Lately I’ve been puzzling over a trio of poems I’m writing for a specific, local publication, and it’s the absolute best feeling: getting lost in the words, wrestling with one or another, teasing out an adjective or metaphor or rhythm. This is some of the work I do that is certainly work, but does not feel like it; it is work that can lead me to a loss of time. I look up, and it is a different moment in the day entirely.
I am not a natural puzzler, but in this way, I am: the poems come together piece by piece, and when I conclude that they are finished – or, as finished as they are going to be because I could keep them with me for forever – I step back and feel deep satisfaction.
This is a tardy realization but last night it occurred to me that if I wanted to make something happen, I could. A handful of years ago, when I’d finally exhaled the dream of having a child, I tried to narrow my focus into what I might have control over, the things my heart really wanted. I came up with these things: I wanted to write really good books. I wanted to become fluent in French. I wanted to live abroad.
It turned out, of course, that my heart’s biggest desire was still unfolding, and when he arrived, those things faded for a while. They don’t carry the same importance, but still, when I look into my soul, I want the same things for my future. I want my child healthy and safe. I want my family happy and strong. And I want words: the ones I can create, the ones I can learn, the ones I can speak. I want that language, that communication, to carry me to new places – those inside myself and those that claim certain corners of the world as their own.
It is almost June, and the days are gloriously long and my sense of hope is blunted by the world but persists when I see the rising sun, and my goal for the summer may well be to do something with it – to speak up, to speak out, to write good words and string them together for a song.
Side note: if you’re a writer too – Jami Attenberg’s amazing 1000 Words of Summer starts this weekend!
