Well, this summer was a whole journey. A whole series of journeys. I was able, through the good graces of friends and family to have two week-long writing retreats (one at my brother’s in Florida and one tagging along with Sara-Ethel during her Cabins retreat in Connecticut). Another friend, who recently won a big literary prize, gave me a “poetry grant,” which allowed me a couple weeks of writing time I wouldn’t have otherwise had. A few other friends helped me rally by reading drafts of the book I’m working on and giving me encouragement and helpful feedback. I finished a draft of the book (a new flash memoir collection), which I’m polishing and sending out to publishers soon. I also turned 50. So. Here I am. This far. (To paraphrase a line from a Eudora Welty story.)
I also experienced the post-vaccine optimism followed by Delta-inspired despair and depression. I usually feel some relief in the fall. Once the air is cooler, my brain clicks along better. Ideas for projects take hold and feel possible again. But this past week or so, everything felt like A Lot again. All the mothers I know seem to be in a state. “Some kind of way.” We made it to the beginning of the school year. We’re eagerly waiting for the vaccine for elementary-age kids. We’re still trying to hold together some semblance of a normal, joyful life for our kids. But it’s A Lot.
This morning I sat down to put in a couple hours on my book. It was on my calendar and everything. But my mind was spinning with all the other things I need to get done. I felt stuck and, hoping for some guidance, I decided to write a letter in my notebook called “a letter from my higher self to my regular everyday self.” (A good writing prompt, by the way— try it!) It turned into the poem below, which I’ll send along to you, as well. In case it helps.
A couple other bits of news: Today is the last day for early bird enrollment in this two-day Zoom-based writing class I’m running. There are four spots left. And a self-guided course I designed for Creative Nonfiction is still open for enrollment. (The course opened on Sept. 27th, but you can still sign up.)
In solidarity and love,
Joanna
A Benediction
This morning I need a holy person to lay a hand
upon my crown to bless and keep me from
flying apart into the corners of the room. But not
that priest from TV who can’t tell the difference
between an angel and a vampire. Has nobody in
the world of that show ever heard of a vampire?
But back to the holiness—maybe it would help me
catch my breath, smooth out my energy, rain blessings
down and through me like non-sticky honey. Miel is
Spanish for honey, from the Latin mel, which also
means honey. If I need blessing this morning, chances
are you do, too. Here is your blessing: It’s ok, honey.
You’re ok. Most of us are still out here hoping the best
for you. Wishing you well. Don’t listen to the bots.
Your assignment for today: Light a white candle. Step
outside and study the quality of the sky. Look around
your feet for tiny purple flowers in the grass. I’m bending
down to look you in the eyes, checking in on child you
and 13 year-old you and 21 and present day. All
the versions at once. I place my hand upon your crown
and wish you miel. Good enough is plenty. Honey,
do what you can. Love your own good self.
I sent this to lots of moms who needed to hear this poem. Thank you.
(Is it too late to sign up for the self-guided class? I'm really interested in the prompts/materials...)
Thank you, Joanna. Just what I needed on this gray, stuck Tuesday.