When Love is Life
A poem about the wisdom of autocorrect. And, some news and notes.
Dear readers,
Thank you for joining me today! I hope you’re all holding on as hard as you can to what is good. This week, we’ve had rolling power and internet outages due to winds up to 70 mph. I think crops could grow in my lungs right now. But a flock of twenty or thirty robins has been spending time in my yard lately, the wild onions are coming up, and we’ve got hyacinths appearing in the flower bed. These are the little handholds I am using to cling to the side of the mountain that is this year.
It’s been a busy month so far. We’ve been working on publicity plans for Birds of America (available for preorder here!), and I’ve started some new prescriptions to help with my chronic health issues. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, leaving CVS with an entire shopping bag full of drugs! I was only able to tolerate two of the six, but those have been game-changers.
As far as publicity goes, let me tell you how strange it is to write a book that is the product of being alone in a room with my memories, and then trying to “sell” that book to people who don’t know me. Believe me, I’m not complaining, but it takes a very different energy than writing does, and I’m much more comfortable as an invisible homebody. It’s like opening the door of a private sanctuary to invite in other people, some friends, but many others strangers. I go through this feeling to some degree every time I publish a book, but it’s more extreme this time because so many people have invested in it and are depending on its success. It’s both exciting and terrifying. I keep thinking, Is there a way to have a (metaphorical) open bar at this particular party? Or what if we could all do a few ice breakers, like “two truths and a lie.” I’ll start. 1. I thought I saw a ghost one night in the hedge maze at grad school and never went there alone at night again. 2. A mounted police officer in NYC once asked me how to teach his horse to stop biting people. 3. In high school, I was voted “most likely to become a spy.”
Last week, I attended two exceptional events. The first was a talk by fellow Amarilloan Amy Griffin, the author of The Tell, which was published by the same publisher that Birds of America will be. Amy’s story is tough to hear, but it’s also a vital one. And it was gratifying to hear Amy talk about her experience writing and promoting her own book, which is also very personal. I had a front row seat as she was interviewed by her good friend Barbara Bush. They were both absolutely wonderful. In fact, my table was full of incredible people doing hard, brave, amazing work to make the state of Texas a better, safer place, especially for women and survivors, and I was in total awe of them.
The second event was a reading by Terrance Hayes, whose American Sonnets for my Past and Future Assassin had expanded the way I thought of poetry, inspiring me to be freer, more energetic, and less self-conscious in my own work (at least, in my own mind, and I sure hope that really does translate to the page). He was delightful to hear, so down-to-earth, and he was so gracious when I met him afterwards. It was another place I was very privileged to be.
February is also a month with a focus on love for many people, and it’s no different for me. Daniel and I celebrate our wedding anniversary at the end of the month, which was the closest date to spring we could get at the time. We originally met as freshmen in high school marching band. He played the sax and I played the clarinet. We used to wait after school together for our moms to pick us up. He never asked me out in high school (he has since confessed he assumed I was out of his league. Reader, we were in fact in the same league). We lost touch for around ten years after graduation, then reconnected on Facebook, and the rest is history.
I thought it would be nice this month to include a sort of love poem. I’ve always been fascinated by the coincidences that can bring about relationships. You happen to go to a certain place, and happen to meet someone there, and because of that, your lives will always be tied together. So strange. There’s such an incredible element of chance to it. How do any of us ever manage it?
Autocorrect*
Every time my phone changes "love" to "live,"
I wonder if it happens because my habits
have taught it what it should expect.
No one else I talk to seems to have the same problem.
Their personal devices change "talent" to "torture"
or "kiss" to "kill" or "divorce" to "Disney"
in ways that can't be predicted.
Mine must have learned that life is more likely than love.
Having gone everywhere with me, it sees
that I have spent most of my time getting by,
buying groceries, paying bills, working
under the cold flicker of fluorescent lights
where my computer screen shows the small world
bending toward it, me in the middle,
and how I linger over any email, no matter how brief,
that doesn't try to sell me something.
In the meantime, I accidentally tell people
that I would live to meet for lunch
some other time, that I lived some new movie,
that I used to live the sound of instruments tuning,
and how I live the smell of pine trees.
It never works the other way;
I never lament the high cost of loving lately,
ask what someone does for a loving,
or say I'm going to go see some musician play love.
I think of what I don't say that it might change:
how I try to love as well as I can,
how so often I have loved in fear.
Maybe it just knows more about it than I do,
that all those times we talked and laughed
together, what I really meant to say was
that I lived you, I lived you, I lived you.
In other news, one of my favorite poets, Allison Adelle Hedge Coke, recently featured my poem “Outage” on the Poets on the Plains series at HPPR, which you can listen to here. I love what she says about the poem! Thank you, Allison.
Finally, here’s some recent news from the natural world:
Imperial eagles in Serbia are making a comeback: The Guardian
Did you know horses stole a genetic trick from viruses? Check out these many amazing equine discoveries: Smithsonian Magazine
Magpies build nests through persistence and confusion: The Guardian
Me, too, magpies. Me, too.
That’s all I’ve got for you today. I appreciate the time you’ve spent here with me. I’ll see you next time!
*”Autocorrect” first appeared in Stoneboat and is included in my book Maps of Injury, available from Sundress Publications.
“Beef Burger” wedding photo credit to local photographer Shannon Richardson.
Do you need to take a break from these emails? You can unsubscribe in one click.
This is a beautiful poem, Chera. My guess is 1 and 2 are true.
I love the wisdom and playfulness of the poem, Chera. That photo of your horse is "Whoa!" And, like you, I love writing the book or the poems, but don't me to go out in the world and sell it when all I want is to write more words. Your words so resonated!