How to talk so the Universe will listen & listen so the Universe will talk.

February 6, 2019 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

2.6.19 In a bout of manifesty goodness (or plain coincidence, if you’re feeling cranky), performance has been floating to the top of my experience again. Last Thursday morning, my blog was about how I was feeling itchy for performance, feeling isolated in my creative endeavors, and that I wanted more engagement in the theater or music realms.

On my drive in that morning, after having told you all about that, I was on the phone with a friend and told her the same. So: I spoke my intention in writing, then I spoke it aloud.

That afternoon, I received an email from a theater company I’d auditioned for several years ago inviting me to participate in their audition workshop. Eeek. Um. Well, I don’t have anything prepared right now! I haven’t auditioned in years, and I certainly don’t have a piece ready to go. “So,” I replied, “could I come to audit the workshop?” It would be great for me to be around theater again, the language again, to glean what I could–and I’m happy to pay the cost;)

And he replied, Yes.

Later on Thursday, in preparation for an upcoming trip to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival with my 7th graders, my boss reminded me that we have an in-house Shakespeare expert in our drama teacher! And while she’ll be instrumental in helping me form ideas for my curriculum and our trip… “Well,” I asked the drama teacher, “do you ever do audition coaching?”

And she said, Yes.

I am humbled and reminded that when I am specific and intentional about my goals, they repeatedly rise to the top of my experience. I forget that sometimes it’s as simple as letting people know that I have such dreams and goals. There’s a host of helpers, seen and unseen, just waiting for me to take ownership of them.

Even if it feels silly or embarrassing or I’m not ready or I’m good enough, that’s none of my business, frankly! My only role is to tell the truth. Show up. And play this ongoing game of Fluxx.

abundance · authenticity · deprivation

The Junk Man Cometh

June 17, 2018June 17, 2018 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

6.17.18

When I moved into this apartment, I was a 28-year old, about-to-be-graduate student. I came with a free-to-me mattress and boxspring that lived on the floor, and “night tables” that were actually cardboard boxes draped in colorful scarves.

The coffee table (dubbed the “Earthquake Table” for its seismic gyrations everytime you knock into it), the pull-out sofa (from craigslist with cat scratches down to the wood), and the kitchen table (with one sloping leaf) came with me. Each piece was free. They were “from the Universe,” they were “manifested”! And they were junk.

Over the 8 years I’ve lived here, I’ve traded up a bit, but on the whole, much of the broken and battered that came with me is still here.

At one point while still in my SF apartment, a man/boy/living-on-the-floor-in-a-basement-literal-dumpster-diver (don’t ask) reflected as we ate dinner off my curb-find, chipped dishes: “I love how everything you own is in a state of decay.”

Good lord. What am I doing with my life!?

The man/boy and the dishes had to go.

For a very long time, I’d identified with “Second-Hand Rose.” I thrived on and cherished the idea that I was “getting away” with not spending money on what I could get for free! (“The Universe is totally listening!”) Or extremely cheap at a thrift store. My thrift store plunges were always post-scripted with a breakdown to friends about how many pieces I got for such little cost! I even made specific trips into San Francisco just to go to my favorite Good Will.

Now, believe me when I say that I still find nothing wrong with thrift, as an adjective or noun. However, when a few years ago I was at my women’s new year’s retreat sharing about what my just-glued vision board meant to me, I began to well up at describing how I didn’t want to be Second-Hand Rose in Second-Hand Clothes anymore. That yes, a core value of mine is still not to add more consumption to the machine, but did everything I own have to be in a state of decay??

It didn’t make me feel powerful or high on thrift anymore. It made me feel less-than. It made me feel like I didn’t value myself. I wasn’t taking pride in the 5 dollar shirt anymore (with just one hole that no one could see). I was feeling shame. I was feeling like hiding.

While I am absolutely still a reusable item junkie (I just purchased organic cotton coffee filters that I can rinse & reuse when I’m in Amherst … as there will be NO COFFEE MAKER! Cue song from How to Succeed.), I do not have to make a sacrifice for everything that I own, consume, or purchase.

Self-deprivation isn’t hot. And I’m allowing the pendulum to swing a little closer to center, a little closer to balanced. I can buy something that I’ll use for a long time. I can buy at the trendier consignment (not thrift) shop. I can sleep on a bed frame. I can even continue to grab up street finds, though I am much more judicious in what comes into my home.

