Another Year...

I am writing this the day before my 32nd birthday which leads me to immediately think that this is the day of my cousins 35th birthday. The latter is probably irrelevant to you, and, becoming increasingly more so to me. We’ve grown apart. I only mention this because it seems to be a recurring theme in the narrative that has opened and closed most of my days lately.

Growing apart is the slowest form a change, I think. Its subtlety is akin to the gentle rocking of a boat; a motion so slight it lulls you into a sense of calm until you find you’ve floated too far to contemplate a return to shore.

In the last few years I’ve grown apart from my need to look 20-something. I’ve grown apart from pretending to be happy when I wasn’t. I’ve grown apart from a few friends and even more family. What I’ve come to realize is that while all of those things sound like a loss, they have given me a sense of freedom in return. I’ve come to understand that the operative word here is “grown”. Out of these changes I have grown.

So with my 32nd year I proceed with the idea of growth, even when it means losing.

On a lighter note, I had the good fortune of attending a small group session with United States Poet Laureate Kay Ryan. She was humorous and generous with her time and her talent. Her commitment to reaching out to college students was impressive. Her latest, The Best of It, is worth the read.

I also attended a reading by Ms. Elizabeth Woody, renowned poet and visual artist, who is the current national judge for poetry in the League for Innovation contest where I took First Place at the local level in early May. She, too, was generous with her time and openly talked about not graduating high school (at least, not on time) or college due to her stubbornness. It was nice to meet a fellow hard-head.

Mid-Week Whiner

I sat down today to write out a long-overdue section of notes for my research class and wound up writing here, on my blog, instead. It happened for a good reason, I am sure, because inevitably when I find myself easily distracted from a homework assignment it is simply because my brain isn’t ready to deal with it just yet.

How was that for a fine explanation for procrastination? Yeah, I thought it was pretty good, too.

I am wading through this term of school with a cement life vest. I can’t seem to find the motivation for any of my assigned work. I even tried going out on a limb with my research topic: Jack the Ripper- How Victorian Era Storytelling May be Used to Scare Your Children Straight.

And still, my impetus lacks. Instead, my brain says: you should really write about the conflicting message Ani DiFranco sends when she damns-the-man and supports independent thought through the use, and re-use and, dear god, the re-re-use of her songs. How is it anti-corporate to take a song you produced ten years ago, record it again with less enthusiasm, more live audience and, oh hell, a high-school band thrown in for good measure and package it, along with other re-recordings, as a new album?! Really, Ani? I doth protest.

(breathe)

On a more uplifting note, I received a letter last week naming a poem I wrote as taking first place in a local competition for college writers. It will advance to the national level of competition where they will name first, second and third place winners mid-June.

A Bird's Eye View

The birds have returned to my backyard.

My first spring here, I found them annoying. They would drop down into my yard, harass my dog and leave their, ahem, gifts on my car windows. But now, entering my sixth season here, I look forward to the return of the small fliers. They feel like friends who travel and return to tell you their stories. We’ve even adopted a squirrel that comes regularly to eat from the cherry tree next door.

"Darnell"

It isn’t Wild Kingdom, but it works for me. It’s my little reminder that I can create my space, I can control the things within it, but the events over which I hold no authority often show me what real beauty is; even if at first they’re a tad annoying.

Did you just see the neighbor, in her fuzzy slippers?
Flit next door and
gather a bit of gossip.
Pump your wings, black and yellow
and bring me
tales from beyond my fence.
What does it look like from where you sit-
does my house look small or my flowers faded?
Do you judge, as we judge,
the green of the lawn
the over ornamentation-
The overcompensation.
Do you fear change, do you anticipate?
Or do you roll
one season into the other-
simply, and without strings.