Each ending carries with it a beginning. This is the cycle lived every day of our lives; the slowing to rest, to sleep, at the end of day. That pause is the moment just before possibility presents itself as new. Tonight, we turn from the past to step into a new year, a new decade. Hope rises in me. Hope that we will realize our greatest potential and embrace each other as one family, moving forward into the arms of the sisters and brothers with whom we will embrace all living things as part of the larger whole. With this I open my arms to welcome the new year.
Traveling is always magical for me, because I’m not seeing anything familiar so I’m free to be completely present in the new environment where I find myself. (And I do think travel helps me find myself – my humanity, my connection to the larger world and its inhabitants.) I turn my head and am captured by a vision that transports me into a kind of dance with what I see and experience. When I come home, I’m still seeing with the pointed observation that so much unfamiliarity allows me. What happens when I arrive home is also a kind of magic. I find myself newly present in the familiar space that is my home.
I enrolled in Goddard College’s low residency program for an MFA in Creative Writing that began in July 2017. At my fourth and final residency in February 2018, I celebrated my seventieth birthday. On July 15, 2018 I graduated with a Masters in Creative Writing. The past two years have been challenging and joyful as I worked my way through a creative thesis of over two hundred pages while also reading published authors and writing critical papers about devices and techniques they use to create narrative. I got everything I expected out of this program – an understanding of literary devices such as plot and character development, theme and subtheme, scene and narrative arc. I also got something I didn’t expect. As family, friends and acquaintances began congratulating me, I was told over and over again that I was an inspiration. At first I was flattered that I could be seen as inspirational in any way at all – me – an all-around average, everyday kind of woman.
After a long series of self-directed questions, it slowly dawned on me that compared to my cohorts in the graduate program I was quite elderly. It was a revelation to realize that I was a case-in-point poster child for mentally functional elderly adults. Once I figured this out, I was delighted. I’ve spent a lifetime pursuing dreams like writing and publishing poetry, running marathons, or learning to use a torch so I can create metal sculpture. Clearly, this most recent pursuit – figuring out how to write a good novel – is just one more thing tacked onto a long list. But, still… Me? As inspiration?
I see myself as a dogged overachiever and lifelong student. In fact, I’m rather proud of this internal component, which is so thoroughly built into my personality. Over the years, as I pursued my passions, I often doubted myself. But I had one thing going for me. I believed in my ability to learn and was always ready to take a course that would help me succeed in doing whatever it was I wanted to do. My mother often referred to me as the perennial student, a label I was happy to wear. And this attitude may be what keeps my brain functional, though I believe most of the seventy year olds I know demonstrate very healthy, imaginative minds. There are a few, of course, whose cognitive processes have slowed or stumbled – but not very many of my friends seem to have faded noticeably. Most of us have lived healthy, active lives. We’ve stayed involved in the world at large. We look at our foibles with a sense of humor and often get each other laughing over our missteps. I rather think that a sense of humor is an indicator that there’s a good mind behind all the laughter.
So if I am an inspiration, let it be about believing in discovery. Let it be about trusting that I am capable of learning what is needed. Let it be about my willingness to do the work that will gain a necessary understanding. It’s all about keeping the brain growing, raising your awareness. It’s also about reaching out to people who know the things you don’t. I love a good challenge and I plan to go on running whatever gauntlet catches my fancy for however many days I have left on the planet. Maybe I’ll go for a PhD at age eighty.
Choose your leaders with wisdom and forethought.
To be led by a coward is to be led by all that the coward fears.
To be led by a fool is to be led by the opportunists who control the fool.
To be led by a thief is to offer up your most precious treasures to be stolen.
To be led by a liar is to ask to be told lies.
To be led by a tyrant is to sell yourself and those you love into slavery.
Octavia E. Butler (1947-2006)
May the New Year begin positive change for us all.
Dear readers, I’ve decided to go back to college and get my MFA in creative writing. For some time I’ve been unhappy with the editing process on Blue Truth. I feel there are gaps in my knowledge that are causing me to take missteps I no longer want to take. Because of the demands of returning for a graduate degree, I’m putting Blue Truth on a back burner for now. I will keep you posted with updates on my studies as I work toward a clearer understanding of how to write the best book I’m capable of writing. Thanks for all your support – in the past and in the future.
Here are a couple photos of the plotting wall in progress. All the visuals for composites of each major character are up where I can stare at them for inspiration. They’ll help keep my descriptions consistent, too. In addition, I’ve got a 7-foot strip of butcher paper tacked to the wall with a line that shows the way the plot climbs along its trajectory to the denouement then down into crisis in the last third of the book and finally up again into a peak moment before things settle down at the end. What I’ll do with the evolving outline is print it out, scene-by-scene, on small pieces of colored paper. I’ll stick these up along the plot line visual where each event occurs within the novel. Then I can move the bits of paper around as I fiddle with the plot until it’s working the way I want it to.
Percussive wing song.
Throb of muscle and sinew.
Sweet tooth en plein air.
A cinnabar dash rises like fury,
strokes the weathered
verdigris of lamb’s ear
to paint cayenne and emerald
across a simple sage-blue sky.
Dragon’s blood shimmers
and morphs along prism cells
catching light. Hue and shade
as changeable as flight.
Tiny tyranny. Feeder in The Garden
whose tongue is a black snake
urging Eve with sugared words
to taste the apple’s blossom,
the pomegranate’s seed,
to open the world
with the nectar of knowing
all that the gods have hidden.