Making Connections

 

Dear Reader:

Last week I was invited to be a speaker for a high school graduation. It was a request I never expected to get, at least not at this young of an age, at least not at this time in my life when I still feel young. Immediately I was humbled. I felt happy and grateful: “really? they asked for me?” were some of the questions running through my head. After I hung up the phone and soaked in the news, the weight of it hit me. What would I say? What have I accomplished in the 26 years of my life that makes me someone worth sharing life knowledge with young people about to enter their adult lives?

So I made an internal list of possibilities:

• I came from a reservation and attended an Ivy league college (Stanford) and graduated.
• I co-edited a book with one of my mentors
• I teach freshman English and Intro to Creative Writing at UNM
• I am the Assistant Director for an Upward Bound program
• I’ve published poems

Sure these are accomplishments, many of which I’ll even venture to say deserve mention or respect at some level. But they are just roles I fulfill, things I’ve done that anyone can say they’ve done at one point or another. Looking at that list it sounds like a resume, a bio someone reads before you speak. The list doesn’t seem like the “meat” of anything substantial that could feed the souls of anyone for more than 5 minutes and even then, 15 minutes or so after the speech – would any of it seem memorable?

Probably not.

In one of my creative nonfiction workshops, our professor said that people are drawn to write and read memoir because it is about hurt, traumas, things we can relate to. One often turns to memoir for healing or some sort because something in our world doesn’t sit right with us and we too want to enter the unstable situation of the “story” and come out (while not completely healed and steady) but at least a little more stable than we started off.

As a writer I think, what do I share on the page that would hopefully stay with a reader? So I apply this same type of mentality to the graduation speech. What could I possibly say, what would I want to say that could resonate and stay with these students? What do I feel is important for them to carry with them as they enter the next phase of their lives?

I’d have to say that as you get older, things change you. All throughout your life things have changed you. We all have those experiences that have split us open from the inside and shattered the very being of us…we’ve all had to put ourselves back together at one point. We’d all like to hear that these things happen for a reason, that we are being molded and scraped and smoothed and chipped into the exact shapes of what we need to be to prepare us for our destinies. And this is true.

Looking back to that phone call and the request I can’t help but think “how did I get here?” And I know. I am here in this job that allowed me to work with and reach these students in the first place because of M. And that’s not to say I didn’t have any control in my “fate.” I took initiative in applying for a fellowship that first summer I worked with this program and I got the job. But losing M… well that changed me. Losing M broke me and my core and refocused my outlook on the world. If it hadn’t been for M I wouldn’t have looked at the students the same, I wouldn’t have undertaken my job with as much passion and empathy as I did then. And all of those things are the reasons why I stuck with the job for 5 more years, why I was able to impact the students in whatever way I did to get to where they are asking me to speak at this milestone in their lives.

I do not take this lightly. I will have to share that story because it is so much a part of who I am. And it’s not some Lifetime or Disney movie where I just came out on top. Every day was a struggle for the first two years. Every significant date was a struggle for the next two years after that. And here, nearly five years later after the loss of M, I have enough of the “psychic distance” we writers need to “make sense” of some of those experiences. What I learned (at least part of it) is that the things that break you, also make you. They make you more empathetic, they make you able to relate to and help others who have experienced some of the same hardships. They make you a survivor. They make you a re-memberer who can help put other people back together when they feel as if they are falling apart and they make you remember that there are “bigger” things in the world besides the things we let get to us, the petty angers or frustrations. And we remember that we never know what people are going through beneath the surface.

Life continues to amaze me just when I least expect it. Last week as I was traveling I thought of how much I am always traveling…caught in between here and there. I felt the need to feel grounded. Later at the airport and I thought of M. And for the life of me I couldn’t remember the date M died, the date of M’s birth, and I nearly stopped breathing. 2 days that held such significance and here I could not pull those details from my memory. I Googled M’s name and FB profile. And then I found it – the connection – I would’ve never been on this path that I am on. In that moment, under my breath, I thanked M. And I finally felt grounded in the love.

M taught me that you never know just how significant your life is to someone. You never know how much of a difference you make, the difference you CAN make in your lifetime, in one year, in one month, in ONE moment if you just be a blessing to others, a family member, a stranger, or a friend. And somehow, doesn’t that make the world a little less scary? Somehow doesn’t that make you feel full that you have the power to be someone’s blessing in the world.

I bet M didn’t have any idea back then how far his grasp and influence would reach, how many people are still being affected because of him. Luckily I have time to think more about all I want to say and how I want to say it, but these are just my initial thoughts. I do know I am grateful for this opportunity.

Be a blessing to someone today Reader. And when you are a blessing to others you will receive them as well and when you least expect it, when you’re about to lose your breath, you’ll make the connections you need.

Last Blog Post of 2011

Well dear Reader, it’s the final day of 2011. We’re about to embark upon a new year and I’m not sure about you, but personally I know for many of us the end of something often makes us think of the beginning, the middle, and all that fell in between. 2011 was something wasn’t it? National disasters, nuclear plants exploding, earthquakes, deaths of political leaders – so much has happened globally and locally.

 I have fallen so many times in my life, but I get back up. And sometimes (just as I mentioned in the previous post “sometimes you need the crash”) sometimes you need to fall. Sometimes you need to feel the bottom for your feet to be able to push back up to the top. Is there a difference between crashing and falling? I think so…sometimes you can see yourself about to fall, sometimes it feels like it’s happening in slow motion, and sometimes…someone pushes you.

 Yesterday I spoke on the phone with a friend; she reminded me that when something positive happens, something negative usually coincides with it. Such happenings remind us of balance. This was something I most needed to hear especially at the end of this year as many are readying themselves with mentally preparing for what is to come.

 Reader, do you make New Year’s Resolutions? Did you make any for 2011 and how many came to pass?

