Time

on ebb and flow and borrowed time

Early spring was a fallow time for me. Insular. Lots of time to read. To write. To think. To wander. To watch the trees, the snow, the rain, the birds. To listen to music. To laugh with friends. To cocoon at home with my husband, watching movies. The calm.

Then, as the forsythia began to yellow and the hosta pushed their tongues out of the soil, it seemed that my calendar also bloomed. The NOLA Poetry Festival in early April jumped off a spring packed with poetry —completing a 30/30 (and writing at least 7 poems that are worth keeping), hosting 6 readers for the poetry month edition of A Hundred Pitchers of Honey, hearing both Richie Hoffman and Hedgie Choi read for the first time at the wonderful Poetry and Biscuits Salon, teaching a workshop for Fahmidan Journal, and completing edits with Sundress for Unrivered in preparation for layout and upcoming production.

And now, it’s early May and things are getting even busier. The plants on the deck are blooming, as are the flowering trees, and time is running full speed ahead toward summer. Co-editor Rachel Bunting and I are in the beginning of a new open reading period for Asterales journal, AWP proposals are open and due in mid-June, I am prepping two new workshops for Fahmidan, am completing the necessary yard and house spring cleaning and tending, and my husband and I are preparing to travel in mid-May. For the longest time, it felt like the trip was very far away. Now it’s approaching almost too quickly—what to pack? how much? what directions to leave the neighbors about the plants, possible deliveries?—so there is an urgency to all of the things that need to happen before the trip to be able to enjoy the trip.

This seems like a storm, but not a tornado. Not hail. More like a sudden downpour, one that drenches and puddles in the streets but leaves behind a well-hydrated lawn. The kind of storm that sets the stage for the growth that will come next. After we return from the exhaustion and inspiration of traveling, the calm will return. Long walks in the morning before the weather gets too hot. Lazy afternoons on the patio with a book or a journal, the afternoon sun shaded by an umbrella. Concerts outside by the lake, dinners with friends, a visit with our son in Nashville.

And soon enough, it will be fall, and I’ll be gearing up for readings and the release of Unrivered and preparing for another long stretch of travel and small holiday gatherings with family and friends that I treasure. Calm, then storm. Then calm again.

And all of this time, although it seems sometimes to go too quickly or so slowly, is borrowed time. This hit home with the poetry community’s mourning of the loss of Martha Silano, a brilliant and accomplished poet who lost her battle with ALS this week. I can’t think of a poet who was a better observer of the world. I leave you with her poem “Once” read by strangers on the streets of Seattle and New York. A brilliant tribute and a wonderful reminder. (Listen first. Then read it here.)