for auld lang syne

How nice and neat it would be if, at any given time, we could take a step back from our lives and say (in our finest of Scarlet O'Hara impressions), "Now, I do declay-uh, they-uhs a nice junction!"  And then we'd proceed to take our seat on a nearby log (preferably one blanketed in moss and a-flutter with bluebirds) and contemplate all of the little stepping stones that brought us to said resting place.  Well, pardon my saying, but (fiddle-dee-dee) rarely does one encounter such smooth-edged segues.  Or at least, I've not found too many privileged moments of clarity.  But all fun-poking aside, I feel like I might as well go ahead and settle down (log or no log) for a brief stint of some much-needed and deserved reflection.  Because, the truth is, if I waited around for the fairy tale moments to show themselves, I might never make heads from tales...let alone appreciate the charms I already have right in front of my very nose.

Justaboutexactly a year ago, I packed up my suitcase(s), hopskipped over a few county lines, and have been nesting in The Music City ever since.  And, I'll be the first to admit, it's been one of the most humbling experiences of my life.  By no stretch of the imagination can I even pretend that I moved here to call Nashville "home."  Since my arrival, I've made it a point to nag about the lack of barns or friendly faces here.  Heck, I've made it a point to nag about justabout everything.  I've had near-blackout experiences while contending with rush hour in the rain.  Truth be told, I've even managed to complain about the over-abundance of coffee shop options in a one-mile radius, which, for anyone who even remotely knows me can tell, is purely absurd.  I can count on more than one hand the number of mornings I've woken up to find myself so deliriously bankrupt that I've had to ration my mason jar piggy bank just to keep from breaking down on the side of the road.  When tea light candles, Dollar Tree two-for-one bubble bath, and store-bought hummus become life's luxuries- just the ticket to an evening of self-indulgence- it is impossible to not let the comedy of it all just wash right over you.  For a spell, I think I lost the ability to laugh at myself--a mistake, certainly, as my long face didn't even remotely phase the condition of my pocketbook.  So, to say that I've fought city life tooth and nail in some prideful attempt to maintain my country mouse innocence is somewhat hyperbolic.  

The funniest part, though, is that in the midst of my incessant ranting and raving, I collected some much-needed pieces to make my nest in the city.  Since I moved, I've gained a career,the dreamiest fella my heart could hold, and some much-needed perspective.  In short, my list of thankfuls has reached great heights.  I actually feel silly for only just now realizing how much so.  Sometimes,  life beats us to our own punchlines,  I think, and it takes a little while to laugh at it.  Needless to say, it's time to laugh a bit because, well...what a funny little year (or two or more) it's been.    

I s'pose that only when one ups and moves away from the comforts of hearth and home does she rely most heavily on those very same little embers of the heart...the little pebble-pieces of the soul that, come what may, must stay still.   And, so, in the in spirit of yuletide, Christmastime, and Julie Andrews, I'll list a few of my fav-or-ite things, leaving them room to grow aplenty.  May they ever-remind me that my complaints should stay tiny and my heart should stay wide...

1. kith & kin (my bouquet of people, wherever they may be)
2. forgiveness (for others & self): without which, we can only turn bitter
3. poetry:  may its voice speak what yours carries
4. slow mornings and honey
5. trees for climbing 
6. sidewalks for people-watching
7. Currie at his piano (and everywhere else)
8. little candles allover
9. bluegrass & vinyl
10. tiny creatures
11. hydrangeas & vases
12. the mountains
13. sappy French films
14. holey-soled boots:  a testament to momentum 
15. avocados & salt & wine
16. staying in touch, despite the miles
17. serendipity. or patience. or both.
18. knitting: here's resolving to graduate from just scarves
19. rosemary
20. falling & being & staying safe in love