 Every year I make myself lists. I make lists when I have to make decisions and try to imagine what my “best self” would do in situations. I try to not make so many decisions based on emotions, but that self-control can be difficult at times. I have to remind myself that I’ve been charged to do certain things with my life and with those endeavors come certain responsibility. I make lists for goals. In 2010 I made a list of 10 resolutions, in 2011 I made 11 and it works! Many of those things have come to pass because I willed it through hard work and dedication. Here is my list of 12 for 2012:

1. Run a half-marathon with a 10 min per mile or less or run a full marathon
2. Publish 12 poems
3. Finish my MFA in poetry
4. Publish a nonfiction essay
5. Submit my manuscript to at least 5 first book competitions
6. Travel to another country
7. Take guitar lessons
8. Reunite with old friends
9. Visit North Dakota
10. Be a better friend/sister/daughter/cousin/niece/teacher/etc.
11. Be good to others
12. Be good to myself

Now some of these are tangible, some are “reaches” and some are more abstract concepts for me to live by. How can I judge if I’m being better or good?  I’m not so sure, but I at least want the motivation. As a writer, I believe in the power of words written and spoken, which is why I think it’s important to write down resolutions and goals. Somehow, writing it makes it real – or it at least makes you accountable in a way. Once it’s there you can take pleasure in crossing it out once you achieve it. Have you tried this before? And I don’t just mean a “to-do” list I mean goals, dreams, the things you shoot for!

It’s important to have goals. It’s important to believe that your best days are still ahead of you. Some people go through life complacent, comfortable in their day-to-day existence. They get used to going through the motions and forget that each and every day you can be inspired. I, too, am guilty of this sometimes when I focus too much on the little things, the every day stresses that prevent me from seeing the bigger picture. But before we enter the new year, I want to remind myself and you that you can make a difference Reader. You have the power to achieve anything that is in your heart; those desires have all been placed within you for a reason, so never be complacent about the dreams that reside in your heart. We are all destined for our own special purposes

I’ve been told by someone, who knew me less than 30 minutes, that I was a very passionate person, someone with an “all or nothing” personality. And she’s right. This trait can be very benefitting to me at times, but it can also be hampering. In training for the half-marathons I run it’s a good thing, I give my all and with each race I improve my time per mile and overall time as well. In writing it can be good because when I’m in it I’m in it, but often when it comes to teaching, my other job, and writing… it can be difficult to find balance, and in love…well, even more complications arise. I fall fast. I fall hard. I trust too much. I don’t trust enough. But maybe what I should really do in 2012 is try not to judge myself or others too much and trust in myself. Trust in yourself dear Reader. We have all endured so much throughout our lives, made mistakes, (hopefully learned) or we keep making the same mistakes until we learn the lesson. Either way, we should trust ourselves enough to know that we’ve dived into our own individual wrecks, however big or small, and have come out ok. Sometimes I need to remind myself of that the most: I am ok.

 Maybe the ultimate resolutions should be “It’s ok to be happy.” It’s ok to let yourself be happy or as a friend told me not too long ago “It’s ok to love yourself.” So, I say this to you too Reader, Love yourself this new year and greet each and every day with an open heart and open arms to embrace whatever the universe throws your way – the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful and great… those experiences help carve and mold us in ways we can’t yet see.

 

Happy New Year!

How Did We Get Here?

For many of us, the answers to this question range from positive things like: How did I get into this awesome job position? How did I end up in this great new apartment? How did I get into the college or grad school I’ve always wanted? How did I end up finding the one person who ‘gets’ me, who completes me?

Of course, there are the negative answers to this question as well: How did I end up hurting this person? How did I end up disappointing someone? How did I find myself in this situation? How did I let it get this far?

How do I always end up at a breaking point?

You don’t always remember it really. Whenever pain or trauma is about to occur, the body self-protects, shuts down, there’s a numbing, or even blacking out. That’s what happened in what I call, the crash of 2008.

I had my car just barely over a year. I was just barely starting to feel normal after the crash of 2007 when I lost a friend to suicide. It was my first semester as a grad student. I spent each month driving to my hometown to teach a monthly writer’s workshop. I loved it. Not that I wasn’t enjoying teaching freshman composition at the university level, but teaching in the community was something different, something that fed my soul. A typical southern Colorado December meant snow, and sure enough it came down that morning in big foreboding flakes. I should have known something was going to happen.

Like most things, I should have known better. At least, that’s how it happened with “him” – and for those of you who have loved, lusted, longed, lost, or any of the above, on your journey to any of those emotions probably all have one “him” or “her” of your own. One of those people who broke your heart and even so, after you come out on the other end of the rabbit hole you’d probably do it all again.

I knew it was wrong. It didn’t feel right, especially when I was warming up my car, the windshield wiper fluid frozen, and I just knew it wasn’t a good idea. I could tell my mother didn’t want me to drive down to Albuquerque, New Mexico either, but I had to get back for classes so I went anyway. I’d made it through what I thought was going to be the rough patch, got past the state line and was just outside of Bloomfield, NM when I tried to decelerate. My vehicle began to fishtail and I tried to control it, tried to steer off to the right into a field, embankment, anything other than the left. But my car started spinning and I slid into oncoming traffic.

And that’s usually how it happens with accidents. Sometimes it’s all chance. We both didn’t plan on it. I sure as heck know he wasn’t expecting any of it to happen and me, well, I can’t say I saw it coming either.  One night he’d tell me about vibrations, how we each pick up on them. He’d hold my hand up and oscillate his fingers in towards my palm and back out. He’d said something about the body, that the skin remembers the touch. It didn’t really make any sense to me – the conversation, the entire “whatever-it-was”, none of it made sense. No matter how many times I went over it in my head, I came out more confused. But, I suppose none of that matters, I was hooked, pulled in like a lost planet looking for an orbit.

The last thing I saw approaching was a SUV. I remember thinking “please, I don’t want to die.” And then, boom. I don’t remember the impact, don’t remember getting t-boned, and didn’t feel the passenger side being dented in all the way to the center console. I just woke up with blood on my hands, a shattered windshield, and tears immediately streaming down my face.

Of course it sounds cliché.

