How it started

how it's going

This post has nothing to do with the cat in the art above (created with homemade stamps and ink pads), except that she was my good girl in 2000-2001, and there is of course a short verse about her in “Ours.” RIP “Kitty”

Around 2000-2001 I started writing short verses. I was around 28-29 years old. I was not quite (2000), then very newly (2001), sober during this time. The moments I captured were wrought. With angst, adrenaline, longing, desperation, boredom, purposelessness—even a fear that this was it. That the life I was having and experiencing at 28ish years old, was what it was always going to be. Angsty. Uncomfortable. Pointless.

A long poem of short verses came out of it. I titled it “Ours in a Day*.” It’s part of the manuscript that, in various iterations, I’ve been trying to publish for possibly as many years as I’ve been sober. Some older poets I admire, like Yusef Komunyakaa, Lynn Emanuel, and Galway Kinnell (Rest in Peace), all saw these “moment” poems in various states of draftedness (at Ropewalk Writers retreat and Community of Writers). And all of them, in one way or another, responded with something in the vein of “I could read a hundred of these!” And encouraged me to keep doing them. I’ll admit, they were kind of yummy and addictive to write, like a bag of Lays potato chips. But I didn’t do more. I only did 24. Because, hours in a day…

But lately I’ve been playing around with the shorties again. Capturing moments of my day. What’s interesting to me is the difference in what captivated me then, versus now: quiet, gratitude, contentment, wonder—concern for the condition of other people’s hearts. Birds.

If you asked me though, if I thought I’ve changed much since I was 29, I might say yes—like, I’m older, I have more stability, stronger friendships (that have lasted 25+ years!) But emotionally, I’d probably say no. Not much has changed. I still worry. I still feel purposeless. I’m still full of angst at the state of the world. Anxiety grips me, overwhelms me, for no reason at all. When I’m alone, and I close my eyes, and I think of myself, in my mind and heart, I’m still 23. A confused baby who knows nothing and is eternally untethered.

But the moment poems show me something different. When I look at the old moments next to the new moments—I can see the change. The stealthy and undramatic inner change. That I didn’t even know was happening, because, as we say, I was a frog in its pot.

Maybe that’s why real change is so unappealing. You put in a lot of hard work all the time—and you don’t really see the results. At least, not in the way I wish. Like splashy and instant—like winning the lottery. Like a meteor, or a miracle healing.

Even when a friend, or a bunch of old poems, points it out, I’m still like… 🤷‍♀️.

But today, I’m going to celebrate the fact that change happens regardless if I notice it, or can really see/believe it. I am going to stop being so hard on myself that I am not better better better as a human than I was. I am going to revel in the idea that the small acts I have managed, to be a better person, and to grow, have found their way in me. And I am going to have some faith that continuing to do this kind of inner work matters. And makes a difference. Even when I am tired and don’t want to.

So for fun, here are seven moments in no particular order. Can you guess which are from ago and which are more recent (verses are separated by *)?

Dear Today,

Please let me not roll
my same old rocks uphill.
I want to be Lothario
who makes no wrong moves.

*

To hear them shaking in the breeze
you can’t not know the tambourine
was fashioned after aspen leaves

*

This line I’m writing needs toner.
This line I’m writing is vibrating.
This line I’m writing is out of paper.

This line I’m writing keeps crashing.
This line I’m writing is 
jammed. The postage on this line I’m writing
just went up.


*

My song is like the whippoorwill’s 
calling out in the dark
only my world
is not quiet
like the night.
Who can hear me?
Who will even hear me.

*

It all breaks off
and falls into the sea
eventually. Moving water
is the most powerful thing—
Be like water, Lee said. Be
like water. Soon, it will all
break off and fall into you
and I promise, like water 
you will be able to take it.

*

Don’t sleep. 
That’s what makes tomorrow
come.

*

Today, I will not try to stuff
another being into the space
of my loneliness. Today,
I will do the next thing there is 
before me to do, which might not be
what I want, but might be
all I want.

—MBF

*it was Ours in a Day, then Hours in a Day, then Meditations in an Emergency, then Ours in a Day again…I mean. I don’t know.