the Self

First thing's first. Coffee makes my world go round. My red blood cell to caffeine ratio is approaching equilibrium, I'm sure. And while we're on the topic of balance, I can safely say that I'm used to juggling lots of knick knacks at one time (grad school kinda has that effect on people). Though I prefer cubbying away to read, write and people watch, I can carry my own weight in the great balancing act, too.
As an Englishy person, I have a tendency to speak in metaphors and allusions. Unlike my preferences toward coffee, however, this doesn't make me a snobby person. I'm far from snobby and find my happiness through simple measures and pleasures. I adore literature, but it's really just one more ingredient (albeit key) in the little melting pot that is my Self.
Nothing makes me feel more accomplished or passionate than my writing. Yes, I'm a writer. Yes, I'm a mediocre poet. No, I'm not some prudish belle of Amherst, nor have any intentions of Sylvia Plathing anytime soon. I enjoy a good pun and laugh at bad jokes (usually of my own design). I'm introverted but spirited, sharp-witted but well-rounded, hyper-perceptive but focused. For the most part, I'm a calm, contented quiet little soul. I think that there are very few things a hot bath or mapless drive can't cure. No worries, though. Though I'm no Debbie Downer, I'm not obnoxiously optimistic either. In dire straights, I try my hand at the realist approach. I've even been known to draw up a few "pro/con" lists from time to time.
I'm a child at heart and will always love a good story. I wrote my Master's thesis on Alice's Adventures in Wonderland if that puts anything into perspective for you.  Whether through jeopardy, eaves dropping on conversation, or the latest edition of _Mental Floss_, I like picking up random tidbits of knowledge (even if I'll never really "use" them). Give me a good crossword puzzle and I'm happy.  I teach college English (writing and literature), and adore the fact that I am, daily, blending the practicality of a career with a genuine passion.  That said, I'm finding that in order to be truly content with my work, I need to veer away from composition and rely on my tried and true method, straight-up literature.  
My indecisiveness is either incredibly charming or blatantly obnoxious. I frequently change my mind, but that's only because I believe in seeing lots of options. I don't like feeling pinned down to one route if I can imagine others.
I like antiquing and rummaging through old, abandoned houses. I'm an old soul and feel a sincere connection to the past. It helps me feel and fill my own little place in the world.
If there's something you absolutely must know about me, it's this: I need my space. Maybe I just read Virginia Woolfe too early in life, but I genuinely believe that a woman needs "a room of her own." I  respect those who acknowledge my boundaries as much as I already do theirs. I'm a self-reliant lady who wants to surround herself with equally self-reliant people. I admire those certain individuals who are, at heart, rooted and ready to branch out with me from time to time.

Segues & Such /or/ The Girl's Feeble Attempts to Find Her Voice

        Cliché-lovers would argue that our lives are books, segmented into chapters and side plots, tidy and teleological. I venture to say that, if a book at all, mine is an anthology, unified only by consistent transitions amid a collage of lessons learned, un-learned and re-learned. It is precisely these transitions, these convenient jolts from scene to scene, that dog ear the lessons learned, applied, defied, and redefined. Writing is no exception to this standard. I have been taught how to write on multiple occasions, by multiple heroes and villains, in multiple settings, concerning multiple techniques with multiple outcomes. But to say that I am a sum of these parts, that I have learned how to write… it would be blasphemous (or untrue, at least). Certainly, I have learned approvable tricks of the trade, ones that might land me some respectability among semi-intellectual circles. But to claim that I wield them appealingly would put me at great disadvantage; I am too young to be at the end of that rope.  Upon reflection, I now realize that, above all, I crave transition, that place where one can put down the proverbial book, take a break, settle for a while, and begin anew. This is learning, this is a process, and this is how I am learning to write.

            Specifically, when I say process, I refer to the accumulation of learning experience. Of course, not all of these experiences render happy thoughts. In fact, few of them do. But just as two times two equals four, I am a product of variables, the ups and downs, the positives and negatives comprising my writing background. So, amid the great procession I accrue both pros and cons until I hear a voice which is entirely my own. And when that voice crescendos, the variables fall into place.          

