optimism

(Note: The above is a Yellow Warbler; I took this picture at Hay Creek.)

I think I lean toward the-glass-is-half-empty, not because I bask in negativity, but because I always fall hard when disappointed. I feel like pessimism protects me sometimes, a kind of protective pillow when the answer is no.

But what about risk? What about opening up your arms and letting the world in? Optimism needs to become more a part of my life. And hope. Things have been working out lately, after all.

I read this, a post by my dear friend Eireann, and it spoke to post-event optimism. It speaks to how I've been reflecting on events in my own life. My mother-in-law and my paternal grandmother are experts at this kind of positive energy--when life approaches with difficulty, there is no flurry or tantrum of frustration, but instead, a what can you do / roll up your sleeves and fix it kind of attitude. No simpering or pots thrown about the kitchen. Just a repair with a silver lining. A story to tell later.

And I suppose this is the attitude I've mutated toward, have shifted. When Ryan and I first met, I was quick to melodrama, prepared to cry my way out of a situation, but he clearly had no patience for that, this tactic I used in the last big relationship which went over well (this, which included the kind of violence that slammed doors can bring, can destroy glass panels, can involve high rates of speed and so much shouting). Instead, he waited as I unclenched myself, embraced me, and we went about the act of repair. Myself, my heart, which had broken along with the stained glass, and my own attitude toward difficult situations. (He is the person who has eased me into so many better things for myself; he is a truly good, good person. Have I mentioned that? How lucky I am?)

I am currently seeking alternatives to pessimism. For instance, during the MFA hunt, I did not want to believe it would work out for me, just in case it didn't. For so many days, weeks, I ran home, my stomach knotty, my bowels turning to liquid as I'd rush to the answering machine, the mail slot, in hope, hope, hope. Disappointment slams me down. Perhaps instead of optimism, I need to learn more how to not crumble at no. Find out where yes takes me instead. What doors are opened, that sort of thing.

finding time inside myself

Blog 365 was a catchy idea, a little something to give me the push to be on repeat, to open my eyes to the world and let me know what is worth recording, worth keeping.

And I must say this: oftentimes, I am not a quitter. I may have failed in projects, I may have a half finished quilt sitting in my cedar trunk, I may have partly learned to make a baby sweater or cable mittens for my husband. OK, so in truth, I am able to walk away easily.

From some things.

From others, no: my husband, for one. We'll hit nine years of togetherness this summer. I'm so excited. And if I were a quitter, we would have quit each other long ago, when things got dull, or hard, or frustrating, but we didn't. We see each other through. And we hold hands doing it.

And I'm not saying I'm going to outright quit Blog 365, since my tendency seems to perkily retreat into the blogosphere when I feel I have something to say, no matter how mundane it is, but I don't want to face a day where I think, "I must post something before I go to bed." Or groan at the idea of returning from a vacation because I need to play catch up.

My writing has sloughed off too. I know it. I am writing in a funk, I am writing to take up space and time, to exist. I am not doing well and I am hating myself for it. I'm bored with myself here.

But I think there comes a time when we must lay down the gimmicks, the bells and whistles and tacky ad-ons, and become more ourselves for ourselves. I suppose I could go off on a tangent about what the purpose of blogging is, why we turn to these pages, why we read about the lives of strangers, or keep up with our closest friends and think we actually know them better when they are become more like strangers in this disconnect.

I'm not trying to be offensive. Merely trying to convince myself that I need to stop betraying myself, my voice, and my original purpose for keeping a blog. (Wait a minute. I think I've forgotten. What was it again?)

I think what I am blindly puttering away at saying is this: My writing has gotten stale, and I need a scapegoat. I can have several, because this is the world of buffets and juggling fast food on our knees: I can blame the crunch of Blog365, or rather, my own dogged dedication to blogging each day, even when I had nothing useful to say (of course, without the apparatus, I'd still feel compelled), and I can blame this project of emptying my bookcase, of reading the books I'm willing to give away, which has certainly thrown my husband and a few others, the idea of my getting rid of books.

