Fall

Forgive me. I haven't blogged in over a month. Everytime I sit down at the computer, I have something else to do: answer emails, watch lectures, write papers. Every free moment I have has a task attached to it. I am happy. I am learning everything under the sun about breastfeeding help and counseling. I will probably sit for the IBCLC exam (lactation consultant) within the next few years. I will resurface again, after my class is over in December. This spring I plan to finally get a draft of my second book manuscript. A beloved teacher of mine has asked to read it, and I want to send it to her this spring. And maybe to others.

Here are some pictures of my boy this fall: pumpkin picking, apple picking, Halloween. He was Peter Pan. Danny was Captain Hook. Can you guess who I was?

Oh, September!

I was very happy to receive my contributor copies of The Bellevue Literary Review. Ben was there as I was browsing through it and he asked what it was. I told him it was a book that had a poem I wrote in it, and he asked to hear the poem. I'd read him my poems once before, and he hadn't liked them (he was very flat and matter-of-fact about his distaste for them!). But this time he liked it, and wanted more. So I read him some more poems from the issue, and some from my book. He seemed to perk up anytime there was imagery in a poem, which makes sense. At one point he asked of a poem that was addressed an abstract "you": "Who are you talking to?" I said, "Whoever wants to listen," and he was satisfied with that response. I showed him how poems look on the page, the broken, shorter lines. He liked it. I'm glad.

I'm really enjoying this course I'm taking. I decided to do it because I'd like to teach breastfeeding classes to expectant moms, but I've been getting more excited about heading in a new direction, and possibly becoming a lactation consultant (IBCLC). The coursework is one of the prerequisites to taking the IBCLC exam (as is the volunteer breastfeeding counseling I've been doing). I'd definitely need a lot more clinical work along the way, but I'd have up to five years after I take the course to take the exam, so it's definitely a possibility. I'd probably want to be a lactation consultant in private practice, in which case I could make my own hours. It sounds like the perfect career for a writer/mother. And the hourly pay is good. I'm a little intimidated by all the science involved, but I've already picked up a lot of the science along the way, and I think I could handle it.

The pictures on top are from Ben's friend Nora's birthday party. There are so few pictures of all of us, and I like these candids. It was a gorgeous and good day. September is one of my favorite months. We hope to go apple picking this weekend or next, and pumpkin picking in early October. I can't wait.

Gratitude

I have been quiet. I haven't wanted to write -- poems, prose, blogs, anything. I haven't wanted to take pictures of my life, of Ben. I haven't wanted to record. Just be.

I am feeling good. Very good. Better. I am loving fall, finding the darkness comforting.

I am reading and rereading Jane Kenyon, her poems, her interviews and essays. I started because I read Donald Hall's account of her death (and life), The Best Day The Worst Day. Oh, I do love her. She's probably among the three most dear poets to me. I'm going to reread each of her books this fall. It's going to help me revise a manuscript I'm working on. I can feel it.

I've been sending out poems from this manuscript like crazy. Two per week starting this month, which is a lot for me!

Did I tell you how much I love fall? Dark red leaves, yellow school buses, cool breezes, root vegetables.

I fell in love with Danny in the fall. Can it be sixteen years ago?

And I remember three falls ago, Ben growing like mad inside me, my pumpkin belly, lighting a candle in the dim afternoon while I lay in goddess pose on the yoga mat.

I an indebted to fall, and to my loves, and I will try my best to offer my gratitude.

Moon Week

One day when we were upstate, we were playing in the lake looking at the bright blue sky, and I asked Ben if he liked the sky. "No," he said. "Really?" I asked, "How about the clouds?" "No," he answered. "How about the sun?" "No," he said, "Just the moon. I love the moon so much."

When we came home we declared it moon week, and celebrated the moon. Circle and cresent moon bananas, several moon drawings, moon books from the library, trying to locate every book in our house that had a picture of the moon in it, evenings walks to view the moon (which became full as the days passed), learning to spell the word "moon," and lots of moon talk. It didn't last a whole week, though. I think I was the only one still into it after day 3 or so. But Ben likes the theme week thing, and this morning he told us it was bug week. Yipee!

