A Mother Like Any Other

            For this week's blog entry, we try to inject a bit of humor. I wrote this little ditty when my sons were in high school.

A Mother Like Any Other

            Once upon a time there was a mother. She was like any other mother, though sometimes more, sometimes less. She had two wonderful sons, who were loving and thoughtful; wonderful students; had wonderful friends, girlfriends, and dogs; were great athletes and musicians; and who generally were just about perfect. She adored them and would do almost anything for them.

            There were just a few things that, in her great wisdom as a parent—which wisdom is acquired only on the job and is always in doubt—she wished for them to do as part of their “responsibility training.” Now, this mother knew for a fact that her two adored sons were nothing if not responsible. She knew this from many observations, such as their performance in school, their treatment of their friends, their usually remembering to call her when they knew she might worry as to their whereabouts, their helping with meals and putting shades down and so many other things she sometimes had a habit of forgetting.

            So, speaking of forgetting, there were just a couple of things the adoring mother truly wished her wonderful sons would not need to be reminded of, at least not too often.

            One of these was to not leave standing water—or wet rugs and towels used to soak up the standing water—in the corners of the bathroom floor, for she knew floors were not free, as they had twice learned already.

            Another was to keep their rooms picked up, so that when, for instance, she wanted to do something like get their cell phones insured, she could get in their rooms without falling headlong over a barbell, and when she didn’t fall, also find the paperwork she was looking for. Now here, of course, it was one of those hated “do as I say, not as I do" situations, her excuse for her own not-always-neat room being, of course, all the many, many, many responsibilities she had.

            Speaking of tripping, the mother didn’t much like tripping over dog poop or aluminum cans, either. Hm. Maybe she should haul all those aluminum cans to the recycling center herself, to help pay her monthly cell phone bill.

            Well, this story could drag on and begin to get boring. So, this is

            THE END.

Who Wrote That?

            I have not written much since I finished my MFA degree over a year ago. Looking back through writing in various stages of being, I wonder at times who this person is who wrote the words, and I relearn lessons I have forgotten.

            Nine years into my relationship with Doug and now over three years married, we struggle so much too often, it seems. We try not to offend, but we do anyway. I say I won't be impatient, but I am anyway. I remind myself that what I think existed with anyone else at any time in the past probably was not even remotely as I remember it through the rose glasses of time. As I learned so quickly when my mother died last year, the aggravations are so easily forgotten. I must let the aggravations with Doug be forgotten.

            When I was first divorced, I decided, against my counselor's advice, to "see" men. (I cannot bring myself to say "date," as that is for young people. In my defense, it was all quite accidental, as I fully intended to be  full-time mother and teacher, but that is another story.) I used to ask myself when preparing to go out, Would I be going out with my children's father if we were still married? That was the yardstick by which I tried to judge my actions. The yardstick I'm trying to learn to use now, in my relationship with Doug, is do I have aggravations with other people and, if so, would that mean the relationship is intolerable? The answer, of course, is simple. I have been aggravated at one time and another with everyone I know, and no doubt, they with me, and they probably more with me, because really, I think I am quite difficult to be around, a fact to which those who have known me longest, my siblings and parents, would readily, and lovingly, testify. In fact, when I told Doug recently that yet another person had commented how glad they were I had married him, because he is so much happier now, he asked, lovingly, if I'd told her how difficult I am to get along with.

            When I focus on what Doug and I like together, the rest melts away. I feel a lightness, and I think, Well, this is so much easier than slogging through being aggravated! Really, the minute I feel aggravated, I should think of something we enjoy together. If I think about the bird feeders he hung to bring birds to the yard for me; the joy we both take in the birds, crazy in numbers in our yard, emptying the feeders daily; the two birdbaths we added this year that they sip from and splash around in, I am happy. If I think about our VW Vanagon trips that I love, I am content. If I look at the yard and gardens we have gradually transformed into ours, I smile.              

            Thus, I look at what I wrote a few years ago about my relationship with Doug, and I realize the enormous potential for contentment in the years that remain to us has always been there, and I tell myself I must try harder to put aside aggravation, in favor of fulfilling that potential. I wrote what follows after a hike to Ladybug Meadow in the southern end of Sequoia National Park.

* * * * *

            On the way back down Ladybug Trail, we pass a white-haired couple who ask if we saw the ladybugs. I look at Doug, chagrined. "We forgot to look!"

