Seasonal Blogger & Post Graduate Lessons

My New Year doesn't really begin in January. Rather, it occurs in August, at the beginning of the fall semester. Springtime is traditionally when I begin to daydream about my summer resolutions. Usually, these dreams involve reading lists, submissions and some new form of exercise. This spring I dreamt of other things. Play dates for my son and daughter, scrapbooks, new recipe marathons, freelance writing. Don't I sound like a Betty?

The further away I move in time from my MFA experience, the easier it is to unbraid this pervasive semester mentality. During the program, I believed summer was the only time I had to accomplish what all of my colleagues appeared to be able to do each quarter. Things like regularly submit their work, take a yoga class, watch late night television... I'm sure that was a skewed perception. Still, I was in my thirties, married and raising two children under 5 when I began my Master's. I didn't meet a lot of others like me in my classes.

I think that was to my advantage on some levels. (These levels being very long term in scope.) The boat for networking and publishing and editing sailed during my time as a student. Readings were on weeknights, and opportunities to meet visiting writers usually occurred at noon. This is a problem is you work somewhere other than the University, probably even if you are on site. And in all honesty the idea of struggling  to make fast/false connections causes me to cringe. So, I suppose even if my external obligations had been minor, I still wouldn't be in the circle of "What's Happening" as a poet. And that's okay. For awhile it didn't feel okay, it felt lonely, and a bit shitty actually. However,  it made me consider the reasons that I write in a very emotional way, as well as is an objective way. Audience remains invisible. 

For a time I wanted to see my readers, and hear from them and now it as if the audience is an imaginary friend or friends.  I remember writing my first poem at the age of eight. It was after I finished reading something I found really good. I like that eight year old girl a lot. How she spelled words wrong, and made some letters too big for the lined paper. I like her intensity. Her relationship with the energy of idea to page. I'm a little bit eight right now. I wonder how many other writers feel that way too. I am listening to the "Rilke" voice inside. It is much louder now, and also, much more patient. Writing has become mine again. I don't try to corner it into a genre. I accept it gladly even if it's in the form of a note to a parent, or a well written lesson plan, or a write-up about pomegranates. Writing is year round. Happy New Year Every Day~!