August 30th

It's not just the date. There's a story somewhere between my the date of my first post here, my promise to write, and the title and date of this post. Summer went by like nothing. I had all these ideas at new years, like I always do, of self-improvement. And I can't be too hard on myself; I've actually had a lot of progress this year in the realms of self-love, language, writing, and food.

But it came on the tail-end of a lot of beating myself up. A lot of calling myself stupid. Stupid for driving and paying $10/day parking instead of taking the bus. Stupid for buying a video game, little treats, souvenirs. Stupid for not looking at my bank account for weeks on end. Stupid for saying yes to things people invited me to, then cancelling last minute. Stupid for feeling hurt by rejections. Stupid for not working as hard as I wanted to on MFA application prep. Stupid for not writing my books. Stupid for not having new ideas. Stupid for not wanting to do the work it takes to get them.

You get the idea.

There was a moment early this month where I was fixing the fence panels at work, outside the garden. And I didn't recognize my hands for a second. I've had more sun than ever this summer, and they're tan and freckled. I've spent hours picking berries, watching the bees and wasps, watering my feet, sun-dyeing my curls. I even received a card from my mother she was waiting to give me until I seemed to have found where I'm meant to be; she purchased it 12 years ago during a trip. It has an e.e. cummings quote on the front. At the time I wasn't writing at all. Neither of us knew I'd be here, Poet. She admits I seem to still be working on my career, but at least she knows I'm a writer.

(I know everyone's mum probably loves their work. Mine is one of my harshest critics, and I say that lovingly. She's just retired from 41 years teaching jr high and high school english; one of the good ones. I've been sending her my writing since 2018, so trust she waited a while to give me such a vote of confidence.)

Anyway - the recognition moment came before I got the card from my mum. And it brought with it a wash of love, like I'd stepped into a hot shower. Why did I feel self-acceptance in the moment I didn't recognize myself? Because I liked what I saw better than what I felt I was. I'd changed without realising it. And it was a relief, to say the least, since it was far nicer than hating myself. It sounds so simple. Pretty sure 13-year-old me actually had this all figured out, but life is complicated these days. Actually I'm not sure complicated is the word; nuanced? Multitudinous?

See, I'm having a good time; I'm about to enter my last year following my dreams of finishing a degree and I've never felt more in the right place than now. I stopped shaving my legs and pits, which is to say, I'm saying fuck it to a lot of things that held me back. But the world is stressful. My dreams are looming over me and wondering when I'm going to actually, you know, do all of it. Publish a short story. Get an agent, sell a book, feel worthy. I know it doesn't always go like that, believe me.

A decade ago I thought I'd have a kid before 25. Then 30. Then 35. I'm 31 now and seriously wondering if it's even going to happen at all. It feels pretty trivial in the grand scheme of things, which is currently watching the world peel away like a photograph over a flame; social media, genocide, trans rights, rent. I have a lot to be thankful for, sure, but I'm going to graduate at 32 with a degree in Creative Writing in the good year of 2026. I picture all of us lined up like soldiers, ready for battle, ready to stake our necessity against freshwater-chugging AI that's already definitely stolen from my old, unfinished Zelda fanfics on Ao3.

Classes start Wednesday. I have 3 courses each semester; the first, Art of the Garden: Gateway to Paradise: Islamic Gardens and Landscapes, The Writing Business, and a 3rd/4th year poetry workshop; and the second, the final workshops for poetry and fiction, plus Introduction to Observational Drawing.

Add on 20 hours a week at the garden and the volunteer reading I've taken on, MFA applications, and the books I want to finish, and I should be slightly less burnt out than previous years. Today I cleaned up the office. Swapped my desk for my mum's, since she's upgrading to something bigger. Slowly but surely our furniture is being replaced by nice wooden stuff. I'll keep it for as long as I can.

Saturdays are good. I'll try again for next week.

Later days,

Juls