Thursday's Thought

Well here we are. It's the last day of the year.

I simultaneously have no idea what happened over the last year and I have a very clear recollection of every single day. It's been a big one in my world!
I graduated my Master's. Published a book. Travelled a bit. Refrained from any major new ink. Was nominated for a Pushcart. Fostered and developed my relationships and connections with family and friends.

Counting Down

Wednesday's Word

Accomplishment

There are 365 days in a year. Well, this year anyway. With this post, I've written 359 entries in my blog. Tomorrow will be my final, meaning I've only missed FIVE DAYS! Five whole days for an entire year is not only fantastic and pretty boss, but it's also a testament to commitment.

Good old Merriam-Webster defines accomplishment as, "something that has been achieved successfully, or an activity that a person can do well, typically as a result of study or practice." I'd say that both apply to this blog and the challenge for a year.

Yes, it's true. I didn't make a post-a-day. But when I landed on this idea last winter, I knew that there would be days when I couldn't write for whatever reason. I largely tried to plan for those days and make sure that I had something waiting to post, but there were a few days where I just didn't feel like it. I don't know if that's a measure of success or not. It is contrary to the challenge, sure. But it's also a nod to the hyper-awareness that blogging for a year has created with my writing.

When I began my Master's program, writing was something I used as an outlet. I knew I had a voice somewhere inside, and I knew that I could arrange words in a pretty and pleasing way. Much the same, when I seriously started lifting, I knew I had a strength inside of me that could be brought to the surface with the right tenacity, approach and practice. I realize now that this blog has been as much an exercise in committing and seeing a goal to the end as it has been in learning to engage my creative voice with an ability to articulate and express ideas.

I think it only apt to end Wednesday's Word with "accomplishment." This is a challenge that has proven difficult, wonderful and engaging all year long. I'm pleased with my work, and I hope that it's offered my readers some sort of pause, a moment of introspection, mind-food for thought.

Yikes

Tuesday Truth

Well. It appears I've slacked off on this challenge over the last month. It's been tough, and though I'm not one to up and quit, I'll admit it's been difficult for me to find fresh and engaging content for this blog. So I've largely just ... stopped.

I know, I know. It's contrary to what I've been doing all year! I had such high hopes and noble ambitions for the blog-a-day challenge. And for a good nine months, it was really working well! I found that it was easy enough to write about things that were engaging and poignant in my life. But then after a while, I discovered that I just didn't have much to say.

I'm beginning to learn to look at my life in a series of before and afters. Before I got divorced, I was living one way. After I graduated my Master's I'm living a different way. If I consider this year from a macro perspective, it's certainly an "after" year ... as in, after I decided to write a blog a day for a year, after I published my first book, after I broke 200 on my conventional deadlift.

All said, I hope it's also a "before" year. I hope it's a year that I look at and have a handful of wonderful benchmarks to measure it against, that it is a year before a major book deal and national reading tour, a year before I begin spending the rest of my days with the love of my life, a year before I broke 100 on my bench.

I know that if this time last year, I'd been this off on my mark with this blog, I'd be pretty bummed. I never like to set a goal that I think is ridiculous or too difficult to handle. I guess I'm feeling a little kind today and I know that there were very good reasons that my blogging slowed. Things like hanging with friends, visiting family, writing new fiction have all seemed pressing, engaging and important. I guess I've been busy living. Isn't that the point of all this?

beginnings

Modi's Monday

beginnings

            after Villa at Rueil, E. Manet

in spring, she will ask

you to build her a house

of brick and circumstance

square and concrete that

keeps her safe and cuffs her

to the hearth of your love

she will sit on the veranda

sipping cool yellow lemonade

rocking in a painted pine chair

wondering the roped route that

brought you to her.

black lace

Modi's Monday

black lace

            after Portrait of Berthe Morisot, E Manet

he tells her to

cover her face and

straighten her back

point her toes like

those Russian ballerinas

that seem so graceful on stage

and so awkward on the train

cloud her eyes and

mute her smile

when she sits for him

the artist standing at

his easel, painters board

in the crook of his elbow

brushing color and

truth onto canvas the

way her spine keeps

straight her determination

Heat, Harden, Force

Tuesday Truth

Here’s a mind fuck of a truth. I have hated life for most of this year. There were long stretches – days and weeks, even months – where every single thing was a struggle. An internal fight to get up and well, life. Sometimes even just doing the dishes seemed like the biggest deal in the world, and doing dishes has always been such a joy for me! Laundry? Cleaning? Taking Loretta for a bath? All calamitous chores that required me to pump myself up so much that after the chore was complete, I was completely and totally spent. I wanted to throw the covers over my face and hide pretty much all the time, and spent a number of days doing just that. It came to my attention that living is hard work.