To say you’re broken or when people tell you that you shouldn’t feel that way – it’s all been said so many times in so many different ways that saying it doesn’t mean much these days. But I know no other way to say this – so, I ask you: what are the things that break us?

1. losing a loved one before you have time to say goodbye
2. losing someone even when you have the time to say it
3. loss?
4. The list goes on….

We each have one of our own I suppose. Sometimes I wish it could be given to us, in a pretty little box labeled “The things that break us.” When you’re ‘old enough’ your parents can give it to you so when it happens…you’ll know. You’ll know what, why, and how – heartbreak happens.

It’s never supposed to happen. Sometimes you’re driving too fast and you don’t realize it. Sometimes you say things you don’t mean. And, sometimes you enter a bar so dark you forget who you are, you lean in and steal the kiss you were never meant to have from lips you were never meant to touch.

The artist in me wants to write this, to catalogue it, and somehow compartmentalize the experience, put him in a box with shiny wrapping paper and maybe even a bright red bow so that whenever I want to open up the box that contains the memory of him, I’ll just look at it and remember it was good while it lasted. But, I won’t open it, I won’t relive it – I wouldn’t want to tear the pretty paper, or risk unwrapping something I’m not so sure I’ll remember how to tie back properly, how to wrap him up neatly and put him on a shelf again.

And I’ll admit, I wish my body had self-protected. Wish I could have blacked all of him out and not remembered how we even got here, wish I could put the impact of him into a dark place deep in the corners of my unconscious, and then maybe I could fall asleep at night thinking it wasn’t real. As much as I wish it was all just a dream where “dream-me” and “dream-him” could be together, here, in one moment where nothing existed outside of us, it’s not so easy trying to navigate things.

A few weeks ago, on a trip where I was in and out of cell phone service range, I got my first flat tire. Sometimes fate has fucked up ways of telling you: Guess what, you’re out of alignment. But, that’s what I needed. I’m as stubborn as they come and don’t take advice. I always have to learn the hard way. I dive headfirst into the wreck and wake up “here” to the consequences of shattered glass, bloody hands, and feel as if pieces of myself are scattered every which way trying to find a way back together. Sometimes you need the crash, if only just to remind you to slow down, you’re going to fast or the wrong direction and it’s okay to just stop, move on, and try to learn from your mistakes.

Just Passing Through

I never want to go back to Scipio, Utah. Scipio, population 290 according to the 2000 Census, can be described (in my mind) as a town you simply pass by. Scipio used to be one of those places I passed through a lot during my lifetime.

Most of my childhood summers began with my grandparents driving  from Nevada to pick me and my sister up in Colorado and take us back to spend the summer with them. Those summers were some of the best years of my life – young – the world at my fingertips – carefree – no responsibility – no bills – no loans – no debt – and I felt loved. Spending time with my grandparents on their secluded reservation, we were in a different world. My grandpa was always preparing my sister, cousin and me for the future. He would make us practice times tables, quiz us on the morning newspaper articles, and research various topics before we were allowed to go out and play. He looked out for us, as protector and educator of what the world would present us with later in life. Most of all, I remember feeling safe. Looking back, I can only think of the good things that awaited us at the end of that 16 hour drive.

But, you have to get there first.

Scipio – we’d drive through again my senior year in high school on our way to see my grandpa in the ICU unit of Washoe Medical Center in Reno, Nevada.  My mom and I would pass through Scipio on a 16 hour drive just to get there. It was snowing and the first and only time we’d ever driven the entire way without stopping. The entire trip, a blur.

Even as a child I don’t remember the drive. I don’t remember getting carsick or throwing up on my grandma’s pillow. I only ever remember the destination. I remember how often we’d watch Grease and sing songs like “But, oh, those summer nights!” Every Sunday after church we’d go swimming in the lake, get hot dogs at the only gas station nearby, and watch the small waves come up to kiss the sand. My favorite time was watching the sun set over the lake, the hues behind the mountain and when there was no wind blowing, it was perfect, the lake so clear you could see straight to the bottom.

If only I could have seen back then, maybe somehow I could have known the bottom would fall out. As we packed for the trip to see grandpa in the hospital, I remember my mother telling me to tell my teachers in the morning that I was leaving before the end of the semester and that my grandpa probably wouldn’t make it, that I did not know when I’d be coming back. I remember then, I did not believe her, I thought she just wanted me to say that to them. Who would have thought she’d be right.

I’ve been a nerd from the beginning. I confess it. But, I blame it on those summers where I learned how to swim or ride my bike. My family in Nevada made sure to keep us cultured between watching Rodeos and musicals or plays, of course only after we’d read about it, learned the musical score, and had most of the songs memorized so we could put it on in our own backyard lawn if we’d wanted too. And later in the eulogy I’d give at my grandpa’s funeral, I’d say that he showed me the world – took us to Yellowstone, Disneyland, and the Battle of Little Bighorn monument. Each was a trip of discovery, a trip of learning not just about the world but how we fit into it. I learned how I fit into it.

After grandpa passed away, for a long time I’d forgotten how I fit into “being here.” I think a lot of us in the family had. Grandpa was comforting, he was country, and a cowboy who taught us how to be tough. “Ok babyperson, what do you do when you get lost?”, he’d ask me after forcing us all to read a newspaper article on what to do when you get lost in the wilderness. I, unlike my sister and cousin, did not read it entirely would respond, “Um, you pull over somewhere’s and ask directions!” He’d laugh and make me read it again. Like I said, he was always trying to teach us and prepare us for the future.

Even when he was on a respirator with no brain function he somehow still managed to teach me something about life. I learned the coping skills of grief I’d come back to later in life when I needed them. Like the night we came home from the hospital late and I stayed up doing my math homework. That was the first time grandma made me coffee and who would have known that was the beginning of my addiction to coffee as a source of comfort and concentration. I learned I can sleep anywhere if I have to – couches, chairs, hospital waiting rooms. Watching his chest slowly rise and fall with the timing of the machine, I learned one of life’s hardest lessons about grief, loss, regret, love, all of it, and maybe more. I didn’t cry at all until we all got our chances to say goodbye before they were going to take him off of the machines. My mother took me and my sister in with her and we spoke to him saying all we wanted to say. Then my mom told us to hug him. So I did. I bent down to rest my chest against his, felt the warmth of his body, and closed my eyes. Then, I felt his arms around me. I didn’t know my mom was going to do that, grab his arms and wrap them around me like a blanket of forgiveness, understanding, and love. It was then that I cried, an uncontrollable wave of all I’d been holding inside me at the fear of losing him.

