It's been more than a year since I last posted to MomSequitur, so long a time lapse that I cannot remember if the name of my blog is two words or one, if the "M" and "S" are even capitalized.
It's been almost four years since I traveled alone to Peterborough, New Hampshire, to live in a cabin in the woods, to write and read all day, to have NO distractions, no daily-life getintheways.
My time spent as a fellow at The MacDowell Colony was a treasure. Meals, lodging, all accommodations: paid for. I got the credit card out only for air transportation there and returning to Kansas City. I think I bought a Colony t-shirt, too.
Never more prolific, I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and produced poems and essays and short stories. I outline a few novel ideas. I got a lot of shit done. DONE.
And now, one, two, three, four years later, I write nothing. I take care of children in the morning and in the afternoon, before school, and over the summer, every single day, which about killed my spirit and 51-year-old body ... a death to spirit only in the sense that langston hughes wrote about deferring his dream. I love children and when I am in their presence I laugh and sing and feel delight and meaning. But no writing gets done and my soul talks to me all sarcastic:like: So, this is what you're doing with your MacDowell experience: you're grilling cheese sandwiches for germ donkeys and playing endless games of Monopoly Junior.
She's right about the non-writing.
I have to remember the gift of time and space that I received from the Colony. I must honor that treasure, stop squandering it. I must get done that which must get done.
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