The alarm went off at 5:05am. I was having none of it. I slept, fitfully, for two more hours. I had wanted to get up early and read or write or both. I broke from my waffle routine – oatmeal with a little homemade granola that a friend had given to me. I read a few poems, jotted down a few notes. I felt inadequate and unable to meet the moment. This happens a lot.
I can remember a time when my ex, my daughter, and I were all eating burgers in front of the TV and my daughter got frustrated because her burger was messy. I’m pretty sure she half-slammed it down on her plate and with tears in her eyes cry-shouted, “it’s messy.” That’s the type of frustration I feel when I can’t do things that I feel I should be capable of doing (writing, painting, etc.). That’s the type of frustration I feel when I get bored with every thought or sentiment that I have. And if I do find a thought worth pursuing, I’ll often ask, how would a better writer turn it in to something interesting? This is when I feel like my grasp of metaphor is weak and my life experiences insufficient. This well isn’t terribly deep. This is also when I struggle with “truth-telling.” I have a tough time writing things that aren’t true. I recently wrote a poem titled Mendocino. It’s a slice of life poem, but the thing is, I’ve never been to Mendocino. This is when I want to talk to other writers. Those poems from Barcelona? Those poems from 1991? How real are they?
I went for a walk.
Because my walk takes me past stunning homes and mansions, I often find myself thinking about wealth and work and leisure and inequality. There was a time in my career when I was advocating for financial stability programs that would help financially insecure people acquire job skills, start a savings account, acquire assets (usually their first home), and eventually build wealth. Walking by these homes, it’s hard not to think of that work as a bunch of bullshit in a fairly rotten game. There’s wealth (a starter home and a savings account that might end the cycle of generational poverty) and there’s wealth (brokerage accounts and homes like the ones I walk by, one of which is currently listed for sale at $7.6M). I’m not convinced that one person has worked harder than the other or has overcome more, so it’s difficult to reconcile the two in this supposed meritocracy. Tangentially, I thought about philanthropy. I thought about how extreme wealth allows individuals to shape policy and society. I thought about how hospitals have wings named after their generous donors, but if we had a different tax system, we could publicly fund the things we need instead of giving that power to a select, unelected few. That is a definition of power, right? The ability to decide if a new plaza or park or cancer ward is built?
Not wanting to be consumed by these things, I try to keep the social justice thoughts at bay. I try to focus on the natural beauty of my walks: the interplay of light and clouds, the sound of the water lapping against the shore, the green spaces, the colors of the houses, the grace of pelicans gliding overhead. I noticed all of those things, but was nagged by this notion that I could have done more (could still do more) with my life. It’s such a big and diverse world and my experiences are so limited. I don’t travel much. I don’t speak any other languages. I haven’t exactly put myself on easy street. I dabble in this writing thing, but to little avail. I’m not sharing my life with anybody. I’m not learning new things. The inner Buddhist reminds me to let go of purpose, but on days when I feel less than adequate, I begin to wonder what I’m doing, how did I get here, and where am I going? The poet Mary Oliver has a famous and often quoted poem, “The Summer Day,” in which she writes about being observant and loafing in the grass (much like Whitman did). She ends that poem with:
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
The overwhelming sentiment this morning is, and has been, “I don’t know how to do any of this” or “I don’t know where to begin” or “does this stuff even matter?” I feel like every poem, every relationship, every job or job interview could (and maybe should) begin with that type of honesty. I don’t know what I’m doing here, I don’t know where this is going, I hope to experience wonder and joy along the way, I hope this doesn’t end badly. It seems simple enough, but expectations, outside pressures, and our desires, both real and imagined, somehow contort, mangle, and obfuscate the simplicities that surround us. Paying attention is easier when we’re trained to do so and also when we have the comfort and safety to do so.
I still don’t know where any of this is going, much less how to do it. The poem that might emerge might be about the messy burger and the frustrations we feel over the things that should be easier. Maybe I’ll lie a little and turn it into a sloppy joe and a fictional kid name Pete who was in my second grade class and who had a temper and touch of OCD. Maybe I’ll take another walk and forget the whole thing.