He died four days before Christmas 2003.

The summer of 2004 after I graduated high school, my sister and I decided it’d be fun to take a roadtrip to visit our grandma and family in Nevada. We wanted to surprise them so we didn’t tell anyone we were coming. Of course our mom knew and she didn’t want us driving the entire way in one sit-in so she got us a hotel room – exactly half-way, in Scipio. Before, I’d only passed through, now it was creepy. A small town with one gas station and one hotel. When we’d gotten there it was early, but we had to stay there anyway so as not to worry our mom. There were no restaurants open so the hotel clerk suggested going across the street to the gas station to buy a burrito or something to heat up in the microwave. It was creepy. I said that already but I wanted to stay it again to emphasize its true creepiness. I felt like we were in a horror movie right before the town goes crazy at sunset and we get eaten by zombies. So we went back to the hotel decided to sleep with the TV on and leave as soon as the sun rose the next morning.

In later years, my mom and I would drive through Scipio again for the first of many times driving me to and from Stanford, always stopping in Nevada to visit our family and my grandpa (her dad’s) grave. I still miss him, some days more than others and there are times I wish I could see him or call him up on the phone and ask for advice. Just last night I dreamed he was here, that I was in his old house and when I went to open the front door – he was there. He was as young as he was when I was a child. There were no words, just an embrace. I hugged him and then said “Grandpa, they said you left us, they told me you died.”  He just smiled and I woke up, happy. Things and people come into your life when you need them, even in dreams and memories.

To this day I get the creeps from Scipio. Maybe it’s the name, maybe it’s the place, but maybe it’s the memories associated with it or even that I don’t like being half-way. Half-way there doesn’t offer me any comfort, I’d rather be at the beginning not seeing the end in sight or near the end, knowing I’m just about to make it on whatever journey I am on. But, life doesn’t always turn out the way you plan it. Some things change because they need to, some things change for no apparent reason, and some things we need to change, but may need help changing.

My grandpa was always preparing me for the future and to this day, sometimes I feel like he’s still testing me by the universe putting me into situations where it asks “Ok, what do you do when you’re lost?” Last night he reminded me that deep down, I know the answer. I don’t always need to be worried about where I’m at or how far away I am from where I want to be. If we get too caught up in the destination we miss all of the good and interesting things that come in-between. Sometimes it’s okay just to be passing through, eventually we always get to where we should be and for now, perhaps the in-between is exactly where we need to be. And if I ever feel lost, I can always pull over and ask for direction.

Yoga, Writing, and Running

Dear Reader:

You’ve heard/read me writing about….well, writing and running, love, loss, and life. I’ve written about my job over and over about how I was afraid to leave and might possibly never find another job I loved as much as the one I had. Well the truth is, I still have it – the universe works in mysterious ways and I’m able to “work-at-home” for the next few months while I finish up my MFA. Great, right? Yes, things seem to be falling into place and I should have nothing to complain about; however, finishing the MFA is a task which is not as easy as I thought it would be.

Immediately, I am thrown into a world I don’t quite know how to fit into or if I even belong here. New people who seem to already have their group of close friends, departmental drama, gossip, egos….not something I was used to dealing with in the past two years I was gone… that’s a lie – my boss would tell you I had/have the ego and there definitely was gossip but what can I say, I worked with teenagers. I don’t mean to disrespect my program or classmates in any way, I do enjoy it here, I am learning a lot, and there are great people who I am proud to have as friends and colleagues. I am inspired by other people in my program – many are talented and knowledgeable – some are genuinely kind and caring, and like most artists – they are fun and dynamic. But, in spite of that somehow being back, being “here” (wherever that is physically/spiritually/emotionally) honestly….something feels different, the world…somehow smaller when I’m just concerned with university dynamics and UNM issues.

The world used to feel bigger, traveling for work, exploring new shores as I learned to deal and communicate professionally with parents, students, site coordinators, etc. Working with students, I felt like I was making some kind of minute difference. 

Now, I’m not so sure what I am doing. I have lost all motivation to do my required coursework – and not putting in as much effort as I should in the 2 (yes count ‘em only TWO) classes I need to fulfill my required classes. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel right doing anything half-assed and feel awful giving less than my best. I feel like a zombie walking from class to class teaching – wondering how effective I am, if my students are getting what they need, if they’re engaged, etc. My boss says I worry too much, just do my best and not worry so much about how they feel about it, that I shouldn’t gauge my success as a teacher by how “interested” them seem each day. There will always be “off” days in anything we take on in life.  A friend of mine says I’m a natural teacher and shouldn’t worry. Another says do what you came here to do and put my own writing first.

And still, it feels difficult to balance. I’ve reached a stage where I feel disconnected. Whose life am I living and when did I become this person? Maybe I haven’t fully adjusted to being back in the Land of Enchantment yet but I do feel enchanted… like I’m living an illusion or I’m not really here.

Usually running helps to clear my mind and training for what will be my 4th half-marathon certainly has me running a fair amount of time. But this time, it’s not working. I cannot seem to find clarity. So, I returned to yoga, a new found interest of mine from my time in Boulder. I love it, it is grounding. Thanks to a friend of mine in Boulder who convinced me to take my first yoga class with her, I’ve been hooked. Learning about the different shockras and postures was enlightening…most of all, yoga simply reminded me to just breathe. I am neurotic, I focus on too many little details, small things beyond my control – so learning to control my breathing, to notice my breath, helps center me. On Thursday evening, despite a cold, I went to spin class and then yoga. We had a new instructor. She began the class asking us to put ourselves in mountain pose and she played “Color Blind” by Counting Crows.

