The internet really is forever.
If forever equals 9 years.
In that time I grew a whole 'nother person. She grew into a 7 year old. She jumps and swings on ropes and reads and tells jokes. That's crazy town crazy.
I also grew 9 years older. Nearly a decade of rings around my trunk. Within the last few days I had a birthday and proclaimed that I would begin my new year of life by doing things that scare me a little bit and sometimes a lot. I'll try to stretch my arms and limits. After 9 years of neglecting this blog I figure jumping back into writing on the web can count as one of those scary things.
On my actual birthday I attended an Open Mic Night at my local bookstore (where I am practically a part owner based on the amount I spend since they opened less than a year ago.) It was literally the first time I ever stood in front of a group and shared my own poetry. I read two poems that I am proud of but likely still need work and because the appropriate response at these things is snapping, I really have no idea how any body thought about them. It's really hard to read a room full of snaps.
But I did it. My voice was clear and steady. My words came out strong and with inflection as I've been trained to show. And then I was done and I simultaneously wanted more time to read and to race from the room before anyone could make eye contact. I returned to my chair and tried to focus on the remaining poets, including an adorable high school student who was clearly there only for the extra credit rumored to be offered by the favorite English teacher.
When the event was over I spoke with a few of the other readers. A kind word of admiration, respectful "good jobs" were shared and passed around. I selected a couple of books as birthday gifts to myself, knowing full well I have dozens at home stacked up in corners and tipped dangerously on shelves. Pens were perused until two were selected for their good lucks and potential to be the ink behind my great works, obviously bound for publication in many scholarly journals. I even picked up a new tiny journal just in case I wrapped up the last pages of my current one in an outpouring of passionate writing spurred by my new age and new bravery as a master of the Open Mic Night.
After paying for my own presents I left and went to my car. Where I sat for a full 10 minutes, shaking. All the fear I had been sitting on and holding in was suddenly on the outside of my body, taking form in my raised hairs and quivering lip. How could I do it? How could I maintain this for a year? I can't trick my body into being persistently terrified for a whole 365 days? Scary things are hard. You get scared for a reason.
I drove home.
Waking up the next morning, trash day, I looked out the window to see that our upstairs neighbor had taken my kids' baby crib from our shared basement and set it on the curb for the garbage men. WTF? Who does that?
Then again, my youngest is 7 and we're not having more children. I've held on to that crib, which is now illegal to sell or donate for all these years because well, my babies took naps in it. When they were babies. Tiny little snuggle bunnies who loved their mama, me, their MAMA.
Although to be honest, they barely used it. We co-slept so they only used it for naps or when they got bigger and we pushed it against our bed. And like I said- it's useless. We literally can't even pass it on because of the dumb drop-side bars or whatever. But I have been so terrified to get rid of it because of what it means if it's gone.
No more babies.
None.
Ever.
But this is the year I do things that scare me right?
So I watched as the strong armed, fluorescent yellow vested men heaved the pieces of the cherry finish, scroll side crib, paid for by my father who wanted so badly to do this for us, heaved the crib of my first, second and last baby into the back of their truck like it was just another piece of trash. And I didn't cry even though that was so much scarier than standing in front of a crowd of strangers and reading my poems for the first time. I didn't shake even though I was terrified by the reality and finality of that conclusion to a time in my life pulling away in the back of a truck.
This year is going to be strange and amazing. I hope I am able to chronicle it accurately and consistently.
