A nearly midlife manifesto

winter #personalgradschool

Time feels more elusive now than it did in the spring when I was still finishing seminary. I think school gave time more hard edges; there was less ambivalence about whether or not I could simply go to bed and read until I almost dropped the book. Now, time seems to slide through my hands like water without a container. The harder I try to grasp it, the faster it slips away. 

The clock ticks loudly marking the boys growing up. 
The night grows dark early, lulling my body to sleep. 
The list of things I must do eats up more and more of my day. 

It’s easy to lose that time to sit and write and read and read and write, to weed the garden and bake some bread. 

I remember when my third son was born. I had a four year old and a two year old alongside that newborn. I spent most of my days with the time slipping away and I was glad for it too. It felt like there would be no end to the dishes and the diapers and waking during the night.¹ One day, I looked around when I was nursing the baby and decided I was going to read instead of scrolling my phone while he was nursing. I picked up a Jane Austen book and started reading. And I kept reading. Then I started art projects. And I kept drawing. Picking up that book turned into my personal grad school hashtag and that work was what made me ready to tackle seminary when it was time. 

I said I would come back around to #personalgradschool in the fall, after I had rested from the work and the pace of seminary. I think I’m finally ready. The year has been long, and, for the most part, difficult. I need the shape of a personal project, not professional goals and hard pants.² I want hiking boots and a painting smock instead. 

I recently started reading A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver. I’ve written poetry all my life, sometimes more regularly than others and more recently than in the past decade. I think we need poetry more now than ever. Words have become weapons that we wield to dominate and manipulate. I want to write words of expansiveness and wonder, words that invite the reader into a mystery instead of bullet points of certainty.  

What does it look like to deepen my craft? To write, to listen to music, to read with a different ear? Mary Oliver is going to tell me part of it. She’s going to let me practice. It’s going to be my winter #personalgradschool. 

I’m aware that someone people have given up growing or changing at my age. They do what they must and they stare at screens and they wake up and do it again. I do not want that life. I want to be awash in wonder—the fall leaves, the taste of soup, the adrenaline of rock climbing, even inside in a gym. I want to constantly learn new things and chase curiosities and interests. I want to be an interesting old woman, not one that surrendering living for existing years before. I don’t want to be what’s expected or a cut and paste of my generation or what I’m told I’m supposed to be. I want to fan that flame inside and see what’s still burning when I’m 80. 

My boys are unfolding into their own people. It stirs so much joy to watch them develop interests. I don’t want them to outgrow me. Instead, I want them to be able to follow where I’m going: charting a path to a vibrant and curious life. I want to know who God made me to be. I don’t want to settle for who everyone else is.³ I want to change and develop. I want to grow bigger on the inside even if the outside is aging. I want to be a beginner, an amateur—one who loves. I want to learn from those older than me and those younger than me. I want to stand my spine straight and live what I belief with my whole chest, not as though I’m embarrassed. 

I started thinking about this months ago, when I realized that summer might not be my favorite season anymore. I’ve always loved summer and this year I welcomed fall with such gladness that I was surprised. I’ve always said my favorite color was red but I’m quite certain it’s purple now. I still wear no show socks but I mix it up with the taller socks so people know I’m hip to the times.⁴ 

I’m going to shed my old skin, give my time a different container than it has had before. It’s going to start with poetry.⁵ 

The world 

I’m hungry; I could eat the world,
Gobble the sun and the moon. 
I could run and eat, eat and run
I’d write in an ancient rune. 
I’m hungry; I have dreams and taste
They tickle my mind till I come awake 
Then I feel each restraint
That holds me down 
and I shake and I shake 
And I think I might drown
But I don’t, least not yet
Though I’m tempted to forget
And lay down my wants 
Condemned to haunt
The world where I imagined living. 

When you’re tired

Dear God, you’re in heaven
But I’m down below
You still have no equal
But hard winds do blow
A hard talk this morning
More still ahead
The dog won’t take medicine
The world’s on fire, I read
No end to the evil
No reprieve in sight
I’ll get up tomorrow
Not stop till it’s night
I’ve put away my work
I’ve tucked myself to sleep 
As I lie here dreaming
You hold the world and weep.

Some of my favorite poetry: Alice Walker | Mary Oliver | Billy Collins⁶ 

Then once you read some poetry, watch this woman play the violin.

1. I wasn’t all wrong either. I’m still up at least once most nights with our oldest. Sometimes twice. Autism and sleep aren’t best buddies.

2. Though, of course, I have both hard pants and professional goals.

3. We do live in such a flattening of what it means to be human, don’t we? Maybe it’s the algorithms. We look alike, sound alike, watch the same things, decorate our houses the same way. I don’t want it. I want quirks and surprises.

4. I felt my middle schooler cringe as I wrote that. But really, I’m aware that no-show socks are out.

5. Not that the poetry is very good. But it exists and my heart grew from writing it.

6. This one is framed in our bathroom.