I cried. Now before you think I’m completely crazy, I wasn’t sobbing or anything like that, but something about that night, the combination of the posture, the music, the lyrics, and where I was at emotionally/mentally/spiritually struck a chord and a single, solitary tear carved its way down my cheek.

“Pull me out from inside. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. I am fine. I am covered in skin. No one gets to come in. Pull me out from inside. I am folded and unfolded and unfolding. I am colorblind.”

Then, like a train – it hit me. Again. Learning and being open means being vulnerable, something I’m constantly having to remind myself of – that it is ok to let people in. And as for life, where I’m at right now – I have nothing to complain about. I am strong. I am healthy. I am talented. I am blessed. We all are all of these things, and Reader YOU are all of these things.

Reader, remember what I sometimes forget, what someone once said to me: your life is going to follow your thoughts. So believe. Believe you are blessed. Believe your best days are in front of you. When you dwell on the negative thoughts you release your faith in the wrong direction. There’s only so much space in our minds – there’s no room for self-pity, fear, or doubt. We shouldn’t dwell on who hurt us or the mistakes we have made.

And as for egos, I myself need reminding every now and again that I am nothing in myself, but I am everything with the Creator. The Creator knows about all of our weaknesses and if we let him, he will work through our weaknesses with us. If you’re not doing what the Creator has put you on this earth to do, you will be frustrated, you will be unfulfilled.

Living means learning and though I often run away, I eventually make my way back. I get centered. I remember what/who matters and I remind myself that I need to be patient. It’s ok to fall, I can always pick myself up and if I ever feel that I can’t…well that, that’s what friends and family are for. So be vulnerable. Be willing to break your own heart. So dear Reader, if and when you, too, feel lost repeat after me: I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine.

and you are, and if you’re not in that moment, believe – you will be.

It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye

 

Dear Reader:

I am horrible at goodbyes.

In fact, I’ve never been good at them. Sometimes I’d rather leave without saying anything to anyone; this of course leads to friends saying “I can’t believe you left without saying goodbye!” I do feel bad when I leave in this way or when I resort to my other ‘goodbye-tendency’ – I start fights with people I’m close with before I have to leave them. This way, I feel angry and upset instead of feeling sad. I’m not going to say this technique of mine is healthy, it probably isn’t but it’s how I cope.

I suppose it all springs out of the same place that tells me to clean whenever I get upset or something happens that is out of my control. This can range from anything like rejection from a literary magazine, experiencing heartache, or losing a friend – these are all things out of my control. And when I can’t control something, I clean because it is something I do have control over. I clean. I scrub. I start with the bathroom and work my way from bedroom to, finally, the kitchen.

You’re probably wondering why I’m bringing all of this up. The reason: this past week is my last week living and working in beautiful Boulder, Colorado – a place that has changed me physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally. I know I’ve written about that before, but I’ve literally grown up in so many ways with this job and program I’ve been a part of and have spent the past 2 years working for. There is so much I am going to miss about this place and the people I’ve met during my time here. I’m going to miss running along the creek in the mornings. I’m going to miss the beautiful view of the Flatirons I get every morning when I walk to work. I’m going to actually miss work because it is the best job ever.  Most of all, I’m going to miss the kids.

I cannot thank these students enough for all they’ve taught me. Their stories, their strength, and all they have to go through inspires me to want to be better. I don’t mind putting in 16 hour days while they’re here or only getting a few hours of sleep at night if it means spending more time with them or in my office making this program the best I can make it. I call them my CUUB babies. I’m young. I’m single and who knows when or if I’ll ever have children, but I’m thankful to know that for the past 5 summers I’ve had 87 kids who have changed me forever and if I had to pick one thing I’d miss the most – it’s them.

I have nothing but gratitude for the time I’ve spent here in Boulder. I’ve met some amazing writer friends, grew closer to other friends, got to experience working with a really great boss and mentor. I’ve trained for and ran 2 half marathons and was able to travel to Costa Rica and New Zealand. Since I’ve been living in the 303, I’ve published my first poems, won my first poetry prize and so much more. I’ve written some of my best poetry here which is to say, I think Boulder and the program I worked for – helped me find my voice. I’ve found me.

 

I know my last post was about this, but I do worry about what lies ahead of me. I know I need to have faith in whatever job I will find after this. But I worry. Does it mean anything that when I left Albuquerque nearly two years ago, I didn’t cry. I didn’t shed one tear and was nervous and excited about what was awaiting me.

Yesterday it hit me – I’m leaving Boulder, I’m leaving here, I’m leaving this special time in my life behind – and I cried. Hard. I’m not so sure I’m excited to be back in the 505 yet (I’m sure once I’m there and I’m surrounded once again by old friends and am making new ones that it’ll happen) but I’m definitely nervous, so maybe that’s a good thing. Last night a friend gave me advice stating that “being nervous is a good thing, it means you’re doing what you’re supposed to.” I hope he’s right.

There are many lessons I’ll take with me from my time here. Working with the kids has taught me to always live life to the fullest and make the most out of each situation you find yourself in because you can’t always change the circumstances, but you can change your attitude about it. As a writer I compare most things to poetry. In writing you don’t always find the poem, sometimes the poem finds you. So, dear Reader, whatever situation you find yourself in this week, remember: have faith that whatever you’re meant to do in this life will find you.

This Crazy Beautiful Life

Dear Reader:

Well, the world did not end.

We are still here. We are still. I am. Still. Today I am still, which for me means reflection. For those of you who know me you know I’m always traveling somewhere and moving around. In this aspect, I am anything, but still. But, I am a very contemplative person, some even say “Nay, you think too much.” And, maybe I do.

My default answer is I am a writer and as such I am an observer of life. And while the world didn’t end today, the end makes me think of death which leads to questions of: am I doing what I am meant to do with my life? Am I making any sort of impact?