            "We'll be back," Doug says.

            Ladybug Trail follows the South Fork of the Kaweah River. It is a hike we do only in winter, as the low altitude makes it too hot for a summer hike. Towering, gnarly oaks, their limbs naked for the winter, climb the hill above the trail and descend to the river below.

            As we continue on, I comment to Doug, "That oak has roots to talk to God about."

            If I didn't have roots in who I am, who I come from, I could not put down roots with Doug, who has the roots of here: the roots of memory, of childhood friends, of family and places. I wouldn't change that I have lived different places, that I have no sense of physical roots, no geographic home to return to, that our children, mine and Doug's, will not likely live here. But it is because Doug has roots that I am drawn to this place. I like that I can let my roots grow down into the soil of this place, much as I dig into the soil of the yard that I begin to call mine, too. We learn to let the branches of our own ways graft themselves to the same root stock and create a tree that is ours.

            On our next hike to Ladybug Meadow, we remember to lift the carpet of leaves, and we watch in awe the community of ladybugs that lives beneath them, sheltered from winter's cold. I must remember to shelter our tree of grafted branches, so that it will continue to send its roots down deeper and wider and grow stronger and fuller.

* * * * *

            This cloudy winter day, the birds sing merrily, dashing from feeder to feeder, sometimes pecking at each other for supremacy. Some prefer the ground under the feeders. A blue jay couple puts on a comedy routine, hanging precariously from the feeders, squawking their arrival and accomplishments. Mid-week, we will head for Death Valley, in the VW, the same destination as our first VW trip together, nine years ago. It now sports a quilt I made of VW camper appliqués, a new retractable awning, and new black bumpers we just put on together this week. I loved lying on my back in the driveway helping to mount them, and I felt a bit of pride in us and our accomplishments when Doug told me a friend who has just purchased a Vanagon says he has bumper envy.

Back to the Blogdon

            Since finally completing an MFA in creative writing with a poetry emphasis over a year ago, I've sporadically tried to get published. It took me nine years to complete the degree, with life, work, and waxing and waning motivation and inspiration causing me to drop out of and in to the program. Professors and students came and went. Whether the university liked my money—tuition about doubled over the years—or my advisor actually thought my writing decent, I was readmitted three times. Given the efforts required of former professors on my behalf the last time, I figured I owed it at least to them to finally finish what I'd begun.

            Unfortunately, my last poetry-writing workshop left more than a little to be desired. The professor, whom we'll call Solomon, and whom I'd benefitted from working with in an independent study when he first came to campus, seemed steeped in personal problems, mentioning not infrequently his need for his job and his sex life with his wife; devoted to a younger coterie of students, who mostly lacked curiosity; and interested in doing as little work as possible. When discord erupted in the class over how the workshop should function, he swayed. I at first encouraged him to please take charge and run the class as he saw fit, no holds barred, let the brutal comments fly for it's what we need to improve. But as the class stumbled along, we in the elder population grew increasingly frustrated, which we expressed to both Solomon and the program director. He usually gave little input on my writing, and when he made a point of speaking first on one of my poems, I couldn't tell if it was because he thought it was so awful that he wanted to get something out there to save me embarrassment or he actually thought it was good. When he announced whatever we wanted to turn in for our final project was fine and we'd all get A's regardless, contrary to my usual philosophy that I will give it my all to glean from a situation what I can, I did little, then wrote copious complaints on the class evaluation.

            But still, what I took most from the class was the memory of poems written by the cowboy of the group, a young man who worked the back country trails of the national parks in the summer and wrote poetry vivid in the pictures of horses, people, and nature in potent interaction with each other. That made it all worth it.

            In a political arrangement, Solomon, whom I had chosen as my thesis advisor a couple of years before, was joined by my former advisor and the program director, at my request, after Solomon told me to simply turn in my thesis when I thought it was done, which shocked me, as I had assumed there would be input along the way. When I did submit a rewrite, his sole response was to chide me that an erroneous comma he had previously pointed out remained, and to direct me only to show the poems to him when I thought I was done. I'm an editor. I love punctuation. But it seemed it was his ego—or his laurel's ride—that was talking. He'd made a point once that the founder of the program had personally wanted him to join the faculty. I basically begged him for input, of which he provided a modicum. Fortunately, my former advisor provided more, yet still not the analysis, challenge, and guidance I would have hoped for. Perhaps because of the political situation I fell between the cracks. Perhaps they just wanted to shuffle another student across the stage. Perhaps my writing was that good.