        Placement, however, demands a starting line. Elementary in origin, my days as a writer were colorful, quite literally. In Kindergarten, assignments were basic: the letter of the day was B, the color blue. “Color the B blue.” This was repeated and embedded and the alphabet was learned. First grade revolved around vowel hymnals and additional coloring books. The next couple of years introduced dotted-lines and to-the-point instructions: “Neatly trace the letter A, B, C. & etc.” These letters eventually took on new forms, entire words, and later entire sentences. The transitions accumulated. ABC’s shifted to c-a-t, melded into “See Sam run,” evolved into spelling bees and memoirs soon thereafter. But in the midst of the repetitive jingles, subject/verb agreements, and adverb/adjective differentiations sat a story itching to get out. Or was it me? Either way, the prompt found me.

        The prompt was such: Your mother brings home a brown paper grocery bag and sits it on the kitchen counter. It begins moving. Finish the story. I knew good and well what lay in that bag, thank you very much. It was a poison dart frog, green with black spots actually. So, I did what any respectable creative-writer would; I wrote the poor fellow out of the bag, out of the kitchen, out until he nestled into his element, lush and vibrant. In the process, I found my voice.  But paper bags tumble to the wind and, given enough time, even the surest of voices muffle.

        So in the tradition of multiples, it would take another four years for me to hear myself amid roaring deadlines, methodical citations, and meticulous proofreads.  Segueing into college, essay draft after essay draft forced me to reconsider my intended major, English (?). My grades were fine, my GPA stood sturdily, and my learning commenced. But where was I? In a classroom, yes, but not in my writing, definitely not in my element. I was, once again, a paperbag hostage, transition my ticket out.

        And then I took it, a college elective, just a trendy poetry course. I met Elizabeth Bishop and her “Fish”; I watched Mrs. Plath “eat men like air” and sat by while E.E. Cummings redefined ambiguity and made everyone an “anyone”. And I was to write like them?! I was supposed to imitate the greats? [Enter defeat]

        The process had no doubt upped its ante. But there was something magical about an assignment rendering me, the lowly student, helpless; it practically welcomed defiance. What’s more, it laid way for breakthrough. I read those poets’ greatest works, even some of their minor ones. This was a new type of learning. The anthology had progressed and the protagonist altered, but the pages continued turning. And for a brief time, B was blue again and the dotted lines were anything I wanted to make them. This poetry was boundless, at times even illogical (“Jabberwocky” anyone?). The words danced, sometimes swam and in an instant could vaporize.   Amid a backdrop of multiple transitions, this was one in which I could finally factor myself.

        I envied the fluidity with which those word wielders unified their most disjointed concepts. Rigidity was nothing in light of smooth transitions; subtlety was an ally. So, on a breezy autumn afternoon, I penned one of the aforementioned imitation poems, “Basics”: A slice is a slice of grass. It is green because jealousy cuts jade that way, blue and yellowbland. Slice they slice and cut and choke, jade blades sharpening sky.  The cat [or was it a frog?] was out of the bag again.

      I proceeded, putting the poem down, revising the hell out of it, putting it down, and eventually revising some more hell. This was the process by which I truly came to understand Walt Whitman’s notion of that “sweet hell within,” the pitfalls of creativity. I was a walking, writing transitional muck, ever-evolving. At last, the multiples diminished and I nestled into my new-found dimension. With shaky footing, I grounded myself in my own words. Veering toward my affinity for puns, word play, alliteration and stream of consciousness, I trained myself to meld the literary techniques of my poet heroes. I wrote on: Oh say can you see the fog down below is marshmallow untoasted. Campfires are singsong nightlights chopped. Cut me down to size. A dash of Frost’s nostalgia, a dollop of Ginsberg’s play-by-play and a dab of Sylvia’s acidity: such were the ingredients for my first sincere piece of writing. And although my work was un-profound and aesthetically stinted, it was unbridled and self-expressive, two necessary qualities for a much needed segue.

        Here now, a few years down the line, I am patchworked, multiple in perspective, contradictory in motto, and forked in method. But occasionally, with proper stitching, the pieces align, even overlap. Then, and only then, can I claim to be a writer. Meanwhile, I process…