I am not an impulsive person.
About two years ago I realized if I ever wanted to seriously consider applying for an MFA program, I had work to do. Not only was I not ready to do a program, I wasn’t even ready to apply for a program. I didn’t have a portfolio of work to submit–especially not recent work. I didn’t have a writing routine to generate new work. I didn’t have… well, a whole list of things that seemed pretty important if I was going to do this and do it right. (And what’s the point of doing it if you don’t do it right, right?) So maybe it’s an understatement to say that I’m not an impulsive person–I realized I wasn’t even ready to be ready to try to get in to a writing program.
So I did some stuff to start getting ready. I thought. Worked with a great coach, who probably would have been really helpful had I not waffled every single month. (I want an MFA! Wait, there’s a DMin with a creative writing emphasis! Writing is my spiritual calling! Wait, why am I even ordained? I don’t want to have to write about faith stuff all the time! Wait, I think I might need to change denominations!) (I should really write my old coach an apology note.) I also leaned hard on my spiritual gift of brainstorming to consider every possible thing I could do in an ideal world, which is surprisingly not the same thing as discerning what I am led to do right now. In the meantime, I did a thorough job of kicking myself for having once had a clear sense of purpose and now being a total flake.
All time well spent, obvs.
Then we moved. (<–Life theme alert.) And everything stopped, or got dropped, or took a hard pivot, or just took a backseat, including my attempts to get ready and my attempts to figure out exactly what I meant to be getting ready for.
Not to equate myself with ol’ Ben–but the quote in the photo above is what I want too, to “see distinctly” both the close-up and the long-distance. Having a clear view of what’s here and what’s coming feels to me like being ready. I want to understand myself today, to know my interests and abilities and energy, and I want to know what’s coming down the road so I can get ready to meet it.
I don’t know if Benjamin Franklin ever achieved this ideal–this parallel use of eyeglasses and telescopes. But maybe the point isn’t to achieve it but to keep wanting to, to keep trying. The hard truth for someone like me–who wants desperately to feel ready–is that both looking up-close and looking to the distance require us to focus and refocus and refocus constantly. Just when our gaze rests on something, whether inside ourselves or on a distant point, things will shift. Things will stop, or drop, or pivot, or move to the back, or step out of the frame entirely.
The hard truth for someone like me is that readiness is not static, a hard stare at self or at “Someday.” (It irks me to admit this.) Can I recognize and practice readiness instead as a soft, open, friendly gaze, ready to adjust to whatever comes into view–ready to welcome it–ready to meet it?
a moving yarn: 