Always here, however tired I am (and I am tired), I wake early, the buzz of creative excitement and inquiry a tireless alarm. Finally, I decided last night (late, of course) on which piece of my book I will read on Monday, and feel better for it. One voice: 'It's just a reading.' Another: 'This is the proof of everything you've worked on these past two years; of how far you have learned to crack open your soul to the universe; your arrival, finally, in your own skin.' In a way, though they are not here physically, I want to do a good job -- my best -- for my husband and children who have allowed me this time and journey from which, in some ways, they have been rudely excluded. I miss them so much -- need their physical presence, to ground me; their unconditional acceptance. It is them to whom I will return and in whose presence I must ultimately live, and I am sad that they can't share in this, my graduation.
Wanting to enjoy myself more: to embrace this time, but feeling oddly sad and flat. Last night, Patricia Hampl came to read, and for a moment I was lifted. I will miss those opportunities to be daily spurred on and inspired by those who have been my models. I suppose when I sit in the presence of those writers and hear them, live!, I am feeling something very like love.
My thesis advisor, Phillip Lopate can't be here and I feel a little lost. Dinah is here, but she's not 'mine' anymore. My mother has sent me a card though, and I keep that on my desk here. She has always been my champion.
May I find the grace and strength to carry on and speak the right words; to shine a light.
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