Friday, January 3, 2020

This is 40, Installment 3

Just. Say. No.

It's something I've learned can be SO freeing. Maybe it's a growing-old revelation. This fall I was working on finishing my novel and kept saying no to things. Things like my gingerbread house building party that we've thrown for the past 14 years. Things like turning down various Christmas invitations. Things like not going to my kids' hockey tournament in Buffalo (I know, so tempting) in order to write. Even things like going to see the Capitol Christmas tree and White House trains and trees that we've traditionally done. I said no. I don't HAVE to go to everything I'm invited to, even when I like the people who invite me! Even if we ALWAYS do it. Most people already know this, but it's been a little addictive for me to say no. Consider it.

I lived primarily in my head this fall and first part of winter, and I've enjoyed it. My inspiration to dive into writing again was fueled by a literary society of two other writing pals from college also working on novels. It is a virtual society, and we communicate via Google Docs and Marco Polo, which is an amazing app that everyone should have (unsponsored plug).

On the flip side, I said yes to something that we don't usually do, which was to visit the beach over Christmas/New Year's break. It was delightful and relaxing. Now I am in a mad dash to finish grading essays and plan the rest of second quarter. Unfortunately, all I could say to those essays was, "No, not yet." Now they're here and real and staring at me menacingly.

Here is a poem I wrote this fall about drifting away from writing over the past few years. I'm glad to be back. And if I say no to something, don't be offended. Just know that it's an addiction that I'm currently not seeking help for.

This is 40.

I Lost You


somewhere 
on the path
in the weeds
sidewalk cracks
playground mulch
silent desks


I’ll see you tomorrow though
I always say I always say
when the spirit prompts
when the wind blows tree leaves
sequins flipping in flight


but diapers
but dinner
but laundry
but dishes
but bathtime
but stories
but essays
but meetings


You’re in me but never
on the lines
white, barren, beautiful
infuriating
mocking
flying, flitting, dividing my 
sky separating my thoughts my
world shattering my air my breath
my dreams


You are loud as cat’s feet 
on pine needles
predictable as time
surprising as sunrise 


Always there

unwritten  



And now a couple beach pictures from the thing I said yes to this holiday season.







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