            That fall, when Solomon and I met for him to sign off on my thesis, we seemed to work out our differences, and I acquiesced to my former advisor's request that Solomon introduce me at my thesis reading, that it would mean so much to him. I was touched by his introduction, but he was gone before I could greet him after the reading—he was on sabbatical after all. Then, a few weeks later, he declined to write a job recommendation for me. I was stunned.

            Degree in hand, I submitted poems here and there and collected the usual rejections. I did have a few poems published, as well as a few essays in the Fresno Bee, years ago, but, as is the norm, most submissions have been rejected. Yesterday, yet another call for submissions came into my email box from the MFA program list.serv, and I yet again thought, okay, I'll try again, thinking of an essay I've long wanted (in principle) to publish. I remembered, too, that I'd been thinking of submitting to a sports-oriented poetry contest.

            I sat at my computer reworking the baseball poem for about six and a half minutes, then stopped, realizing I just do not have the emotional stability to revise and submit. I was still hearing the former head of the program, when he visited a poetry workshop once, saying I needed to learn how to write a line of poetry. I was still healing the wound of Solomon never saying to me, as he seemed to say to someone or ones each week during that last poetry-writing workshop, You should submit this poem to such-and-such journal. When I practically begged to know if there wasn't anything I'd written that was worthy of submission, his response to try a journal he'd suggested seemingly to everyone seemed begrudging—and definitely unsatisfying. I was still hearing Solomon saying counting syllables (which I did for much of my thesis) worked as well as anything to determine line breaks. I was still hearing him say a good line of poetry is like a Honda: it's not fancy, but it's reliable. I was still hearing him describe my poetry, when introducing me at my thesis reading, as being just that, saying it wasn't propaganda but poetry "we can trust."

            But I just don't want to keep revising the same poems or write new poems that sit on my computer desktop wondering what they will become. I was proud of my thesis. I had it printed and bound for everyone in the family and read from it at family gatherings that Christmas. Just recently, my younger son commented on a favorite poem, and I thought, I should try to get it published. But yesterday, once again, I thought, I really have no interest in being published in a small literary journal read by a few hundred people at best. I want to be in the New Yorker, the Atlantic! I've even submitted to them on occasion. But the chances of publication there, without a name or even a publication record? Pretty much less than nil.

            Mostly I quilt, embroider, and read these days. The sewing gives me the creative outlet I need. But there's always the nagging question in the back of my mind: Am I a writer? If I am, wouldn't I be willing to devote the time and energy to getting published somewhere someday? Was it the bad workshop and thesis experiences—albeit the reading introduction was bittersweet, the refusal to recommend me for a job, which seemed a vote of no confidence, that undermined my desire once and for all? Am I avoiding feeling deeply?

            Even now, as I write, I feel a certain fulfillment, a sense of peace with myself and the world, not even noticing the angry gnawing of a chainsaw until I stop to do something else. But is it necessary to be a published writer to be a writer? Is saying there is too much else to do in life an excuse or the truth? Can heeding a former counselor's admonishment that artists owe it to the world to share their art be fulfilled by sharing only with family and friends?

            This morning while vacuuming, I remembered that this is exactly why I began blogging a few years ago: I could enjoy the process of writing, express my thoughts, share them with those I love, and not worry about the whole process of finding the "right" place to submit, revising what I've already revised ten times, waiting for the rejection, secretly thinking each time the response comes that this will be the one. Of course I'd love to be published! But not enough to go through the process.

            I think I must have quit blogging three years ago when I decided to make a final return to the MFA program. Since then, I taught for a year in a new school district and was not rehired, interviewed furiously all summer, began the new year in another district and resigned three months later, finished my degree. My mom died. My son graduated from med school cum laude and moved back to the West Coast with his wife. My other son was married. My husband's daughter became engaged, and his son enlisted in the Marines. We have traveled for weeks at a time, argued and made up ad infinitum. Life goes on and on. I love to write, but I'm not compelled. I also love to read, garden, quilt, sew, embroider, travel, and talk and spend time with my children and friends. I avoid writing like the plague, and I think about it a lot.

            Time to start blogging again.