Who are you?

In eight days I will graduate from WSU with my MFA in creative writing. Eight days. Just eight years ago I was on a tour of the campus, tooling around in a golf cart while a genuinely interesting honors student reminded me of just why I love this university and sealed the deal for my return. Five years following that golf cart tour, I earned my bachelor's with honors. I took the summer off and jumped into graduate school that fall.

It has not been easy. Because I didn't qualify for a lot of scholarships (it stated my spouse earned too much income. Really? I had no idea), I worked full-time while attending classes. My first year of grad school, my husband lost his job, so I gave up my graduate teaching assistantship. Then my niece died. Suddenly, a graduate degree seemed not important. Neither did writing. But, my faculty advisor encouraged me to stick with it, I had come this far and had further to go. Don't quit now. I didn't. I'm so glad I listened to him and the others who cheered me on.  

I realized the other day that I've been in school almost as long as I have been married. Brad's a little worried about what that means. I mean, we really don't know what it's like to have a normal married life, one without study days, study weekends, papers due, books to buy, events to miss. Then again, does anyone have a normal marriage?

For eight years and one semester I have been a student/working gal. That's me. I work and go to school. I miss birthday parties and other social gatherings because I have papers to write, books to read, exams to take. I know this life. I know it well.

So, on December 14, the day after graduation, who am I? It's something that has been weighing on my mind. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to lead a "normal" life, one without classes, papers, etc. But, then what? My friend Chandra is dealing with this same issue, so I feel a little better knowing I'm not alone in questioning "now what?"

I guess I'll spend some time following graduation finding out just who I am. Am I just an employee of WSU? Am I a writer? What is my purpose?

I really want to know.

There's Always Next Year

NaNoWriMo is over. I had great intentions of hitting that 50,000 word mark. I was inspired, motivated.

Obviously, I wasn't thinking clearly. The month of November was the deadline for my thesis/project, which I completed and handed over on the second Friday of November, three copies of my short story collection, Voices from the North.  My comprehensive exams were on the 21st.

Yet, I remained positive. Over Thanksgiving break I would finish my 20-page research paper and hammer away on my NaNo novel.

And then life stepped in, as it always seems to do.

2,000 words does not a novel make. But, maybe I can rewrite it into a short story, then I won't feel as if I completely failed the project. Something will have come from it. And, there's always next year.

Congrats to James and Sarah on hitting their goal for NaNoWriMo! Well done.

Giving Thanks

We just finished our first Thanksgiving dinner, just the two of us. No kids. No extended family. We tried new recipes that included a roasted red pepper paste to rub on the turkey, a spinach Alfredo casserole instead of the usual green beans, Yukon gold mashed potatoes with fresh chive, dill, and goat cheese in lieu of garlic mashed, a sweet potato casserole with cinnamon graham cracker crust, and a sage and onion stuffing. Delicious. And yet, we ate in quiet solitude, Billy Holiday barely a whisper emitting from the stereo speakers.

We received the call at 6:00 that Brad's father's breathing had become very labored. We rushed to the hospital, tossing leftovers (many many leftovers) into the fridge, grabbing jackets, keys, putting Rigby in her "safe house." I drove. We were listening to KMUW when a song came on, an old song by Charlie Poole, "Sweet Sunny South", one of Brad's favorites. It was at that moment that Todd passed away.

We didn't make it to his bedside at the time of his passing, but Todd was able to say goodbye to his eldest son through the lyrics of that song. And as Brad said his final goodbye to his father, after spending time alone with him the day before Thanksgiving to forgive the past, he thanked him. I thank him too.

Sweet Sunny South

Take me back to the place where I first saw the light
To the sweet sunny south take me home
Where the mockingbirds sing me to rest every night
Oh, why was I tempted to roam?

I think with regret of the dear home I left
Of the warm hearts that sheltered me there
Of wife and of dear ones of whom I'm bereft
For the old place again do I sigh

Take me back to the place where the orange trees grow
To my plot in the evergreen shade
Where the flowers from the river's green margins did grow
And spread their sweet scent through the glade

Oh the path to our cottage they say has grown green
And the place is quite lonely around
I know that the smiles and the forms I have seen
Now lie in the dark mossy ground

Take me back, let me see what is left that I knew
Can it be that the old house is gone?
Dear friends of my childhood indeed must be few
And I must face death all alone

But yet I'll return to the place of my birth
Where the children have played round the door
Where they gathered wild blossoms that grow round the path
They'll echo our footsteps no more

Take me back to the place where my little ones sleep
Poor Massa lies buried close by
By the graves of my loved ones, I long for to weep
And among them to rest when I die

Take me back to the place where I first saw the light
To the sweet sunny south take me home
Where the mockingbirds sing me to rest every night
Oh, why was I tempted to roam?

Always During the Holidays

I made this remark to my husband last week, something along the lines of people becoming sick or dying "always during the holidays." That a time of year I used to look forward to with such excitement, I now approach with hesitant steps.

My husband's father had a stroke over the weekend. He is now in Hospice care and the doctor has prepared the family for his final days. And it doesn't matter that he had been in failing health for a year, that we had recognized his days were short and begun to make preparations for his transfer to a nursing facility. All of that is forgotten as you stand, phone in hand, staring into space for what seems moments upon moments, trying to understand what you have just learned and what you are supposed to do.

What makes it harder is that my husband and his father have an estranged relationship at best. Theirs is a life filled with anger, resentment, guilt, and doubt. Although my husband has done his best to cross that haphazardly mended bridge his father threw together in the past fifteen years, it has been a crossing burdened with the one person's inability to seek forgiveness and the other's inability to forgive.

And all I know is the sadness of it all. I am truly unable to grasp this relationship being one who is so blessed with the unconditional friendship, respect, and love of my own father. I cannot begin to imagine the loneliness, the emptiness.

I do not want to lay blame on a father misguided by his own selfishness and vanity, a man who chose to live a life of freedom rather than be father to his sons. A man who chose the harshness of his hands and not the wisdom of his voice in teaching his little boys.

And I cannot lay blame on a man who has carried the fears and confusion of a little boy into manhood, fears and confusion that enveloped him in bitterness and resentment.

The one thing I had hoped was that before this day there would be some forgiveness, a letting go. But isn't that true of all relationships? That when we lose the ones we love we quickly remember the hurt, the pains, and wish for just one moment of repentance, one moment to forgive.

I know that there is a greater being who forgives us all, and knowing that I am at peace. I know that He will stand upon that wavering bridge between a father and son, and hold a hand out to each one.

My Father's Left Hand   

Sometimes my old man's hand flutters over his knee, flaps

in crazy circles, and falls back to his leg.

Sometimes it leans for an hour on that bony ledge.

And sometimes when my old man tries to speak, his hand waggles

in the air, chasing a word, then perches again on the bar of his walker or arm of his chair.

Sometimes when evening closes down his window and rain

blackens into ice on the sill, it trembles like a sparrow in a storm.

Then full dark falls, and it trembles less, and less, until it's still.

-David Bottoms

Prepare, prepare, prepare...

My wall of books, notebooks, and papers on the dining room table. It's comforting to be surrounded by such good friends. I've enjoyed re-introducing myself to Scout, Esperanza, Nick, Saleem, and the others, and recalling their stories, not surprisingly still vivid in my mind. Like looking through a photo album, only this one is filled with words, plots, characters, themes. I hadn't realized I'd miss them, until now.