These types of questions mostly plague me as I am about to embark on another twist, though I should call it a return, in my life’s path. This fall I’ll be returning to my MFA program. And so my time here in Boulder (though a short 17 months) is about to reach it’s end and part of me questions is this right? I must say that I have one of the best jobs a person could hope to have. I have one of the best, supportive bosses one could ask for. I get to take classes. I get to travel and work in the field of education, I get to work with college-bound youth, more specifically I get to work with Native youth from all across the country. I get to do work that matters to me. For 10 months out of the year I get to plan for 6 weeks during the summer where we bring kids to Boulder to take college prep courses. It’s my favorite time of year because for 6 amazing weeks I am surrounded by youth who are surrounded by each other and by people who support and believe that they can be anything they want to in life. It may sound sentimental but it is indeed a magical time. Suffice to say, my job leaves me fulfilled.

Having gone through this same program myself in high school for 3 summers, I know just how impacting this program, and the people in it, can be. Of course, I’m sad to be leaving it. The sadness is mixed of many different reasons – will I ever find another job I love as much as I love this, will I miss it, the kids, and Boulder? Of course. And what will I do once I finish my MFA? Will I once again find a job that leaves me full?

4 years, 1 month, and 10 days ago I lost a friend. I wasn’t the only one. People lost friends, a son, a brother, and more. While I’m only 25, I’ve lived long enough to know and see that things break you. Sometimes experiences split you open from the inside into so many pieces it can seem impossible to put yourself back together and when you do, you wonder if you put yourself together in the right way, whether or not you’ve left any gaps, small crevices waiting to split you open again later in life. You live you learn. You live some more and inevitably have to learn again and again. And maybe sometimes putting yourself back together in the “right” way at the time feels too complicated, too hard, and later those “issues” come bubbling to the surface to split you open yet again, for the Creator to teach you, Ok Now It Is Time to Actually Learn This Lesson You Thought You Learned The First Time Around, but didn’t.  My splitting was losing my friend who I shall call M.

M.

Words cannot describe how much M meant not only to me but a lot of people. As a writer, I know that sounds cliche: “words cannot describe” but it is true. I should know. I’ve tried for 4 years 1 month and 10 days to try to write it in so many ways, so many poems, so many words and images. I’ve written that. I’ve written that poem countless times. My saving grace – my job, the youth.

I was supposed to be in Oxford doing a tutorial on poetry and having my study abroad experience. I was supposed to be on the quarter system, finishing mid-June and arriving to Boulder a little later than the students and staff to embark on a poetry project similar to Robert Pinsky’s Favorite Poems Project only my project was targeted toward Native youth “Many Hearts, One People: Poetry in Native America”. I was supposed to be late. Long story short, after the news of M’s death I left Oxford, tried to return to Stanford but couldn’t. My memories of M were there tied up in the place, the people, the air. So I went home. I went home and sunk into a dark place until I got another phone call. This phone call wasn’t telling me “We’d lost M” , it was the Assistant D from the program I am now the Assistant D of asking me to come to the job early. One of the Residential Advisors had dropped out last minute and since I was coming anyway, could I fill in for the job. I did. That job, this program, the kids – saved my life.

I always knew I was “meant to do something,” felt I’d had some sort of larger purpose in my life, but I never knew what it was – until losing M. Through my grief, I could see things so much more clearly. It was as if all those tears inside me came out to wash away all the things that came to cloud my vision for life. Working with the kids, some of whom came from backgrounds similar to M, or some who had experienced the loss of siblings, parents, etc, showed me what I wanted to do with my life, who I wanted to be. I wanted to be someone who could help them, show them ways to deal with their troubles and pains. For me, this was writing.

If I couldn’t save M, maybe I could save us, we could save each other with writing the words that could heal us just by being put down on the page, being realized and actualized outside of our bodies. We could give voice to these experiences.

That was 4 years and nearly 2 months ago that I first started working here as a RA, then an Instructor’s Assistant, then an Instructor and a Resident Supervisor, 5 summers later, I am the Assistant Director. So I suppose (because I know) my experiences with this program, job, and the kids is inevitably connected with the loss of M. Whenever I even think of leaving it brings back all of those memories and sometimes, a little grief. After losing M I’d put all of my energy and heart into this program and now, maybe it is time to finally come to terms with what I’d felt with M. Maybe it is time to Actually Learn the Lesson because I needed this, I needed this ongoing 5 summers to find myself again. Working with the people I know I want my life to serve – the youth and anyone who has ever experienced loss has given me purpose. I now know part of what I want to do with my life.

Each night I pray and give thanks for this life. I pray for my family and each of my friends, for their happiness and that they, too, find their life’s path. Reader, I pray for you too, in hopes that I can write the words you need to read and that if I can’t, I pray that you find the words in your own way, in your own time. Reader, I hope you are living a life that feeds you, one that leaves you full and always remember:

The world has not abandoned you.

I know I am still young. I am naive. I try. Sometimes I make mistakes. But, I try again. So I know I cannot be afraid of the ‘not-knowing’ what comes next. I can only move on to the next step in life knowing I put my heart and soul into this and only hope that I was able to impact some lives along the way. But I carry these people, I carry M, and the ongoing lessons with me and one day, I know I’ll find it again.

On Leaving and Returning to New Mexico

Dear Reader,

If you know me at all, you know that I tend to be dissatisfied with different things in my life. First, I thought I wasn’t happy with my MFA program and that it wasn’t giving me what I needed so I left. I packed up my room in an apartment I’d lived in for barely more than a year and I moved to Boulder. And I love it.

I love it because Boulder is beautiful. It is. Every morning I wake up, get ready, eat breakfast, make coffee, and walk to work. I get to walk up a little hill and as soon as I get to the top I see the Flat Irons and it is one of the most gorgeous views. When the sun is shining or when there’s snow on the ground and the light reflects off of it, it makes me happy. It makes me feel alive.

I know a lot of my friends who have now entered the “real-world” are struggling with working the traditional 9-5 jobs. I am lucky in that I actually love my job. I’m passionate about it and I care about what I’m doing, the people my job serves – Native youth. I have an amazing boss who I look up to and respect and that makes my job even more enjoyable. University jobs have to be one of the best ones out there because most of the time the rec center is close by so you can workout during lunch and you can usually take several classes a year for free! What could be better than that?

