When I try to explain to my 9-year old daughter what it means to be a poet, I stumble over my words every time. It’s hard explaining what staying open means. I spend my days mishearing phrases that other people say, watching how a particular leaf falls to the ground. I try to explain what it means to be supported by words, sometimes buoyed, sometimes enveloped. So I conjure a picture for her and my 11-year-old son that is all-encompassing and nearly impossible.
I love being a mom but sometimes I love writing more, which makes me vulnerable and self-conscious. I feel selfish. But this is my truth, and standing in it feels as if I’m standing in pure light.
How do you explain this to a 9-year-old?
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A typical day for me includes getting the kids off to school, either teaching classes or planning the next Massachusetts Poetry Festival—sometimes both, rushing back to school to get my son to band practice while and my daughter to her Tae Kwondo class, which ends at the same time as band practice. Then dinner, emails, grading, etc. It’s no wonder the writing is the first thing to go.
Then I think about Lucille Clifton, how she published her first book with six young children at home. Six!
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One of my next projects is to explore slavery in my current hometown of Beverly, Massachusetts. In 1751, the area had relatively few slaves, about 24 in a population of 1,800. But Beverly’s Historical Society houses detailed records on a few, one of whom is Juno Larcom. In 1756, the Larcom family bought Juno (Juno was given the family name). Incidentally, the Larcom's daughter, Lucy Larcom, was a poet and activist. Juno gave birth to 11 children (10 survived), eventually suing her owner for her freedom. The owner died while the court case was pending. Nevertheless the family freed her, yet she continued to work for the family until she died.
Every time I start writing, I don't know how to being. And I know I’m standing in my own way. This project is bigger than me. It is one of those risky, life affirming challenges that terrifies me. That’s a good thing.
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In an attempt to quiet my fears, I went to a local coffee shop to write. I used to call it balance I was seeking. Now I think I’m just trying to integrate the desperate parts of my life and making them play nice. I told my fears to have a seat, sit in the chair across from me and let me work. It helped a bit, and I wrote a Juno poem.
It’s really hard to explain all of this to a 9-year old.
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Listen, I tell myself, to the world that keeps me creative, nourished, and inspired. Stay open to possibility. Look for “the details in the details,” as James Dickey would say. And, most important, cut yourself some slack. The papers will get graded, the laundry will be done, the kids will eat, and you will write, as always.
Live in a space of gratitude. That’s how I’ll explain it to my daughter.
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