
giddy with the sudden volume.
Some time
ago, when I was at a loss with how to make the leap from at-home writer,
miserably not producing, to full-time happy person, I had a nice long chat with
my friend. He followed up on our conversation by emailing me a list of
viable professions. If I remember
correctly, one suggestion on the list was becoming a tennis instructor.
I have to
say, both my forehand and backhand are pretty awful. I can whack the ball
over the net - and more often over the fence - but my tennis game survives not
because of skill or practice but more out of sheer love for running
around. I would make a lousy instructor.
When I
recently came across a summary of Gary Paulsen's pre-writing work career, it
reminded me of my friend Lukis, and all my friends working day jobs
that sometimes make us want to scream.
And it made me think of that list my friend emailed me, and how right he
was in some respects, shooting from the hip to nail a career path. Ultimately
most of his proposals were pitiful matches for me, but his spirit was right on:
it doesn't much matter.
Happiness is an
inner game, one to pursue recklessly.
It can be tempting to not allow yourself to play this game. It’s easy to look foolish, and for some
reason, it’s really easy to doubt yourself, and to give up on the big goals
before you reach them. But, as long as I am active and actively learning, I don't care what I am doing: I am on
the right path.
At one
time, I thought I had to be a Serious Writer. But that thought – and practice - was making me
miserable. I am quite happy
scooting around my office job now, and this morning read the advice that
perhaps, instead of asking your art to support you, it’s more fruitful to
support your art.
I have been
taking a step back from all the pressures I have put on myself in the past few
years to produce artistically. I
realized recently that I was acting as though I had something to prove – to
others, ostensibly, but I think, more honestly, to myself. I’d rather have something to explore
than something to prove. Besides, I was producing a violent environment
internally, one that was impossible to thrive in, and therefore impossible to productively create in.
I told my girlfriend, who is an artist, a musician, and an accomplished new doctor
(who just got married in a radiant, Fitzgerald-worthy wedding this
past weekend), that I bought a sewing machine recently. Maybe she was just distracted (it was
her wedding day, after all), but I found her understandably lukewarm reaction to this information reminding me of how, at one time, I
would have thought that spending my free time on anything but writing was a
complete and profligate waste of it.
Now I feel
deeply that the quality of my writing comes from my experience as a woman, and
that, as a woman, my interests are varied, strange, and sacred.
So,
whatever your intuitive whisperings are, I hope you are listening to them, and taking sweet seconds (or whole weeks) to dance with them. Let their messages wind themselves in
your hair, take their arms hastily about your waist. Let their secrets lead you through the barrenness of ego's caution,
to the comforting thicket of your own wild and beating heart.
And, if you are swinging a hammer, or learning to retrieve your sanity during your child's nap hour, or going crazy writing your second book, know that we are all in this life together, and that we are all doing more than all right. And that I'm right here with you - knitting a blanket that stretches on like time itself, stumbling to my yoga mat and following my breath like the song of my old sleeping dog, gazing out of windows, lighting candles, holding out hope that there will be enough time, enough courage, enough connection, for us to make our way toward one another, and to share what we have found along the path.
In study of
beauty, and darkness, and the magic of untangling the deep, stirring dream,
With love,
Kara