So back to me being dissatisfied….I am now taking classes in CU’s MFA program and (surprise, surprise) there are some benefits but there are also some things I do not like about it. This feeling is exactly how I felt about UNM’s MFA program. Still, I’m learning a lot and maybe all programs have their benefits and their shortcomings.

In the nearly 11 months I have been living and working in Boulder I’ve learned a lot about myself. Perhaps dissatisfaction is all around us depending on our perspective. Perhaps the problems I found at UNM were really ripple effects of things I needed to work on within myself. Once I left UNM I began writing more than I ever had, I published several poems (which I had never done before) and I even won a $1000 prize. I ran my first half-marathon (I’m about to run my second tomorrow) and I traveled to Costa Rica. I’d say life is pretty good but all of this wouldn’t have been possible if it weren’t for my experiences at UNM, in the program, and in Albuquerque. The faculty there, my fellow students and colleagues, and even my students all provided me with the passion, skill, and experience to take on this new job and to write.

Obviously, Boulder has been good to me. I’m getting a lot done, “becoming a better person” (whatever that means) and I have two really great BoCo friends who I’m becoming close with and one good Stanford friend living in Denver.  I am so thankful for them and all of the experiences they’ve brought me as well. But while I love my time in Boulder and do not regret for one second the move I made, I still miss ABQ.

I flew to ABQ on Thursday afternoon and once I picked up my rental car and drove down the streets I once knew so well, I missed it. I miss the city, the old places I used to hang out at or my old writing spots. I miss the dear friends and connections I’ve made down here as well. Right now I’m sitting at my friend Jenn’s house with four other friends and we’re all writing. My two Boulder friends tease me for the fact that I actually think writing is “fun” and joke that I like to get together with people to write even though we don’t talk and just sit and write. It’s true. Writing is such a solitary act. Being a writer can sometimes be lonely because of this and so it is comforting for me to be able to share this act with others, even if the sharing is in silence. I miss this…I miss the community of writing. I miss this place.

To be fair, I have to say I’ve loved every place I’ve lived. My reservation (which has its problems) is still home, Stanford was great, my brief stint in DC was great, ABQ (I now realize) I loved, and I enjoy living in Boulder. Sometimes I think I’m a wanderer… I have wanderlust and I enjoy having “relationships” with the places I live. I love becoming attached and then moving and missing and returning – makes for good writing about place! Sometimes I am still dissatisfied with where I am in life. You’re probably thinking poor girl graduated from Stanford and is doing all of these things wah wah wah blah blah blah but hey, when you grow up thinking you’re going to do something “great” and impact the world in some way it makes you a harsh judge of yourself. I try to stay positive because every thing I’ve ever set my mind to I accomplished. I finished Stanford, I am a writer, and I now have one of my dream jobs. Even though I have strayed from my “path” I know I will make it back, eventually it will happen. One day (whether next fall or a couple years from now) I will return to finish my MFA.

I feel blessed and I love that I can (for now) be split between my love for ABQ and Boulder.

Nothing but a breath,

Dear Reader,

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. Oh, whom am I kidding? You know I think about death all the time; it is my writerly obsession. No, it is my life obsession; continuously wondering what kind of life am I living and will I make some sort of difference not only in this world, but even in one person’s life, before I die?

As you may or may not know, whenever I get in these type of moods (Yes, I shall call them moods) where I’m feeling particularly engrossed with death there are certain things I do.

1) I’ll listen to my “feelin’ ya” playlist with songs that remind me of certain losses I’ve experienced. Don’t ask me why but I feel most at ease listening to these songs. I can get lost in them and forget the world outside me exists. Weird, right? Who would be calmed by death in this way? Well, think about it – think about flowers or fruit that you cut and give to someone or pull off a tree and eat – those are death and sweetness wrapped into one! Who would have imagined, death could be so delicious and tender as eating an overly ripe pear or a freshly cut flower – beauty and death wrapped into one. Anyway, these songs and I are always in medias res (in the middle of a conversation) so it is never awkward – it doesn’t take me awhile to “get started” – I’m simply able to jump right back in and write.

2) I turn off my phone.

3) I’ll watch the movie Wit based off of Margaret Edson’s play W;t. There is one scene in particular that moves me that discusses John Donne’s Holy Sonnet X.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXpl_yvmKKA

I absolutely LOVE LOVE LOVE this part of the movie and play.  I can take so much from this little section and apply it to my writing.

“The effort must be total for the results to be meaningful.” (I like to think of this when I write to sit down in revision and in the act of writing with my full self “in check” physically, spiritually, mentally giving to the page.)

This section also reminds me of the importance of punctuation. As poets, sometimes we often get caught up or lost in the image, the metaphor, the words, but Donne and the clip reminds us that a comma can carry so much meaning: “Nothing but a breath—a comma—separates life from life everlasting…Life, death. Soul, God. Past, present. Not insuperable barriers, not semicolons, just a comma.”  (The song playing in the background of this clip is Arvo Part’s Spiegel Im Spiegel which is also on my playlist!)

I recently came across a TIME essay called “In Praise of the Humble Comma”

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,967673,00.html

I suggest you give it a read. I found the essay particularly helpful because I tend to think of writing (well at least when I’m writing it) as music. This could be because I’m a poet and poetry is meant to be read aloud but I like to think of it as classical music, the kind of songs that can hold a note out for what seems like an eternity, or the ones that pause between notes where the pause feels like the eternity.

Here’s an example of what I mean:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c08i_9gumJs

Anyway, back to the TIME essay “In Praise of the Humble Comma” there’s a line in the essay that reads: “Yet punctuation is something more than a culture’s birthmark; it scores the music in our minds, gets our thoughts moving to the rhythm of our hearts.” In this way, punctuation can help us breathe a little, as Wit suggests, as Donne, suggests, as the essay suggests. I believe this is something we can apply to not only poetry or writing, but to our lives.

