APOLOGETICS -- BEEN AWAY SO LONG

The longer you’re away the harder it is to explain the passing of such time. The harder it is to quantify and qualify—what has been accomplished and just what constitutes accomplishment. Does it meant that goals have been met? Or, is it that one is getting closer and closer to the goals?

In the days since my last post I have been angry, amused, bereft, dumbfounded, dazed, elated, fearful, surprised, saddened, overwhelmed, overjoyed and every emotion in between. I have lived amongst the baffled and bewildered, unsure of how and why the elections resulted in four more years of the current administration. Angered at the concession of those who promised to do more than tuck their tails and recede into dark and dingy hiding places. Disappointed by the apathy and complacency of the masses—the most of us who only demand the least.

As a result and in order to reserve energy and sanity for what is needed most—my own survival—I receded into my own nesting place. I am like this every Fall, going inward to examine the deepest parts of myself; to hold each piece under the looking glass checking for flaws and idiosyncrasies, inconsistencies. A time for wrapping both arms around myself and reminding Me that I really am okay, that I am doing my very best and that all that I have become is a result of my own choices (which is, of itself, a good thing). A time for looking in the mirror and recognizing that I am aging beautifully. Not because of taut skin or long nails or a flat stomach or any other Western ideal of beauty—but because of what resides, now, on the inside; because I have learned that Life is Good and I have finally embraced The Path that prepares for me a feast of everything that is good for the soul: patience, equanimity, generosity, renunciation, wisdom, energy, truthfulness, determination, and mindfulness. And this is what I love, so very much, about Buddhism. That it so unlike every major organized religion and is, rather, a path for mindful living; a path toward a greater sense of peace within one’s own self before one sets about trying to change the world.

Turning 35 is a gentle nudge for me. A nudge that says, Hey Look, all those things you want to do and things you want to learn and places you want to go? Go. See. Do. Turning 35 is a shedding of skin, a shedding of the need to analyze and question and pontificate; a deliberate turning away from those things that are safe and predictable and a running toward Full Catastrophe Living with open arms.

I have spent days in pumpkin patches with four and eight year olds, searching for just the right shades of orange to display on our front porch. I have run my fingers down the length of Native American corn admiring the beautiful swirls of red and yellow and white and orange. I have set out ears of squirrel corn in the yard for the squirrels to feed upon (oh, how they enjoyed that!), checking each day for where they’ve hid it after they’ve nibbled. I have set up my birdhouse on the deck, waiting for the arrival of an expectant mother, hoping she’ll find my little space suitable (my son loves the color of bird’s eggs!) My eyes have roved the shelves in search of just the right gourds to place next to the pumpkins in order to yield the true picture of Harvest Time. At the pumpkin patches, I have stood next to my son and watched his eyes grow as large as moons as he pet the young goats and talked to them in the way that only four year olds can. We have held hands, walking across the field to select fresh peach preserves and blackberry jam to spread on our toast. And I have come home with my four year old, spent, shoes covered in mud and eyes weary from the vast array of orange and marigold and scarlet and brown. Fall in the Northeast (what splendor!)

I have sat in auditoriums (school field trip!) watching the dances of Native American tribes as close as New York and as far away as New Mexico, awed by the pride and love they retain for their heritage. And in the same vein, I have had the pleasure of visiting the brand new National Native American Museum in Washington D.C. (a must see if you are ever to know the truth of how America came to be) part of the FREE Smithsonian Institution. (Did I mention it is FREE?) The very last space on the National Mall, sixteen years in the making. Even the design of the building is amazing—no straight lines, but flowing like that of rivers.

I have spent days reading. For my birthday, Spouse, in the way that makes me love him so deeply, bought me a beautiful set of lounging pajamas perfect for enjoying my new copy of Alice Walker’s biography by Evelyn C. White. And yet, I had to set it aside because I, for my birthday, decided to order all of the books that I must own: On Call by June Jordan; Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde; Ain’t I A Woman by bell hooks; Anything We Love Can Be Saved: A Writer’s Activism by Alice Walker; In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens by Alice Walker; Women, Race, and Class by Angela Davis; Speak So You Can Speak Again (an absolute MUST HAVE interactive book about Zora Neale Hurston complete with audio CD). Surrounded by all these supportive spirits, breathing in their words, their thoughts, their joys and their passions, I have dwelled in sheer delight. And to have heard Zora Neale’s voice on the audio CD makes me feel so incredibly grateful to be a woman storyteller; made me run each day to my writing space, pen in hand.


And I should say that I moved my writing space. For some reason, I chose to move into the dining room where there is greater sunlight and an oversized wall hanging of African women walking with baskets on their heads. In this same room there are candles and a small wrought iron shelf unit that holds Alice’s biography. Also, in the opposite corner, a small table on which I placed Zora’s book and a framed, postcard picture of Zora. Sitting in that room one day, I felt welcomed by the elders, in fact, beckoned. The warm sunlight gave me a feeling of complete relaxation about it all, urging me to surrender all expectations and time limitations I have put upon myself for the completion of this book. I had been struggling with one chapter for the months of September and October—struggling to get at the emotional root of one very important character. The difficulty was dualistic: getting deep into the character’s emotional and psychological makeup AND finding the language with which to convey it. Succinct, yet descriptive and logical enough that you can understand her later actions (she abandons her children in search of her own dreams). And we ask, what kind of woman would leave her children? Must be crazy! No, not really. Not when we examine the very question that Langston Hughes put forth: what happens to a dream deferred? And so, one must, (as did Lorraine Hansberry with the character Walter) one must get so very deep into the mind and psychological makeup of these kinds of characters in order to render the story any degree of verisimilitude. And that going deep takes time. The novel that I am writing goes into a very deep psychological place; a place that I did not know when I signed on for this journey. The characters are (as every character should be in fiction) very complex and dealing with these complexities in the midst of my own very real life, is not an easy task. But I endure and I hope that I will have presented it well by the time all is said and done.


And then there have been the book signings. Four since my last writing, including a taping for a local public television show titled “Poetry In Black.” I’ve answered so many questions about this book and my life as a writer and how I’m able to manage it all. How do I? I don’t know. But being “on the road” this way has cured me, for sure, of that star strucked-ness that I had when I was a young writer meeting authors. And of course, my daughter, who now says, “But Mommy, you just had a book signing before!” and me, rushing out the door saying, “I know honey, but I’ll be back as quick as I can,” and thinking, on the way, that I wouldn’t trade my life right now for anything.


And I have managed to gather up two batches of poems for submission. One was a call for anti-war pacifist writers and another for women writers in general. We shall see. Amazing to me that I used to send things out with so much anticipation and nail biting and fervent praying that the works would be accepted. And now, it simply is what it is. What is accepted is, and what isn’t simply isn’t. No fear and certainly not personal. What is there to fear anyhow? If one can survive parenthood, certainly one can survive the rejection of a few poems!


And I have spent days washing dishes with candles lit on the windowsill, gazing out at the changing leaves, listening to the dance of the wind around my chimes; spent days trying to perfect my Warrior Pose and my sun salutations to balance my Root Chakra; spent days trying my best to sit zazen; and days just feeling grateful to be alive, to be a mother, a poet, a writer, a thinker, a creative person, a wife, all in no specific order. Have even tried to teach myself crochet (in the spare moments waiting for the dismissal bell to ring) and tried my very best to catch up on this blog.

And every step of the way, I have thought so very much and so very fondly of :

You and You and You and You and You

Peace always,

ANGEL