I don't think I ever stop being a poet. It's not a hat that I wear, or cloak I try on from time to time. It's a way of being in the world, a way of living in the world with full attention and a desire to set down what I notice in a lyrical form. But the worrisome thing is that I don't always find the words for the things I desire to write down. If it was a hat that I put on I'm afraid I've misplaced it lately. But the desire, the way of seeing things, noticing...that never leaves.
And that sometimes creates a sense of longing, and of discord. So instead of abandoning it all together, I read. I draw inspiration and I learn more about my craft from those who have written before me, and with me. And I walk. I paint. I knit with beautiful, earthy wools. But I still feel that longing for the poem.
Every day.
I spent some treasured time with a friend today. He had some time without "work" and so did I. We sat side by side and did another kind of work. Not the kind that brings in the weekly paycheck, but it's just as valuable. Later during our time together I talked about how I don't have enough hours at my job right now. I've been a little worried about it, about making ends meet when I'm only scheduled for 26 hours a week. I mentioned trying to find a part-time job until things pick up again and I think at some point I also said something about really liking going to work. Enjoying my job. Well, I do! But I also have noticed that I feel the need to justify my time and if I'm not working I find myself feeling a little guilty. A lot guilty. Like if I'm not earning money I'm not amounting to much, not being productive. See, I believe that work is good for you. I believe in getting up everyday and going to work.
But why do I continue to think that my creative work is any different? Because I don't earn money for it?
It's still work.
Former US Poet Laureate Donald Hall wrote an entire book about it. It's called Life Work, and when I read it for the first time it had a huge impact on me. Obviously it didn't sink in too far. Sometimes I work all day at being a poet or a writer. Maybe I'm not always sitting at my desk or typing words onto the screen, but I'm working. I might be reading a book, or taking a walk, people watching or eavesdropping on a conversation, or even staring out the window. And while I know, very well, why this is important...it's still difficult to justify it as work.
On one of my earliest report cards my teacher comment says "Kateri would do well to spend as much time on her work as she does staring out the window."
I wonder.
I'm not a lazy person. I get things done. When I am on the clock, I am on the clock. And I show up for my writing every single day. No matter how little time I have, or how busy my day has been. I find the time. Because I have to.
Because it's my most important job, even if it never earns me a dime.
There, I said it.
I was feeling really guilty today for daydreaming about having these extra hours while my "work" schedule is light to work on my poems. To take longer walks. To crawl back into my nest of a bed with a hot cup of coffee and my writing. To stare out the window a little more often. I mean, how am I supposed to survive on 26 hours of pay a week when my average hourly wage is about $9.00? You know what? I can. I know I can. And it's only for a few months anyhow. Tighten the belt and make use of what's around me. Enjoy the things that are most valuable...and free. Family, friends, books on the shelves, paints on the table and 700 acres of snow-covered beauty right out my back door. And enough awareness to realize that my 'work' might look like daydreaming and idle reverie to some, but I know different. I know its worth. And I need to stop doubting it.
I didn't have this realization until I read from a book in my bath tonight. The first poem I turned to was by Billy Collins, and it goes like this (it's long, but worth it):
Monday by BIlly Collins
The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth-
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see-
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.
Just think-
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.
Sometimes a poem tells me exactly what I needed to hear.
P.S. The photo was taken from my bed in my room at my dad's house in Northern Michigan. It is a perfect window for a poet. The water is different every single day. But in all honesty the view from my window right here at home is my very favourite in the world.