Ask yourself lately, Dear Reader, when was the last time you took a breath and simply paused?

Sometimes it’s easy to get lost in the everyday routine or we become so goal-oriented and focused on plans, the future, that we forget to live in the present. We forget the simple things of the everyday that we should be enjoying. Sometimes we forget to just wake up in the morning and breathe, breathe in a deep breath and be thankful for this life we’ve been given, thankful for the people who are in our lives.

Lastly, several of you have asked to see some of my work. Here’s a clip from my performance at the Church of Beethoven in Albuquerque, New Mexico where I incorporate music and words.

I hope you enjoy it!

http://www.youtube.com/user/cyoung367#p/u/58/pBcyUuZyji4

Yours Truly,
Tanaya

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Dear Reader,

I’ve had enough of poetry. This thought enters my mind probably at least once a month. Poetry and I have had a troubled relationship from the get-go. I came to him (or he came to me rather) after my grandfather died unexpectedly my senior year in high school. So, I entered Stanford with his grief heavily hanging over my shoulders like a jacket 3 times to large for me to wear without struggling each step. After all, my grandfather was one of the main ones who wanted me to attend Stanford.

During that 1^st year of college, an older student suggested I take a creative writing course, “it will be fun.” I can’t remember exactly how it happened now, if I looked at the Intro to Fiction course description and compared it with the Intro to Poetry course and ended up deciding poetry would be “more fun” or better in some way. Maybe it was simply that the Intro to Poetry courses were less popular and had more open space or that it fit in with my schedule. Either way, I showed up to my Introduction to Poetry course with Stegner Fellow Gaby Calvocoressi and entered a class that (quite literally) changed my life.

Gaby opened the world and words onto me. The first time we read Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art” I thought – wow, I want to do that. Because of my high school preparation, or lack of it rather, Gaby’s class was my first time encountering such names like Bishop, Lowell, Rilke, etc., in the classroom. When she told us about Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Lady Died,” and how she finally felt the meaning of it after someone close to her died. One day while teaching that poem, reading it, and getting to the end, she cried and she finally understood “The Day Lady Died” because she experienced it on a different level. When she told us that story, I learned that words could change lives, that words could be powerful beyond measure. In Gaby’s class I fell in love – with poetry.

With Gaby’s tutelage she helped me write about, around, and through my grandfather’s death. She said we spend our entire lives writing the same thing just in different ways. I should have known then that my “writerly obsession” would be death. And we all have them, obsessions. In my MFA program I could probably assign every student a topic – sex, dead animals, pregnancy/children, marriage/dating, a grandmother, circuses, father/daughter relationships, mother/daughter relationships the list goes on and on.

Looking back at that point in my life I would have to say I needed poetry. This statement troubles me because I like to think of myself as a strong fiercely independent woman, so when it comes down to relationships – I don’t know that I want to need anyone or anything. But, since that’s the way poetry and I started off, it’s been a crazy rollercoaster ride. Since then I’ve struggled with poetry’s abstractions, “Why can’t you just say what you mean?” To which poetry responds, “What’s the fun in that? You wouldn’t have to work for anything.” So I tried to balance that out with being more narrative and saying exactly what I meant. Over time, the closer poetry and I grew, the more I began to see how little I actually even really knew about him. There were so many names I still had only heard of and never read or studied. There was still so much I needed to learn about poetry.

Times like that are when I get frustrated with poetry and want to throw the towel in. I love you. I hate you. I need you. I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m over you. I didn’t mean to leave. I’m going to find someone new (a different genre to work in), etc. etc. I suppose this type of behavior is typical in all relationships, right?

My relationship problems with poetry have gotten so bad lately that I told poetry “I think we need some time a part from each other so I can figure out who I am.” Sound familiar? So, I made the decision to take a leave of absence from my MFA program in poetry for a while to give poetry and I a much-needed break.

But the opposite happened. I interacted with poetry more and more. I wrote and wrote and submitted and submitted and then came in the rejections. So again, I took out my own hang-ups on poetry and wanted “space.” I switched to fiction and even started a short story, which I’m rather excited about. Last night I even made some major unexpected changes and felt like the story was finally figuring out what it wanted to do.

Today I came to a coffee shop (located within a book store) to continue working on my short story after I bought some new books. I wanted to buy Louise Erdrich’s The Plague of Doves since my own short story has a “working title”: The Prevalence of Crows, I figured I could learn something from her. And what ended up happening? Sure, I found Louise’s book, but I also wandered upstairs to the Poetry Section. Just when I thought I could put poetry on the backburner of my life for a while, he pulls a 180 on me and reminds me just how much I love him. Perusing through the Poetry Section I found Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Words Under The Words,” a collection I had not encountered before. The first poem I opened up the book to was “You Know Who You Are.”

Why do your poems comfort me, I ask myself.

Because they are upright, like straight-backed chairs.

I can sit in them and study the world as if it too

were simple and upright.

Because sometimes I live in a hurricane of words

and not one of them can save me.

Your poems come in like a raft, logs tied together,

they float.

I want to tell you about the afternoon

I floated on your poems

all the way from Durango Street to Broadway.

Father’s were paddling on the river with their small sons.

Three Mexican boys chased each other outside the library.

Everyone seemed to have some task, some occupation,

while I wandered uselessly in the streets I claim to love.

Suddenly I felt the precise body of your poems beneath me,

like a raft, I felt words as something portable again,

a cup, a newspaper, a pin.

Everything happening had a light around it,

not the light of Catholic miracles,

the blunt light of a Saturday afternoon.

Light in a world that rushes forward with us or without us.

I wanted to stop and gather up the blocks behind me

in this light, but it doesn’t work.

You keep walking, lifting one foot, then the other,

saying “This is what I need to remember”

and then hoping you can.

That one poem was all it took for me to fall right back into love with poetry. So, I guess I’m bipolar when it comes to poetry because I don’t want to need poetry, but I do. Like the title says, “You know who you are” and I, dear reader, am a poet!