I have a habit of getting stuck at the starting line. I am so afraid of failure that I will not let myself even take a step into a possibility. But, I crave it. It is like being in bed sick and watching the birds fly outside, you are tethered but so eager to push yourself out, soar on nothing, to thrive in the idea that I can be stable, that I can excel.
I am Icarus, or a possibility of falling in the same fashion, burnt.
I won't do it. I stay in my head. I watch the birds fly, and remember my humanity.
My teeth grit. My fingers go numb. I want to be something. I want to be someone I know is there, like another layer, another me that is taking form, but is stunted. I stunt it. What if it is wrong?
What if it is time?
I let it have the opportunity to have the possibility of existing this December, by applying to an MFA (Masters in Fine Arts) program. I started the application in July. So, you can see where I really dug my heels against the gravity of this opportunity, shoes dragging in the dust of excuses.
My husband helped me get closer to submitting the application by his words of encouragement, editing my pieces, and diffusing my nonsense, shoutout to Patrick.
I submitted my application.
I waited.
I checked the status religiously.
I prayed more.
I cooked, I threw salt over my left shoulder, swept it up, cleaned the kitchen, wandered into the living room, tended to plants, bought more to keep the rest company, buried the dead ones, did laundry, made the whites a drowsy pink, and slept in between the silence that was waiting.
Until, I got it. The notice of my standing.
I rushed into the bathroom and just washed my hands. As if bad luck works that way. As if curses stay in the skin, and not in the blood where it circulates. As if I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t get the news that
I got accepted.
I got accepted into the program.
Oh my word.
I am starting my studies in the summer, and will be starting off my MFA career by attending a seminar in Dublin, Ireland. I am going to be working with Irish poets, and make a contact and promise that I will continue on a manuscript, that I will continue on my journey to be a poet.
I am terrified, but it would be shocking if I weren't.
I am human after all.