***

On a completely unrelated note, I've been investigating the possibility of taking coursework to certify as a breastfeeding educator (i.e., teaching breastfeeding classes). I had been thinking about doing the postpartum doula thing, and I will probably do that eventually, but teaching breastfeeding classes here and there sounds much more possible in terms of committment and childcare. I'm still investigating whether there's enough of a demand for such classes in my area, and which program is best, but it's on my mind, and it feels good.

As the years go by, I definitely see myself doing work in the breastfeeding (and birth) field. It has always felt like a calling to me, and having a child has only reinforced that. But I do have one particular worry: I'm a poet, a "professional one." I want to continue publishing, doing readings, having some kind of recognition in the poetry world, and though I know that there are successful poets out there who don't teach at universities, I feel a pang of guilt and worry over the fact that I have sort of given up my academic pursuits. I'd love to continue to teach, but I want to teach POETRY (not comp or lit), and I want to teach people who are interested in writing it. And I don't want to move half-way across the country to find such a job.

My dream "job" (which probably won't happen until my kids are in school) would be to piece together a schedule where I could do some breastfeeding/birth work AND teach poetry workshops. I'd be happy to teach a workshop at a college, but I'd also love to teach children, inmates, senior citizens...whatever. I just want to share my love of poetry with others and help them find their voices.

***

Why do I like blurry photos (like the one above, taken on one of our moon walks)? Must be the dreamer in me.

At the lake . . .

loving

running into the water

playing in the sand

reading

resting

looking out the window

sinking my feet into wet sand

trying to bottle the tranquilty

as we enter the next season

Trust

I have been thinking about trust.

Trust yourself, I tell a new mom. Trust your body to birth, to make milk. Trust your instincts. Pick that baby up, hold her close to you, stay with her, stay with her all night.

I look at Ben, who has been nursed, rocked, or otherwise "parented" to sleep each night for his whole life. Last night he rolled into his crib (sidecarred to our bed) and announced that he was going to put himself to sleep. It was a joke, really, his endless chattering, kicking, laughing, standing up to jump. And patient as we were to watch it happen, we had to convince him to come closer, listen to another story. I doubted then, for a moment. I imagined some "sleep expert" looking in on the scene, criticizing us for never teaching him to put himself to sleep. And then I laughed, Danny picking him up in his arms, starting the story about the piece of corn who serves melted ice cream to the peanut. Can you think of a better way to fall asleep than that?

I have been thinking about a more existential, spiritual trust. Trust that my life will hold together, that it means something, that the suffering of the past is over. Just because there was loss then does not mean there will be loss now. Trust in the life I have built for myself now. Trust in myself to heal.

Trust in my poems. To be written. To be important. To be poems that you would like to read. And trust that it's worth it to make the time, to turn off the phone, to put away the vacuum, to skip the yoga.

And what if, I thought, lying in bed with Ben, watching Blue's Big Musical Movie, of all things -- what if this was good enough? What if it didn't matter if another poem is published, if the soft dough of my belly stayed soft forever, if I never taught again, read again, etc. What if being a mom was all I was going accomplish in life? And what if I really didn't care, and I'm just too embarrassed to say so?

Trust that I care, that I don't care, that it matters, that it doesn't matter. Trust my instincts. For life, for mothering, for writing, for love. Trust my husband, my home, my bed. Trust my desire to end each night with a dish of ice cream, then something salty, then water. Trust my son sleeping beside me, my husband clicking away on his cell phone, the hum of the air conditioner, the dark stormy night. Trust that summer will end. That I won't be afraid.

No!

OK, I'm about to brag about my boy. He wrote his first word! No, he can't hand write yet, and it wasn't a very long or complicated word. It's very age-appropriate, actually. Yes, that's his handiwork up there! As Danny and he were leaving to pick me up from the train station (I was out. Can you believe it!), he arranged his little word up there on the door, and told Danny that they wouldn't leave the house yet because of it! What a silly boy. Danny convinced him to move the "n" to a different spot and then they both agreed it was time to go. Oh boy! Melt my heart.

I'm off to write. My mind is spinning off in all different directions. A to-do list that's multiplying as we speak, chores to be done, plans to be made (we MUST get to a beach before summer is over), phone calls to make. It's one of those days. And it's my writing day. So I will take Ben's lead and say NO to everything else, put my pen to the page, and write.