But know what’s harder? Not living.

I’ve been not living while living for far too long. And it’s whack. Takes too much energy and too much time to stay grumbly and cantankerous.

Hiding doesn’t do a damn thing except keep out folks who should be in, and draws me deeper into the well. Ghost told me recently that we walk through fire so that we might come out tempered. That is, of course, if we don’t melt, explode or fall to pieces. I can truthfully say that I’ve been walking through fire for a while now, and I didn’t melt. I had a few mini-explosions, but those were all self-contained and manageable. I feel comfortable saying that I’ve come out the other side of the pyre. My hardness and elasticity as a human, capable of sustaining and forging has been challenged this year. There have been some really tough moments. But I’ve found the counterbalance of my malaise; I’ve learned to neutralize the nonsense, alleviate the aggression and soften my sadness. It feels fantastic to know that I have been tempered indeed. 

Evening in Love

Modi's Monday

Evening in Love

            after Still Life, E. Manet

leave your boots by

the door and dust off

the snow from the cuffs of

your trousers. She has a

bottle of that good whiskey you

like to drink on tough days,

or good ones, depending

if there are such a thing

as winter flowers

be sure to pick some up

on your way back to the

statuesque four pillar

brownstone you’ve

worked to acquire and

she’s worked to keep

top your hat next

to her latest version of

truths written and

type-set for the world to see

you prosecute and she

articulates. Together,

the world is yours. 

Shopping for Change

Sweet Saturday

Weeks keep moving. We’re only something like 19 days away from the end of 2015. Where has the year gone?

This week, I’ve had the chance to really look at what I want for my next step. Earlier today, I went shopping with Willis. We needed a proper catch-up after her wedding and my graduation. It was so lovely to spend a bit of time with her. Every time I see her, I’m reminded of why she’s so boss.

In the course of conversation, she asked me of my next steps. As I rattled off my PhD plans and the schools to which I’ve applied, I realized that for all the years we’ve known one another, it’s been rare that we’ve been doing the same thing … at the same time. With her pending PhD studies beginning alongside my own, it feels like we’re starting to finally sync up! It was a sweet reminder that even though out worlds are decidedly different, we can still find ways in which we can connect.

Willis also remarked that my time in the north was “a strange time in the life of Jess.” An understatement, to be sure, but so darn true. I told her that it was needed, and that it’s clear I don’t belong in suburbia. She quipped, “Well I think we all knew that deep down.” Match point. She’s right, of course. Anyone who knows me probably had the same nugget of a thought the whole time I was there, but it was something that’s needed. Something that I had to do, as much to prove to myself that it wasn’t what I wanted, as because it offered me a chance to figure out what it is I do want.

Life can be like that sometimes. We have to work through what we don’t want to get to what makes us really shine. When I reflect on time I’ve spent in Cincinnati since returning, I realize that most of these last 20 months have been helping me pluck out the things I don’t want and replace them with things that serve me best. Of course, it’s all about balance, and that’s something I’m still learning, but it’s a nice way to be living especially given the alternative.

After our shopping, we hugged and dapped the way long-time friends are known to do. It felt good to see her, a sweet reminder that even in my solitary pursuits, I’m not alone. 

Getting Back to It

Fitness Friday
(a day late! it's a  busy time of year!)

It’s that time of year.

Cookies. Chocolate covered everything. Schedules so completely out of whack that even the most dedicated lifter might find it difficult to say if it’s “Shoulder Day” or “Leg Day.”

