🎧 Now Playing: “Work Bitch” by Britney Spears

Since mid-April, I’ve written over 200 poems. I know, right? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?

I’m not saying they’re all A+. Some are skeletal. Some are decent. A few make Word Raccoon buzz so much she can’t sleep. Which is to say, she slides them under her pillow. I had no idea what would happen when I tried this scary thing: writing poems fast, in public, with the door open and the light on. First to encourage others, then myself.

I never knew how much it would mean to me.

I mean sure, I know writing. But writing poetry vs. prose, for me, feels like going from short-order cook to master chef. Same kitchen. Whole different dance.

Poetry has allowed me to grieve. Tell the truth. Be my true self (mostly) unapologetically. It allows me to try to put words to those gorgeous tiny moments that are too easy to miss and those huge feelings you think might drown you but if you can tame them with a pen, maybe not.

It’s allowing yourself to be really seen.  

Even the raccoon doesn’t always like being seen, but she will allow it, for the art. For the heart.

BTW, she has me dressed like I’m fully on vacation today. The shirts are cruise wear bright and flowery, though you will never catch me on a cruise. (Too boring, too restrictive. If I wanna leave I’m gonna leave but if you’re on a cruise?? They’re fine for others.) I have in her blessed earrings, denim shorts, sandals…

This color combo is definitely treading into “Can I convince them?” territory that I always say of dubious combinations. If my eye doesn’t flinch too much, we’re good. (Color is super important to me. Obviously.)

Anyway…

Yesterday afternoon, before the gym, Word Raccoon began her protest:

“We don’t even know the gym’s summer hours.”
“What if there’s a conference?”
“It’s too hot.”
“I might melt.”

“The parking is so far away.”
“Also, we could… write about going to the gym instead of going.”

I looked up the hours.
I bribed her with the promise of a Coke Zero after.

I plugged my ears when she kept whining.

“Just do this one thing,” I told myself while she had me by the ankle, begging me not to put on my Sketchers, to not put my AirPods in my pocket. To please, god, look at the temperature out before I went.

“I’ll work out at home,” she promised.

“We get distracted, and you know it.”

“You did some yoga this morning.”

That was not enough. Besides, a part of me wanted, needed, that movement. I was feeling restless after writing.

She’s supposed to be weaning off Coke Zero, as you know. She doesn’t know that. But I think she might be on to me because she demanded a Dirty Diet Coke for breakfast this morning. Like, that’s so much worse, WR, and she said she’d just refuse to write until she had it. And I’m not complaining at her ambition.

She has two poems she’s ready to drop kick into the world and ask, “Is this anything?” because she thinks maybe yes.

One of them was that hot potato poem from the other day, the one I wouldn’t let her touch. I’m not even going to re-read it before I send it out. It probably needs work, but I just need to give it away, fast. (I actually submitted it somewhere day of, but you know it sometimes takes months to hear back. Which is fine as long as I’m no longer responsible for that spell.)

WR says to tell you about the poem Upon Re-Reading Crush, which is probably way too stodgy a title for a poem that uses a Crush-like word in it. (Please remove glasses before reading.) She says it’s time, get it out, get it out, see where it lands.

I picture journals and mags as being like people’s homes and sometimes you’re more comfortable in one and sometimes another. Not every place is the right home for your work.

But that’s okay because it’s not about publication per se, it’s about sharing pieces of yourself. It’s a conversation, it’s saying, “You, too?”

It’s telling a stranger in another country what you can’t tell your best friend.

It’s letting yourself be seen and known in all your strangeness, all your glory. The things that obsess you. The things that thrill you. The things that gut you. Not for pity, not for sympathy, but just to hear, “Yes.”

I feel like everything that needs to be heard will find a home.

(Feel free to skip this part if church stuff isn’t your jam. For me, it’s part of the origin story, all messy and meaningful, like most things are.)

I don’t know how many churches still do this, but when I was a kid, after the sermon the preacher would give an “altar call.”

He’d tell everyone to close their eyes and, “With every eye closed and every head bowed,” he’d say, “Now slip up your hand if you want to say yes to Jesus.”

On the one hand, what a generous offer. But to my little anxious heart, my chest thumped wildly when he said it, and I always asked myself if I’d done anything that week to need to raise my hand. Had I disqualified myself without knowing it?

The anxiety was real.

The song the choir sang was inevitably Do Not Pass Me By, as the preacher opened the altar for people to come pray.

I never took him up on the invitation. I’d settled that in Sunday school, and that was that.
Except for my fears.

Still, I loved the phrase “I see that hand,” and sometimes I was tempted to raise mine just to hear him say that about me.

(Actually, I’m pretty sure he had seen me because I was the one dragging my bible up front after church asking questions. I hope I imagined that eye roll on occasion, but I wouldn’t really blame him. I was asking both existential questions and biblical history not realizing that maybe he just wanted to go home and eat his dinner.)

That seems like an aside and maybe it’s just the Dirty Diet Coke talking, but here we are.

Back to yesterday afternoon, WR!

We got to the gym. We sat in the car.
And then she whispered something:

“I’m embarrassed.”

She didn’t mean just today.

Because here’s the reality: we’ve had physical limitations. We’ve had to stop running, sometimes not able to walk long distances even. We’ve done physical therapy for months and been told to go slow.

We’ve dealt with flare-ups, bad days, and a body that doesn’t always cooperate. There are only so many cardio machines we can use right now. One helps one area but aggravates another. And all of it depends on the day.

Fun.

Yesterday, Word Raccoon was so overwhelmed she wanted to go for a run, just to sweat out the icks. But she couldn’t and she was so frustrated.

No one knows yet how much we can come back from this, but at least it’s not life threatening. But here’s what I do know:
You have to try.
You have to tell people who criticize you to go pound sand—especially the part of your own brain that says you shouldn’t be seen trying.

You can’t win that logic circuit: you shouldn’t be at the gym because you’re not in shape but if you’re not in shape you should be at the gym.

Am I right?

And don’t get me started on how many well-meaning men have come over in the past and told me what I need to do, that I “try so hard,” and I do and if only I would do this and eat that.

Don’t they realize that what they’re saying is, “You’re trying so hard, but I don’t see a difference.” And “You’re not okay how you are.”

Excuse me?

NO ONE ASKED YOU TO TRACK THE SIZE OF MY ASS, HERBERT!

Sigh.

Up until now, I have been polite, kind, thanked them even. Even to the guy in China who told me I was doing triceps kickbacks wrong. In China! They follow me everywhere.

I have a feeling Word Raccoon will tell them to mind their business.

Instead, you have to remember how much you like the sounds of the gym, the whir of machines, the clink of weights. You like saying hello to people who are there for the same reason you are: to see what they can still do. To carry their art with strength. To be as healthy as they can—so they can keep creating. That’s what’s important. This is the container for everything else, everything important to you.

Trying to care for it means being vulnerable.
It means admitting when you can’t.
And, harder sometimes, admitting when you don’t want to. When you’re just being lazy.

Then there’s this: I’m not a cute gym rat. My face looks like I’ve been sleeping on the Sun when I work out no matter what shape I’m in. I’ve had comments.

But yesterday, I showed up. We got on the recumbent bike. We moved our body.
And we didn’t die.

And yes, I gave her a Coke Zero after; it was earned. If she’s brave enough to repeat herself today, I’ll give her one then, too.

Do Not Pass Me By.