To Do or Not to Do

Soon, with the help of an amazing friend, my first book of poetry will be published. My friend is excited for me. He has pushed me to do this for several years. It’s not that I have actively resisted; it’s just that I was easily distracted from writing and rewriting. He didn’t give up. For that I thank him, but I must admit that I am nervous about putting my work, my babies, out there for target practice.

In my mind, I know artists create because they are driven to translate the world onto paper, canvas, film, or whatever medium suits them. In my heart, that makes me doubt my own artist status. I don’t feel driven to write. At least not on a regular basis. If an idea slaps me in the face, and I can get to pencil and paper before I forget it, I will capture it and play with it like a cat with a mouse. I can go for days without thinking of anything worth writing down. It feels luxurious, almost decadent. I can excuse myself with “I’m retired. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”

Fortunately, there are people around me who nudge, cajole, even nag when I don’t produce enough “art.” I enjoy the process of writing poetry, but when one is attempting to produce a book of poetry, it is hard to know which generates the most fear:  failure or success. Still, in the end, what I fear most is doing nothing.

Dirt

In the heat of an Oklahoma summer, as a child, I would squat with my knees under my chin and sift the fine dirt in the ruts in front of our garage. My fingers delighted in the silky feel of the dust created by rain and sun and the tires on my mother’s green Chevy. I had seldom felt the smoothness of real satin, but I knew what it should feel like. I felt the satin of the Earth, a gift of Nature, not a store-bought version encumbered with status and ego.

This dirt marked the seasons for me. First, spring rains created puddles of soupy mud. Then, as the mud dried in the summer sun, it would turn into puzzle pieces with curled edges, each piece shrinking away from its neighbor. These pieces could be lifted and crumbled through the fingers, transforming their hard brittleness into silky dust. This process was speeded up on the rare occasions when my mother would park her car in the garage. In an instant the tires would pulverize the crusty dirt into a tiny sensuous playground for my fingers.

That memory of summer has stayed with me throughout my life, and I still love to play in the dirt.

Monikers

Daddy called me “Stinkum.” Imagine how I felt when a boy came to pick me up for a date! At sixteen, I was still a little girl to my dad, and the appellation was one of affection. On one level, I understood that. On another, I was mortified! I had spent hours preparing myself for a date with someone I found attractive – although for the life of me I can’t remember who he was. I wanted to be appealing, maybe even sexy. Hmmm . . . dear old Dad knew exactly what he was doing!

My older sister was, appropriately enough, called “Sissy.” Even to this day, some sixty plus years later, I have a hard time calling her anything else. It was a shock to me when a few years ago she said she had never liked being called “Sissy.” Ever since, I have tried to call her by her given name, but it feels really weird, like calling my teachers by their first name.

My younger sister was always referred to as “Baby Girl.” I was green with jealousy. Not only had she usurped my role as the youngest, she had been given a sweet, loving nickname. It did not matter to me that she was the baby of the family and a girl. So, I did what any vengeful sibling would do, I came up with my own nickname for her:  Dummy Jo. It was a simple modification of her given name, Dama Jo, but it pleased me to no end. How clever I was! My satisfaction, however, was short-lived. She did not react to it as I had hoped. She did not run crying to Mother or try to whack me with a shoe. It was as though she had temporarily gone deaf. My hateful words had no power over her. Soon, I reverted to calling her DJ, and her hearing miraculously returned.

I’ve given up vengefulness. It doesn’t work for me.