Last week, I returned to the gym after almost a month off. I was travelling for three weeks, and even though I had access to a gym for most of my trip, it was still difficult to stay on schedule, to keep my routine amidst the off-kilterness that being in foreign country can bring. During my trip, I pined for the gym. Longed for it. Wanted nothing more than to strap on my Oly shoes, cinch my belt tight and get to squatting. Or deads. Or hell, I rationalized with myself while sitting in German café enjoying a coffee, I’d settle for bench right now. (For the record, bench is likely my worst compound lift. It’s just so darn hard) That said, I did what I could while I was travelling – lots of plyo work, too many burpees than I care to remember and enough tuck jumps to make me think I could reach the moon. I wasn’t lifting, but I was doing something, and hoped it would be enough to help me maintain what I work so hard for day in and day out.

When I finally returned to the States, I was eager to get back to the gym. Sunday night, jet lagged and confused about what time it really was versus what time my body felt like it was, I packed my gym back with care and set it by my door. Prepped my coffee and my pre-workout food, and imagined how great it was going to feel to attack upper body with the vengeance of a woman three weeks out from the gym. I could almost feel the pure power that comes from pressing and pulling, and man was I hyped.

Monday morning at 5am found me waiting for the doors of my gym to be unlocked. I made a bee line for the first bench I saw and promptly loaded it with my working weight … from three weeks ago. Turned up my tunes and set my mind right; went to press the weight and NOTHING HAPPENED. I glanced left to right, thinking maybe I’d accidentally loaded too much. Nope, the weight was right. So what was wrong?

Much to my dismay, the three weeks off from real lifting meant that for three weeks my muscles weren’t being activated in the ways they are accustomed. My working weight from the beginning of November was in no way my working weight for the beginning of December. I am a stubborn broad, and didn’t want to accept this truth, so I tried again. Nothing.

I had to accept that in order to make it through my first day back, I had to deload. A lot.

I grumbled, I fussed, but still I stripped the bar, knowing that trying to get up a weight that I’m not ready for will only cause injury. It was deflating, and a bruise on my ego.

Either way, I made it through the sweat, admittedly at much lower weights than I was used to. That 30 pound dumbbell shoulder press that used to be so easy? See ya later. I had to go down by ten. My reverse flies that were finally starting to move up in weight? Nope. Back to the beginnings.

It would have been super easy for me to get discouraged after my first day back and to throw in the towel, rationalizing because it’s the Holiday Season, I can just go ahead and take another month off. I could have made the excuse that there are likely to be so many delectable goodies all around me for the next four weeks that any lifting in the gym would be for naught, so I may as well take a good long rest. You know, be like a bear, go hibernate, feed, sleep.

But where would that get me? I’d be worse off than I was last week.

I realized a few things.

One – I needed to get over myself and swallow my pride. So what if I’d pr’d on pretty much every single lift before my break? My weights weren’t going to be where they were.

Two – the only way to get back to it was to get back to it. I spent the rest of Monday carefully reviewing my lift logs (yes, I’m that much of a nerd) to figure out how best to approach the rest of the week, and how to do so safely without injury.

Three – My lifts were not going to get any better if I wasn’t fueling my body properly. When we take breaks from the gym, it’s easy to get into a pattern of eating semi-clean, giving ourselves leeway for an extra apple or a piece of cheese, or whatever it is. But we all know that proper nutrition is as much a piece of the fitness pie as is adequate rest.

Four – Coming back off a break was going to be hard. Harder than lifting had been in a while.

I regrouped. Took a look at my meal plan for the week and found places where I needed to up my carbs (before my lifts) and increase my protein (after my lifts) … and I tearfully said goodbye to a few of the treats I’d been allowing myself while on holiday, namely muesli.  And was back at the gym at 5am on Tuesday, waiting for the doors to be unlocked again. This time though, I walked in with a different mindset. Instead of trying to immediately pick up where I left off, I resolved to make the sweat the best I could make it for that particular day. I knew what my weights needed to be for all of my lifts. More than that, I knew that if I couldn’t get those numbers, I shouldn’t lose my hat. When I struggled on my dips, I reminded myself I’d been gone for three weeks. And when one of the other early morning regulars asked me where I’d been for the last month, I didn’t let it shame me.