For those of you who write, do you feel you write better when you are surrounded by the voices of the writers you admire the most? I know many writers start in imitation, and it's not such a bad thing. We mimic and preen and hope we can get it right and in the process, we hope to find our own voices. I think reading good work, reading things that shimmer, that's what fuels our own purpose.

I think this is what I need to do: I need to exit that methodical endless loop and return to the voice of the spring. I need to find hope again, to come out of hibernation. It is all mud and muck outside, tracked in by our dogs, and I am ready to fling open the window. I am ready to let in new words, to learn new things.

love & other catastrophes

Above are some of my favorites of the ones I've taken.

Have you seen the movie? It's one of my favorites, Love and Other Catastrophes. Among other things, one of the protagonists must wander from building to building on campus, bumping about, trying to get the drop slip signed.

I always think this: Harumph, love and other catastrophes whenever a string of little bitty frustrating events occur, sprawling out in your morning. I think of it as one event causes another, as events act and react, as the culture of me and my propensity to knock into walls and tabletops backfires. I am always bruised and don't know why; it usually is from my gracelessness before.

This morning I woke up to a flat tire. (This always happens when my husband leaves to go out of town--darn you, and your adventures--and he just kissed my head good-bye at four thirty this morning.) Flat, as in, rumble rumble, rim-to-the-ground flat. My third in as many years, I believe. My second sitting against the wet pavement of our driveway; the last time, I simply called in for the day (an hour commute doesn't really help), but today, I got a ride. (And the first time, in the middle of no where, and two high school girls pulled over to help me change it--I was so struck by their kindness.)

Thank goodness for the locality--the less-than-a-mile, the local shop picking up my car as I work, the easy pick up of a teacher at the corner, just after the school bus goes by.

And I lost a contact somewhere on the way out the door, so I am half-blind, or rather, half-fuzzy. I squint at my students' power point presentations, hope it all makes as much sense to me as it does to them.

I could go on: our garbage, which I struggled with last night, was not picked up, was tipped over instead. My father is coming for the reading tomorrow, and he wants to watch a Packers game, but we don't have TV (as in, no cable, no reception, just an addiction to Netflix), which presents a pickle. I don't like it when my husband leaves. I overslept; I dreamt that I would arrive at school after the bell (nothing like white cats and prophecies). Zephyr, the destroyer of all things, took down every single coat and scarf and whatnot hanging in our mud room and made a shredded bed out of one of my canvas bags while I was in the shower. (He's quick, that bugger.)

You see, if I hum to myself, Love and other catastrophes..., I am a little less hands-up-in-the-air frustrated. There is no frenzy, no chaos. There is take-it-one-step-at-a-time and it-will-all-work-out-anyway, a kind of peaceful, methodical pace to resolution. I wish I could say my husband's mantra of, No use getting upset; there's nothing you can do about it would be my saving grace, but sometimes, when he says that, I have the urge to kick him in the shins.

But the film, with all its little stumblings, the plot that reminds me of me, bouncing off the walls of life, is so "feel good," so upbeat and such a pleasant, peaceful, smooth viewing that I can't help but smile thinking of it. Smile and think, "Well, I have an ending like that too."

Life is too good to concern oneself with flat tires and lost contacts. (Especially when everyone in this town, helping me, giving me rides, dropping keys off and whatnot, makes me want to open my arms and give my town a big hug.)

Last night I had a smaller reading through Intermedia--the Writer to Writer folks did a final presentation of what we've been up to over the semester's mentorship work. I read my series of poems about my grandfather, and I think it went well. Husband could make it to this one (since he's out of town for tomorrow's longer reading), which was nice, knowing he was there, warm and content in the audience. I got to hold his hand afterwards, pinch his leg just before in nervousness. I love having him cheer me on in his own quiet, supportive way.

