Take it to 43

I have been out of the loop or rather too much in it to think about communicating via my lovely little letters. Here’s the thing, I’m 43 now. Usually I do birthday resolutions and I haven’t in a long while but I thought maybe today I would just word vomit some out. But then, sitting here, I came to realize that for the first time I am not really aching and not really wanting to make profound announcements of what I should do.

Yes, I should exercise more and eat better and maybe drink less (but trump, you know?) and try to be kind. But I am constantly trying to do these things. I want to travel of course and read all the books and maybe do something crazy like write non-fiction seriously. Like poetry essays. But really, writing a list of resolutions when we have 10 years to save the climate seems out of place, like some joke about fixing the toilets on the Titanic.

It’s Emily Dickinson’s birthday today. She was born 12-10-1830. 188 years ago.

I think about what we carry and I think Emily was thinking about it too. If one is not careful, and I am often not in this regard, it can build up and become toxic. And we really don’t need any more toxins.

In other poetry news, I will be having a poem forthcoming from a journal I have liked for a long time, Rogue Agent. My residency begins on January 4 and I have 50 poems to critique before then. I also need to start brainstorming what CLASS I would like to create and teach. I have all these keywords like manifestos, feminism, identity, the influence of historical context, etc. but nothing solid yet.

I am reacting against a comment that a male poet once made about Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton being “high school girl poetry.” As if they are just emo and we get over them and go on to more serious work. Their work is phenomenal and awesome. Which reminds me, new poems by Anne Sexton have been found and will be released in a journal, and I forgot the name of the journal.

I know everyone is saying that there’s only two weeks until Christmas but I am more like, holy shit the year ends in three weeks. What’s happening? In that time, I will go to DC and back again. In that time, it will get colder and darker and then the days will begin to get longer again. Minimally. In that time, who knows what will happen because nothing really matters anymore.

Being a Sagittarius, I am supposed to be all fire, but really I am light. Blazing sometimes and other times, just a quiet candle you want to sit next to while you read. I am going to try to thrive in these dark months, but it is hard. That’s why I love my partner for gifting me with a weighted blanket and heating pad and a kindle to read horribly trashy books when I need to be quiet. That’s why I love talking and drinking wine and being cozy with friends when I need connection. That’s why we all have to find ways to be kind, to love ourselves, and to be resilient.

So here’s to blanket-cocoons, flowers-to-be, renegade raccoons, and yes, boxed wine.

Much love to you and yours during this hectic, crazy, trying-to-find-the-kindness-in-the-consumerism, time of year.

xox,
Becca