So I worked my program every single day, carefully recording my numbers and monitoring my split. As my first week back, I wanted to make sure I got as close to perfect as I could on well, everything. Kept my calories right and made sure that my form was on point. It was a little sad walking past the big plates, having to load my bars with almost thirty percent less weight than what I’m used to, but I knew that a deload would be the only way to get back. By the end of last week, I was sore everywhere. I’m talking I-couldn’t-take-a-step sore. And it felt wonderful!

This is such a personal journey for all of us. We each have reasons why we get up every day and go sweat. For most of us, it’s to get stronger, to feel better and to stay healthy. Some regular lifters like the aesthetics that come from picking up heavy stuff. It’s easy to get discouraged when the results we’re used to seeing don’t materialize. But it’s even more important to remember that this isn’t just a one-stop sort of lifestyle. We all come back to the gym over and over to perfect our form, to up our weights, to get better, stronger, faster. So a few days – or a few weeks off – can be deflating. It’s hard to get back to the bar especially when we’re used to lifting a certain weight and feeling a certain way. But we have to remember that we all started somewhere. And really, aren’t we really just competing with ourselves? 

Stepping Stones

Thursday’s Thought 

I’ve been giving considerable though to the next step on my journey, likely because now that I’ve graduated, everyone’s questions is. “What’s next?” Sometimes, when I’m feeling less than amenable, I feel like saying, “I have no bloody idea what next. Why don’t you tell me?” but I know that won’t get me anywhere, since no one but me knows what’s next. It would be so fantastic though to just say it … once to someone!

In keeping with this notion that I don’t need to micro-plan my life, I do think it’s important to macro-plan my goals. One of the nights I couldn’t sleep in Frankfurt, I pulled out my trusty Mead Comp book and started writing out the things I want to accomplish for 2016. Once I had a reasonable list, I then started spelling it backward, and trying to figure out how to make those things happen. They’re all really loose plans – get published, win the lottery, find a man, you know, easy, simple stuff, but they’re plans none the less and writing them out not only helped me get a clearer understanding of what I want to accomplish over the next twelve months, but also a way to make that happen.,

Now that my MFA is finished, I really do need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with life. The idea of a PhD calls to me and is so appealing for a variety of reasons. But then, so is finding a writing related job, something that fuels my mind and my spirit. I also like the idea of becoming a professional world traveler, but I’m not quite sure how to go about doing it. Point is, there are so many options open for me right now. I’m the must unencumbered I’ve ever been in my life – I have an education, a car, some savings … and no children, no relationship responsibilities and no real familial pressures or expectations. I don’t know why I’ve been sweating this next step so much. It’s actually a pretty boss situation to find myself in, as much because I am free to choose my path, as because I know that the path I decide to walk will be one that is best for me. Not having to take into account the wants and needs of a partner, or considering adult stuff like who’s going to rent my house is really actually freeing. I think I’ve been fretting over this phase for naught.

Of course, I really have no idea what the hell I’m doing with life, but that’s okay! Maybe I’m not supposed to know … I have my skeleton list of goals for ’16; that’s probably a good enough starting point, considering it’s just now December.  

Macro is Better than Micro

Tuesday Truth  

Life is transitional; it’s fluid, and if lived correctly, it’s ever changing. These last two years have been fluid and still at the same time. there has been a lot of growth personally, but there’s also been a lot of settling – settling into being divorced, settling into graduate school. Returning to Cincinnati, learning to live on my own again. I’m tired of settling, and to a point, I’m tired of routine. Sure, I’ve written about the ways in which being off my schedule made it difficult for me to lift over the last few weeks. But at the end of it, does it really even matter? The chances of me competing in a show any time soon are so super slim – my time is limited and there are a million other things I want and need to do, and I’m probably not going to be on a magazine cover as a fitness model in the next three months, so what does it matter if i’ve missed a sweat here and there? 