This is something that I am forever amazed at: Since I completed my undergraduate degree, I have floundered a bit with the future. First, I was going to pursue my MFA. I had my AWP handbook, I had my list of colleges, I sought a job to keep me afloat for my year off, and then I panicked. He held my hand, comforted me in my confusion. I realized it would be just as hard to find a decent job when I was done with an MFA as it was then. The MFA wouldn't get me anywhere; I knew this. So I contorted and shivered and found myself in the M.Ed program. I taught. I missed my writing. I wrote. I wanted an MFA again. I hated teaching at Old High School after a while. Then I found myself here, and it was only supposed to be for a year, so husband stood by me again as I confessed I wanted to go back to school, that this long term sub gig was perfect, and I didn't know if I'd return to teaching again. Newly married, with a mortgage, he said OK. This takes a big leap, since finances are becoming intermingled. But now I'm at another one of those ping pong moments: I now have eighteen applications out there (nine regular programs and nine low-residency) and the possibility of me returning to Local High School grows stronger. And he stands by me. There isn't a leaning from him, even if I ask, and I think that is right. When I mention going away for graduate school, a long distance marriage, he tells me to apply, that we'd figure it out. When I mention working here and doing the low-res MFA, which means loans, he says to apply, that we'd figure it out.

And now I want to hug him, press him close to me, but he's up in the air over Kentucky now.

For now, I'll just work my way toward four working tires, a new contact, and an optometrist appointment. For now, I'll just hum, love and hum and other catastrophes and think of tomorrow and reading. And think of Saturday and sleeping in. And Packer games, apparently.

I hope you have...

This holiday, I hope you have (these gifts):

- A husband who fills you with such joy, each day, you cannot imagine another day that is better. A husband who tolerates any frenzy or panic, who will hold you close when sorrow feels overwhelming, who will celebrate each accomplishment. The best is his making you laugh, always, and the burrowing feeling you have next to him. And that knowledge, the walking through fire, together.

- A best friend like I do. Someone you can call a sister. Someone whose children you can call your nieces and nephews. Someone you want to be with just as much as your partner, because she is a partner, in many senses. Someone you want to build a house for out of seed packets, grow a home for her across the street, drag her by a rope, keep her close. A friend you miss fiercely in the in-between times.


- A true sister, a sibling who you have connections with. Or someone, who you had hoped to reconnect with, and you have. Because of a wedding or a memorial, or art or reading, or nothing at all. Because of love. Because this is the person you'll always have in your life, and besides, you have more in common than you've ever thought.

- Parents who will always love you, no matter what.

- A set of grandparents to admire. Sixty three years of marriage and contentment. Two people who have lived full lives--not just happy lives, but lives of purpose, of inspiration. Two people, who, you hope, when you look back on your own life, you have inspired as well too. A grandmother, (or grandfather, for that rare male reader of my blog) who is so strong and so passionate that you can only feel blessed to be a part of her life.


- A complete set of friends, who fill you up with joy. And these friends, you miss when they are gone, you feel so good when they are there, and you can only hope you give them something too.

- A smart friend who will instruct you on the minutiae of life, who will strike sparks.
- One of those rare beauties who causes you to want to travel, to explore, to expand your horizons.
- A former colleague, though she ought to be your current colleague, because you think of her every day you show up at work, want to share stories with her, miss her, feel as if you are a little adrift without her.
- A feisty friend, one who challenges you, who shares with you.
- A friend whose talent amazes and surpasses your own, inspires you to try harder.
- A friend whose history is tangled with your own, who can take you back to days when you don't want to admit this is who you are, but she loved you then anyway.
- A few of these friends, because they are good. These friendships that are long and deep.


- A career you don't mind, or a hope for a future that you are passionate about. Hope, in the form of manila envelopes, sliding into the post office at all hours. Poetry. Literature. Linguistics. The shape of words on your tongue.

- A home, warm, perfect. Filled with books, with poems on the walls, with pets that sleep with you at night, that wait for you at the door when they realize it's your car that is pulling up.


- A love of your town. A theatre, a library, an arts center, a small bookshop. A bakery, a favorite restaurant, a small town alliance. Holding hands while walking at night in the snow. Pulling yourself up the bluffs, knowing you can, in fact, hike Barn Bluff. It's not so hard, after all, that daunting hump, and the back side is breathtaking.


I hope you have these things to fill your life. I think of Ben Folds singing "The Luckiest." I think that is true.