It's a Rough Life

I’ve been reading Horoscopes for the Dead by Billy Collins.  Every time I read his work, I find myself wondering how in the world I can ever write a poem again when Billy (he lets me call him that) has already covered every subject, said everything there is to be said, and captured it all so perfectly?  Each new page, I think, “Yes, that’s just how it is.  You’re right.”  Each new line feels like I thought it one half-second before he wrote it, except he got the wording right, found the adjective I’d been looking for or knew instinctively that no superfluous adjective was needed.  Just like that.  Superfluous was superfluous in that sentence.  Billy would have known that.

For instance, in “The Straightener” Billy describes his obsessive ordering of things in flawless simplicity.  Where I would have used 200 words to capture the same image, he writes:

Even as a boy I was a straightener.

On a long table near my window

I kept a lantern, a spyglass, and my tomahawk.

Never tomahawk, lantern, and spyglass.

Always lantern, spyglass, tomahawk.

You could never tell when you would need them,

but that was the order you would need them in.

I totally get that.

And I love how he can mix the serious with the joyful, how he says the things most of us are afraid to say in our poems or in our lives, and how he can make me chuckle by poking fun at his own choices as a writer.  In “Good News”, he says:

For example (and that’s the first and last time

I will ever use those words in a poem),

I decided I should grate some cheese…

So below you will find a poem inspired by Billy Collins.  And when I say “inspired by” I really mean “partially stolen from” since lines 19 and 20 are un-subtle revisions of a couple of lines from his poem “On Turning Ten”, one of my all-time favorites.

It’s a Rough Life

No one sighs like my dog.

Heavily flopping his 53 pounds on the hard tile,

thunking his head against the floor of the kitchen

where he has been banished for partaking

in the delicacies of the litterbox,

he huffs out a deliberately loud and drawn out sigh,

calling attention to my cruelty.

Prostrate on the cold stone

he lies motionless,

except for his eyes--

his ever-accusing eyes--

darting up to meet my own,

to hold my gaze for one elongated moment

condemning me for my torturous ways,

then focusing straight ahead again

still, staring, lifeless,

all his energetic puppy will

drained out of them.

If you met my dog in this moment

you would never know (how could you guess?)

that shelf space had to be made

for his abundance of toys,

his pillow cost more than my comforter,

and he has never spent one single night outdoors.

360 Degrees of Silver Lining

Today was a very frustrating day.  I knew it would be, and it did not disappoint. 

But I am not going to write about the events of my day.  Because the causes of my frustration do not deserve that attention.  Instead, I want to share my silver lining.

This evening, after margaritas and Tex-Mex food with my amazing husband—after feeling the knots in my shoulders relax with every affirmation and feeling my smile stretch with every chuckle and every shared eye roll—I stopped by HEB for some much needed chocolate before heading home. 

When I stepped out of my car, I was greeted by the most amazing sunset lighting up the sky. 

I don’t often get to enjoy the sunset anymore.  Growing up, our house faced a wide expanse of south-western sky, and except for a few power lines and telephone poles, we had an unobstructed view of many a sunset.  My dad, the family photographer, would glance out the window during dinner and say, “Would you look at that!” and then bolt out the front door, camera in hand, to capture the pinks and purples and oranges of the sun’s descent.  And then he would keep popping up for the next half hour to go charging out the front door to snap more pictures as the colors changed, progressed, evolved across the horizon.

I think I inherited my love of sunsets from him.

But now my house sits in a low point, facing north, not a good location for sunset-watching.  Often if I do get to see a brilliant display, it happens while driving home from work when I have to gaze at the sight peripherally, catching glimpses at stoplights and between buildings.  It’s not the same.

But today, while standing in the HEB parking lot, I found myself staring at a gorgeous sunset. 

What was so dazzling was that it did not just light up the western sky.  The entire horizon, all 360 degrees, was alive with color and playful cloud formations.  Everywhere I turned, I was greeted with bright reds and purples or muted oranges and pinks or faded mauves and streaks of yellow.  It was beautiful.

And it gave me the chance to acknowledge the silver linings in my day.  

Yes, on the whole, today is a day I would not care to repeat.  It was one of selfishness and waste and misspent hours.  But that part of my day ended.  And then I came home to someone I love very much.  And who loves me back.  I laughed.  I ate guacamole.  I bought enough chocolate to last me… well, the weekend at least.  And I saw a stunning 360-degree sunset that appeared in the heavens regardless of what kind of day any of us had. 

These are the things I choose to focus on this evening.  And tomorrow.  And this weekend when I am sitting next to the love of my life finishing off a dark chocolate sea salt bar and feeling wonderful and just a tad sick at the same time.  These are the things that matter.  These are my silver linings.

Tomorrow the frustrations will be back.  New ones will appear, some far greater than I can even imagine.  But I will deal with them.  And I will laugh.  And I will come home to those I love.  And I will treat myself with chocolate.  And I will not let those frustrations bring me down. 

Never. 

**Photo Locations in order of appearance:  Austin, Texas; Terlingua, Texas; Multnomah Falls, Oregon; Netarts Bay, Oregon, Marathon, Texas

Rejected on Valentine’s Day

Yesterday, I got an interesting piece of mail that made me smile.

It did not arrive in a red envelope.  It did not have any hearts or flowers on it.  And the note inside did not say anything about kisses, chocolates, or hugs. 

It wasn’t a Valentine; it was a rejection letter.

On January 1^st, I sent a story to The Sun magazine, and yesterday they politely let me know they did not want it. 

The fact that the story was rejected was not a surprise (although I was a little startled at how quickly they responded).  The fact that it was a form letter was also not a shock (although I did not expect such a friendly and personable form letter, if such a thing is possible).  What amazed me the most was how happy the letter made me feel.

I loved it.  Sincerely.

This letter was a reminder that I have submitted work out there in the world and that some of it, some day, might be published.  It was a reminder that soon I will have a lot more time on my hands to submit a lot more work out there, and I have a journal full of ideas just waiting for their chance.  But most of all, it was a reminder that someone (a real someone, a someone in the publishing industry, a someone at The Sun magazine) read my story.  Who cares if they didn’t accept it?  Who cares, really, if they didn’t even like it?  They read it!  And they never would have if I hadn’t mailed it in.  

And perhaps February the 14th was the perfect day to receive such a note.  One line actually did have a touch of romance to it.  "There's no telling what we'll fall in love with, what we'll let get away."

I love this little rejection letter.  I’m keeping it.  I’m counting it as a Valentine.