“A pile of dead birds taller than me stands in the corner. The stench is unbearable.” These are the thoughts of a woman in the book I’m currently reading, Ava Sing Lo. The book, The Book of Dead Birds, is about this daughter who has been killing her mother’s pet birds since she was a little girl. Her mother keeps a journal with memories and keepsakes from the birds that Ava has killed.
Instead of picturing birds when I read those lines, I imagine that is a pile of my own words, unwritten poems, stories, etc. This happens every year at the beginning of the school year. Every summer I reflect over the school year I just completed and come up with new strategies to achieve better results than the year before. Also, the new year, with a new crop of students demands brand new enthusiasm, a setting in place of new procedures and expectations. It seems that from day one I’m buried under an avalanche of paperwork, lesson plans, papers that need to be graded, assignments that needed to be created and, inevitably, my writing suffers. This school year has been no different.
A friend of mine recently told me that I am trying to serve two masters. Writing, he knows, is my passion. And he suggested that I find a way to cut corners with my teaching. I had an argument for everything that he suggested. Truth be told, I get incredibly excited when I’m fully prepared to present a lesson to my students and lo and behold when I present the lesson, the students “get it.” As a teacher, it’s a feeling I live for. So, no, I won’t be cutting corners. Like every year before this one, I’ll just have to find a way to re-connect with the passion for my writing I felt all the way up until the day before school started. This summer I was writing every day, words flowed from me like water from a faucet, but now that creative energy has been diverted toward the lessons I’ve been teaching since school started. There’s a way to build a dike that will separate the flow of creative energy so that there’s some for teaching and some for my writing. I’ve done it every year.
Right now I find myself feeling like a small lost child. I’m afraid that I’ll never be re-united with my words. What if they’re gone forever? What if all I’ll ever be is a teacher? What if sales of my books never pick up? What if every agent tells me no? What if…
On that note, here’s a poem that came to me as I was driving not long ago. The image of me driving down the street, trying to look through my purse for paper still makes me smile. When the words come, they come. And I just open my mouth wide and accept them like I used to do when I’d hold my head back and let the water from the garden hose flow into my mouth.
ur name drips
from
my
lips
like sweet honeydew nectar
that falls down
below
my
lips
to my chin & I have to trace
my finger along my lips & down
my chin to get the last few drops
every time my heart beats it
sends a morse code message
2 my brain, saying I will
always seek u cuz my heart
knows what no other part of me
does that loving u is motivation
4 evry beat of my heart so if I’m ever
foolish enuff to stop loving u
I will die a little inside
until I’m no more & there’s only
the memory of me & u
when u speak I imagine
myself dipping my toe in the
clear depth of ur words
evry time u speak u give
my life new meaning
a place 2 B free, a place 2
B me cuz I know I can
swim in ur words &
not ever B in danger of
drowning
when I’m lying in ur arms
I don’t think of strength or
even security —those are given –
instead I think of the fluffiness
of the clouds & warmth of the sun
on my skin & I imagine frolicking
in the sky above surrounded by
miles & miles of fluffy clouds
cuz without a doubt I know
in ur arms is the closest thing
to Heaven right here on earth
when I’m looking in ur eyes
I wonder if ur mother & mine
were sisters or just close friends
cuz our souls connected is twins
separated at birth, this I contend,
yet our connection remains the same
see how loving u has me sounding
insane and u ask me will my love ever
change, baby I need u 2 know
this ain’t no temporary love thang
Happy writing and reading peeps!
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
A Writer's Thoughts 