An earlier version of me would have freaked out with Residency schedule, and then would have freaked out even more when I didn’t have access to a gym in Frankfurt. I get it in my mind sometimes that there is only one way to do something, and that way involves being so fully committed – as much to remind myself that I’m doing this, as to show the Universe that when I decide something, I stop at nothing to make it happen. That’s all fine and well and great for folks who live in bubbles where everything can be controlled down to the smallest detail. For the rest of us, who have to contend with myriad on-the-fly changes, it just doesn’t work like that. I think I’ve been so rigorous in developing and keeping a schedule over the last two years (fitness, writing and otherwise) because I knew that if I didn’t have a schedule, I wouldn’t stay on track. Props to myself for seeing that part of my personality, and I’m glad I’ve been able to stay focused. But it’s getting a little too intense, and to a point, a little unnecessary to plan out every single hour of every single day. I still love plans and lists, and I’m still going to spend the first part of my Sunday sketching out my week on the calendar, but there’s something to be said for just letting go … even if it’s just a little bit. 

tenderly reaching

Modi's Monday

tenderly reaching

            After Bon Bock Café, E. Manet

waitress lowers head to

stretch her neck, sore from

bending and bowing

aching fingers fold

giraffe animals from

starched white linen

napkins used to press

droplets of chef Miguel’s

cold asparagus soup from

wrinkled lips of

society ladies who

wear too much perfume

floral and heavy and

don’t know the difference

between being alive

or really living. 

#tickingclocks

Sunday Summary

Wow, o wow. What a week.

Coming off of pretty much three weeks of continuous travel has been difficult. I not only returned to Dental World and real life, but I also got back to the gym this week. I don’t know which has been harder – transitioning back to teeth or the bar. Either way, this week has left me spent. It’s been something of a reality check after spending time at Residency and then in Germany to remember that yep, I have bills to pay and the way that I’m doing that is in the land of molars and incisors. It’s also been a swift kick in my ass to get me motivated.

I realize I can’t keep doing this – can’t keep trying to exist between two opposite and conflicting worlds. Bukowski did it; he was a letter carrier all the while writing amazing stuff. Hemingway was a copy writer for a while, Johnson is a professor. I get the need to keep a day job, but more and more I realize that I can’t keep with a day job that doesn’t in some way stimulate and engage my creative side. It’s making me mad! I need to find something that will not only engage my spirit, but will also pay the bills.

I know, right? Join the rest of the club. Thing is, I’ve been doing some investigating and I see how I might be able to make it work. It won’t be the same sort of consistency as Dental World, but it will offer me a bit of freedom that I don’t have now.

All this week, the only thing I’ve wanted to do is sit to pages. My heart has pined for it, my head full of delicious lines of poetry, snippets of narratives that are just waiting to be written, words that need to be on the page! When I finally had a chance to sit down on Friday, I lasted about forty minutes. I discovered, all too quickly, that my mind was spent, my body exhausted, and my fingers not nimble enough to move. It was a sad night.

But also a telling one. If I’m to make it as a writer, that is – if I’m to pay my bills and have some loot in the bank, then I need to become accustomed to this wrung out feeling of super tired. It’s a hustle, just like anything else. It’s not a slow dance; shit moves fast, and the only way to stay up is to stay up.

So Saturday night found me sitting to my screen, a nice piano concerto playing in the background and a peanut bread baking in the over. I’d have much preferred to read or play on the internet, but progress doesn’t happen when one lollygags. I best get used to this feeling; it’s the only way.

Here’s to another week in the books. There are only a few left in this year! Time is flying so fast; soon, there will be snow on the ground and I’ll be on the hunt again for that shovel. 

Earned Letters

Sweet Saturday 

In a heated debate recently, someone said to me, “Well at least I didn’t have to go to school to learn how to be a writer.”

It was early when this insult was hurled my way, and my mind wasn’t working as quickly as it normally does, so I found myself at a loss for what to say back.

I didn’t go to school to learn how to be a writer either, but I can see how one might make that assumption. An MFA program has far less to do with growing a seed of talent and more to do with learning how to work with deadlines, writing crap, recognizing it’s crap and then rewriting it until it shines, and learning about theory and craft.

I have always been a writer. It has been at the very core of my being for as long as I can remember thinking about my being. Trying to make a career of it, to actively push for publications, enter contests, write this blog, all of these things are scary as shit. There’s a lot of competition out there, and there’s always going to be a better writer. And it’s subjective as all get out! What one editor or publishing house hates, another might love … so there’s no metric to the success, no formula that one can follow. It’s most certainly not like the corporate scaffolding that so many folks maneuver to earn and achieve higher titles and larger salaries.

