I’m working on this manuscript and treading water on my regular responsibilities. It’s up and down with the manuscript—sometimes I love it, sometimes I want to pitch it all out the damn window and learn plumbing. This morning I was thinking about taking three big pieces of paper and making lists:
- Balls I have in the air
- Balls I’m dribbling
- Balls I’m letting roll away
but I just want to read this poem by Maggie Smith again and again, and this, which makes me feel like anything is possible with some kindness.
Rain, New Year’s Eve
by Maggie Smith
The rain is a broken piano,
playing the same note over and over.
My five-year-old said that.
Already she knows loving the world
means loving the wobbles
you can’t shim, the creaks you can’t
oil silent—the jerry-rigged parts,
MacGyvered with twine and chewing gum.
Let me love the cold rain’s plinking.
Let me love the world the way I love
my young son, not only when
he cups my face in his sticky hands,
but when, roughhousing,
he accidentally splits my lip.
Let me love the world like a mother.
Let me be tender when it lets me down.
Let me listen to the rain’s one note
and hear a beginner’s song.
Let me love the world like a mother./Let me be tender when it lets me down.
I work on this. Daily. Have been for years. 2018 won’t be any different.