Here And Now

 Back in my college days, well-meaning family members liked to ask, So what are your plans for the future? My ready response was, I’m going to be a writer.  I believed it one hundred percent – as much as I believed that I would be a mother. And as far as I was concerned, the two callings went together like peanut butter and honey; all I needed was a partner. We’d marry, I’d publish some poetry, and later we’d make some babies. I’d stroll through the house in pink, silky robes, brainstorming metaphors with the little darlings on my hips. When it was time to nurse, I’d be in the rocking chair writing the poems that would come as easily as the milk that flowed to my babies. And while the tiny cherubs slept the afternoons away, I’d head out to my sun-lit writer’s cottage, feeling fresh as powdered baby buns and ready to write books.

If you are a parent (or a writer for that matter) then I don’t need to explain to you that at the foundations of my vision rested some rather solid ignorance. For starters, the magical babies of my dreams apparently changed their own diapers, burped and bathed themselves, and laundered their countless, soiled garments. They also slept like rocks and were quiet as flowers. As for me, I was the mother in a modern fairytale not yet written, striking an effortless balance between home and work.

Nothing cures ignorance like experience. No pale, silky robes here – just old concert t-shirts crusted in baby barf. And my time in the rocking chair might best be characterized by narcolepsy. At first, the reality of motherhood – a life of sleep deprivation, endless colic, and the resulting psychosis – led me to surrender. The poems could be written later, I thought…in some other life I was going to live. Besides, I did enjoy indulging my maternal instincts. I loved reading Goodnight Moon, blending up baby food recipes, and even laundering the diapers to a lovely snow-white. I relished picnics in the woods with my children, where together we studied ladybug wings. But meanwhile, lines of poetry followed me around like homeless puppies. Sometimes I’d oblige their long faces by jotting down some lines on a receipt in my purse, or typing out some verse late at night. Once I’d had my second son, I even started writing in cafés for an hour or two on Saturday mornings. Eventually, though, I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t enough to mother now and write later. The puppies needed a place to lay their heads.

Just after the birth of my third baby, a congratulatory note from my former MFA professor, Brenda, arrived in the mail. It read, Congratulations on baby number three, but keep writing those poems. First, I felt defensive. Who says, Congratulations, but…? Brenda had struck a nerve. I was grieving the absence of poetry in my life, yet I wasn’t doing anything about it. Who knew one three-letter word would finally convince me to get serious about my writing? The word but stood on the page like a little neon sign in a universe all its own. Brenda knows some things about being a mother and a writer. I assume she knows that if you don’t go into an office and punch a time card, it can feel next to impossible to devote yourself to a career when raising children. I suppose she knows that when surrounded by the moment-to-moment needs of children, it’s easier to give your self over to an existence of sacrifice – to convince yourself the needs of everyone else are more important than your own. She might also know it’s easy to feel guilty if you step away from your children to pursue your own ambitions – especially if you aren’t making any money. With seven volumes of published poetry under her belt, it’s clear Brenda found a way to mother and write. I think she was reminding me that I could, too. 

Since receiving Brenda’s note three years ago, I have resurrected my original peanut butter and honey dream of being both mother and writer, and I’ve been rising steadily to the challenge to write my poems. First, I negotiated more writing time with my supportive other half and headed out to local coffeehouses with my laptop. While I was somewhat satisfied, I still felt like an anonymous housewife sunk into a café sofa with poems for lapdogs. It was too lonely with only the poems there to lick my face. I needed my words to matter to someone besides me. So I started a blog.

A beautiful thing happened as soon as I started showing up to work on my self-scheduled days and connecting with readers through my blog – I felt ignited. I discovered the secret wise mothers already know – that when you keep the fires lit in your own soul, you end up with an abundance of fuel for your family. In her book, Gift from the sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh reflects on the monotonous work of housewives and their need for a purpose outside the home, or for purposeful giving. This kind of giving, she says, seems to renew itself even in the act of depletion. The more one gives, the more one has to give – like milk in the breast. Indeed, as I honor the whole of my purpose as a human being and devote time to poetry, I find I feel renewed, with more to give. I find I am less resentful of meaningless household tasks like laundry, dishes, cooking, and cleaning. I find I am even more in love with my family. Naturally, a taste of this splendid paradox left me wanting more.

Ignorant as I may have been about family life in my twenties, I did possess some Virginia Woolf inspired wisdom: if I was going to be a writer, I would need a room of my own. Since laying eyes on my professor’s enchanting writer’s cottage in 1998 – with it’s saffron yellow walls and Monet artwork – I knew such a cottage was somewhere in my future. It had become part of my dream. Clearly, my experience of motherhood only confirmed my need for a place where I could work undisturbed. So when we went shopping for our first house in 2010, I saw my opportunity. With each house we considered, there was the question of where a writer’s shack might be built. As it turns out, the house we purchased already had the makings of a writer’s shack. Though the 8 x 10, puke yellow shed was warped, rotting, and filled with rat droppings, I saw possibility. Like Charlie Brown with his twig of a Christmas tree, I figured it just needed some love. 

As with parenthood, I discovered my vision for having the shed remodeled into a writer’s shack was slightly out of touch with reality. I thought we’d set aside a few weekends during the summer, roll up our sleeves, and remodel the thing – sipping lemonade all the while. Instead, the process was molasses-slow and infused with profanity. It required expertise we did not have, time we did not have, and money we barely had. It required the help of willing friends and the majority of our free time (which was little to begin with). I confess there were days on which I failed to believe the writer’s shack would ever be completed.

Though it took nearly a year before the structure was ready, I write to you now from the inside of an impossibly snug writer’s shack – complete with spa green walls, a cedar planked ceiling, cherry wood floors, and a French door leading to my own private deck. Two adorable Dutch doors seal me off from the rest of my life whenever I come to write – which is just about every morning now. Found seashells, glass jars, Mary Oliver books, candles, and cards from encouraging friends surround and inspire me. While the life I had envisioned in my twenties is quite different than the one I’m living now, I am happy to report that the peanut butter and honey moments do exist; and that life, overall, is even more delicious. I have far yet to go on this writer’s journey, but I do wonder what my life would be like if I had not yet begun. After all, we have one life, and isn’t it the one we’re living right now?