Maybe that’s the stem of the insult – maybe because this gig does take so much shameless self promotion, so much pretending to believe in oneself, promoting one’s work, maybe it seems like I took the easy way out. It’s easy to lose validation as a writer when the rejection letters roll in daily or when someone says something like this to me. I’ve come to terms with the rejection letters – they’re just a part of this life, and at least someone is reading my work! But this insult has stuck with me and tried to burrow into me in a very real way. Sure, I didn’t need an MFA to tell the world I’m a writer. But I did need the discipline that comes from having fifty pages due every three weeks, from knowing I’m accountable to someone, somewhere for my words.

I’m sharing all of this because this argument came on the heels of my Pushcart Nomination. I stood there confused, listening to reasons why I don’t know what I’m talking about with regard to being a writer, thinking to myself, “Yeah, but I just got nominated for a Pushcart … and even if I don’t win, that has to mean something, right?” Unfortunately, validation only holds value when one wants to assign worth to a particular accomplishment. So for me, the Pushcart nomination is huge – it shows me that the world sees me. But for others, it’s just another “thing” that I “learned” to do in my MFA program. I guess that’s okay; it’s all a matter of perspective.

But it’s really sweet when these kinds of perspectives begin to offer me glimmers into the true nature and core character of folks. Raw moments of truth like that are rare; now, not only do I know where I really stand, but I know how I’m viewed and to what esteem I’m held. 

Tracking Routines

Fitness Friday 

Between Residency and my trip across the pond, my lifting schedule has been so whacked out, it’s a wonder I remember how to squat at all!

This week has marked the return of my schedule in all its glory and infamy and o my stars, I couldn’t be more excited. On Sunday at my layover in O’Hare, I was planning out my week, deciding on which day I should be doing what lifting sequence, and o my stars, how excited that made me! It’s been a challenge for this schedule-driven human to be so far off of the daily, normal routine for so long. That said, it’s been a good exercise in remember that everything isn’t all schedules and datebooks, and that living life is far more entertaining and exciting than just planning it.

So this week also saw the return of progress photos … not that I’m too pleased about what these images show, but they’re a useful tool in helping to see the minute changes that begin to occur when one has been away from lifting for so long. Obviously, I know enough to know that the changes aren’t going to be immediate, but just getting in the gym and sweating, lifting heavy shit and putting it back down does enough for my psyche to make me think that there’s been a change. It’s all in my mind, I know, but it’s effectively helping me to push through the wall.

So at Res, I did my best with the time I had available to sweat and lift. I got in more cardio than any real weight training, and even that was lackluster at best because I was fighting a cold and frankly, there really wasn’t a ton of time for me to lift. It occurred to me that this has likely been the longest break I’ve taken from lifting and fitness related activities since I started graduate school. I really can’t recall a time that I was so far off my routine and schedule for this long.

Dang.

That means for two years, I’ve been pushing my body pretty darn hard. Okay, not elite athlete hard, but hard enough to have built a solid base, to have made significant changes in my physique, and to have almost mastered a Burpee (haha, just kidding. I can’t do a burpee for shit. They suck and they always will). The point is that sometimes it’s easy for me to get so focused on the end result (even if that changes based on my particular goals at the moment) that I forget what I’m doing is pretty solid, and that my commitment to fitness and to lifting is one that is now so deeply rooted in my core being, I feel it’s absence when life is so hectic that it can’t happen the way I’m used to having it. 

Small Acts

Thursday's Thought 

Put your heart, mind, intellect, and soul even into your smallest acts. This is the secret of success. – Swami Sivananda

Sometimes at the gym, I look over my work out and try to decide how hard I should be pushing myself for a particular set. This tends to happen with frequency on my squat days. As much as I love building my booty, squats are hard and my hips get tight. Recently, I was looking over my planned session and someone asked why I was studying it so intently. I explained I wanted to decide how hard to push myself. My response was met with horror and the response that I should push hard every set, every rep, all the time. 

