I don’t mind a list. I kind of like them— these end-of-year accountings from publications and individuals. “Best books!” “Movies I saw!” “Highlights of the last 12 months!” End-of-year lists are about putting a narrative to our time here. I’m the person who read this, saw this, achieved this, holds out hope for this …
But when I sat down recently to do my own “accounting,” I had a hard time gathering the threads. I was sitting in a free year-end “Bridge” gathering on Zoom hosted by illustrator Deborah Stein. The event was lovely and thoughtful, restful and centering. We reflected on challenges and what got us through. Then we were given a few minutes to write down our accomplishments, and my mind went blank. I scoured the available records— my physical planner, my Instagram account, my CV even!— and I was left thinking, “What did I do? What do I have to show for it?”
Of course, I did things. I taught several writing classes. I began hosting other former Creative Nonfiction instructors’ classes through my business. I cared for myself and my kid, shuttling us to yoga (me) and swimming (my son). But much of what I did— my other “accomplishments”— have to do with inner work; projects in progress; continuing to follow a thread that’s meaningful to me.
The book of prose poems I’ve been sending out for a few years (When We Were Fearsome) was a finalist at a small press (again). I wrote a strong essay about a difficult life event, but it isn’t yet published. I need to send the essay out to more places. My other book manuscript, a book of essays and vignettes tentatively titled A Wilderness of Her Own received positive feedback from an agent at a well-known literary agency. In process, all of it.
There’s an often-quoted line from Zora Neale Hurston’s novel Their Eyes Were Watching God: “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” It came to mind when I was thinking about my list or lack of list. (And apparently Maggie Smith also quotes it in her memoir.) It’s a year of questions, perhaps? Or a year of inner shifting. Less a year of outward “results” and more— especially these last few months— a time of allowing myself to rest and regroup.
The quote above from Hurston’s novel occurs as young Janie is about to be married off to the much-older Logan Killicks. “Janie had no chance to know things,” the narrator continues, “so she had to ask. Did marriage end the cosmic loneliness of the unmated? Did marriage compel love like the sun the day?” Janie will find out. But there’s another statement from the book’s narrator that speaks to me now, too. It occurs in the frame of the novel, as an older and wiser Janie gathers her thoughts to tell her story to her friend Pheoby: “Janie saw her life like a great tree in leaf with the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone. Dawn and doom was in the branches.”
I’ve been thinking about the narratives we tell ourselves and the ones we let go of as we move into new phases of our lives. How do we let go of outdated stories and create new ones? I’ve written a few different poems and flash memoir pieces that deal with the appeal of the “orphan” archetype for me. Bruno Bettelheim discusses the orphan’s appeal for all children in The Uses of Enchantment, his book about fairy tales. The thought of losing one’s parents early and being thrust out into the world on one’s own is a child’s worst fear, but it’s also the fantasy narrative that helps a child imagine that it is possible to individuate, to go forth into the world and have adventures, to find new tools and new companions.
It appeals to me, this narrative of the scrappy, solitary child. I returned to it again in my recently published piece, “Birthday Poem.” (It’s recently published, but I wrote it a few years ago.) But, then, what happens as one moves deeper into adulthood and must be the parent, the safe container the child ventures away from to develop independence? It’s harder to hold onto the orphan narrative then. Here’s a piece from my prose manuscript that deals with that idea:
Not Orphans
Before my son was born, when he was still a fetus named Eva or Ella or Charlotte, I found out he was a boy. When the ultrasound tech told me, I said, Are you sure? There was a period of adjustment, but I decided that I would name him Charles and walk him around by the hand, both of us scowling at people and being precocious, like Esmé holding her brother's hand in the Salinger story. Come along, Charles. I came to realize, that while precocious, his name is not Charles, we are not orphans in wartime England, he is not my brother, and he will only intermittently hold my hand.
When he’s four, we go to Barnes and Noble to pass the time, where he zips back and forth in front of the Legos, his voice rising as he demanded larger and larger sets. I redirect him to the small cars, help him choose one, we read a book about high maintenance ponies, and then I usher him to the cafe to get my coffee. He zips ahead of me to come to a halt inches from a young man waiting for his drink, and then he points his finger at the man vigorously, saying, YOU! The man does not look charmed, nor do we talk about military wristwatches and dead soldiers. Come along, Charles.
So, what narratives are you letting go of as you enter this new year? An interesting writing prompt could be to write about who you are not. What narratives or identities do you feel yourself shedding, if any?
Finally, I’ll leave you with a card I picked for us (for myself and whoever reads this) from Kim Krans’s deck The Wild Unknown Archetypes: The Thread.
In the red text on the right of the page above, Krans writes, “Recall a moment in your life when you felt fully alive. The thread is waiting for you amid the details of that memory.”
The poet William Stafford has written of this, as well:
“Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding./ You don’t ever let go of the thread.”
Appreciate you leaving us with Thread, and Stafford's poem.
Looking forward to your writing retreat on Saturday.
As a big fan of prose poems, just wanted to say I really, really liked your prose poems published at Green Linden Press, and I hope I get to buy and read your collection of prose poems someday!