How novel and foreign of a concept for me! I’ve often lived out my days parceling my energy so that I have enough to do everything I want to do. But there’s wisdom in that statement for sure. If I push hard on every set, approaching every set like it’s both my first and my last, then I will find success in every single one. Sure, it might be harder to start, but eventually my body will adapt and I’ll find a new center, a new middle, and a new end. I am doing myself a disservice if I don’t push hard all the time, every single time. So that’s what I’ve been trying to do this week. It’s been difficult, and a bit challenging, but I know it’s the right thing to do. And what’s more, it makes me a stronger person for it in the end. 

Rounding the Corner to Home

Wednesday's Word

commitment - the state or quality of being dedicated to a cause or activity

Much like other words that call to mind one's intent in pushing forward with a particular action, a commitment is something that often evokes a strong sense of intention and focus. When the calendar flipped over from 2014 to this year, I made the commitment to write a blog post a day ... for the entire year. On January 1st, it seemed like a lofty goal, something that would keep my focus and help me remember that my craft should be at the forefront of every day. Now that the year is winding down, I'm beginning to reexamine my commitment with particular respect to intent.

I don't know that I exactly intended for this blog to end up being a sort of online, progressive journal. When I reread the entries from this year, I realize just how much of myself I've tapped out - every single day. This has not only brought me a greater understanding of myself, but it has also shown me what I'm willing to share and what I'm not. There has been so much that has happened this year that I haven't shared on these pages, namely because I am a cagey kind of broad, and I don't share things easily. Or at least, that's what I used to think. Now, it seems that there's a certain and decided level of sharing that I'm willing to offer.

Not only has this exercise in staying committed to writing a post a day helped me understand more about myself, but it's also reinforced the idea that when I set my mind to something, I can get it done. Sure, there were a few days (weeks, months) where this blog was the very last thing on my to-do list ... and plenty of days when I wanted to just call it and not write at all. I ended up missing a few over the course of the year, but it's been less than 7! So that means I've been writing with dedication and focus for 48 weeks this year. Not too shabby considering I've also finished a thesis, written a novel, finalized a chapbook and done a bunch of other stuff too. I'm not sure what this blog is going to look like for 2016, but I know that I've grown both as a writer and a human from this experience. If a commitment is typically accompanied by a statement of purpose or a plan of action, then I think I've succeeded in meeting my goal for these posts.

Circular Conversations

Tuesday’s Truth 

Last Friday, Efed and I stayed in the entire day. We didn’t go to the market, to the café, or even to the free library that’s in her hood. Instead, we sat on her sofa (or lied on the floor) and talked about everything that we’ve needed (well, almost everything) we’ve needed to discuss for a good long while. Topics ranged from my eating stuff to expectations of adulthood that we had as children, and culminated with a really frank and open discussion about my mother and our parents. Grief is a weird thing. It comes in waves, presenting itself sometimes silent and prodding, and other times harrowed and loud.

It feels like I’ve been grieving my mother for almost twenty years. Between the fission that occurred when her life separated from mine when I was a teenager, and her actual death just a few years ago, there has now been more time in my life that I’ve been without her than I’ve shared. I don’t know if that makes me want to villainize her or idolize her; both are equally possible given my frame of mind, and if that sticky thing called grief is being quiet or making a symphony.

Undoubtedly, Efed was closer with our mother than I ever hoped to be; the connection they shared is one that is so vastly different from what we had. As the firstborn, and six years older, Efed has been witness to realities that I was too young or too blinded to see. Because of it, her grief is so much different than mine. It’s stronger; more real; more impacting. Where I knew that Gail was gone for a good ten years before she actually passed on, Efed kept up a viable and vibrant relationship with her. As a result, I’ve always felt that my grief and my longing was less than hers.

Our conversation Friday reminded me that grief most certainly isn’t the same for everyone, and manifests in different ways. Where Efed has lately not wanted to talk about her, all I’ve wanted to do is to get to know my mother, posthumously, of course. It’s as if now that it is so incredibly final that I can’t have her in my life, I’m greedy for all the details I can cobble together about her existence. Because Efed is my only resource for that information, conversations like the one we had on Friday are likely to be more frequent than less. I guess that means I’m going to be taking a few more trips across the pond. Not exactly a bad thing, considering I’m coming to terms with how not to freak out.