Every day I choose to make a purchase that aligns with my values — about the earth and about myself — I feel closer to who I truly am: Not. A. Hider.

authenticity · heartbreak · writing

But, it’s scary out there…

June 10, 2018 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

6.10.18

When I open a fresh Google tab, it suggests to me my most frequently visited sites. Nestled between my bank and Netflix is WordPress. Despite not having written here in nearly a month, the code of my computer remembers—and luckily so do my friends.

Friday on the phone with a friend, she declared that the times when I have been at my best, I have been creating. Theater, Music, Writing. Whatever. It didn’t matter. When I’ve been my optimal, on fire, most embodied self was when I was creating regularly.

The evening before that, I was standing in the glimmer of San Francisco light with a friend I don’t know all that well, but well enough that she should ask, “How’s your writing?”

I answered, “Actually, I haven’t been doing much lately; I’m sort of stalled out. But last week at school, I read a graduation poem I’d written [adapted for my 8th grade students from the one I read at my own graduation…for an MFA in poetry], and got incredible feedback. Several people said they teared up. My boss even said I did what poetry is supposed to do: say so much in so few words.

I forget sometimes,” I said to my friend, “how much I love it—and that not everyone can do it.”

“Yeah,” she replied, thoughtfully, “I go into anorexia around my writing, too.”

Wait. What?

“I never thought of my not writing as anorexia…”

This idea has been haunting me. As someone who identifies as an “underbe-er”—not living in my full potential or using my time to support and further my goals—I’ve long been aware of my “anorexia” around self-care.

But I’d never before considered writing an integral part of my self-care. Or of creative expression as self-care. I more think of it as washing my dishes or going to bed on time!

Yet, here it was, a lighting-bolt moment: I refrain from or deny engaging in something which brings me to life. If that’s not anorexic, I don’t know what is.

As I’ve written before, I had the extraordinary privilege of growing up in a house that never used food as a weapon, a reward, an analgesic or a shaming vehicle. Food was food. It was enjoyed, or just eaten; around a table, or before a t.v. But it was never much more than a nice thing or an ordinary thing. And I am so grateful for that, as I know many people suffer(ed) from painful relationships with food.

But, anorexia for me has been about denying myself experiences or expressions of life. Months without a forest, years without a museum. Weeks without a song, days without laughter.

My friend on the phone Friday put me to the task of writing for 30 minutes every day for a week. One week, just to see how it feels. Whether that’s blog writing or personal writing or book writing–anything, just as long as I’m creating.

The truth is, I know why things have gone into a period of retraction lately. The last time I wrote in my journal was a month ago, just two days before J. and I broke up for the truly final time, just eight days before he handed me the keys to my apartment where we’ve shared a home for 6 months, and a bed for 2 years.

The sadness, grief, guilt, hope, the cycle of them again and again. The molasses way I walk to and from my car at work. I know this is why I’ve distanced myself from creating.

But, here’s the stupid rub of emotional anorexia: I will never feel better by retraction. I will never get fed by sealing myself off from experiences that feed me. The healing that I seek from withdrawing is a lie and a delusion.

That doesn’t mean it’s still not my go-to. But I am only to get a crow-bar’s worth of light in there if I acknowledge its falseness… and put pen to paper again.

abundance · authenticity · expansion

“Damn the Man, Save the Empire.”

February 27, 2018February 27, 2018 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

2.27.18 captain-planet.jpg

I met with two women this Sunday to review my and their financial situations. We meet about every 6 weeks to go over our “numbers” and to offer feedback or advice wherever the other person wants it.

We particularly focus on what is “pressuring” us — where do we feel out of balance or unclear, where do we need ideas or support, encouragement or caution. And I brought up this idea of Stocks.

As you read a few weeks ago, I recently bought my very first share of stock (in Tesla) and the following week, I bought a few shares in Starbucks. While this has been a pretty cool exercise, and I do like watching the numbers go up or down (as they will do!), as I look toward a next investment, I begin to feel stymied.

Despite my affinity for renewable energy and Elon Musk’s entrepreneurial style, Tesla mines an incredible amount of precious metals and minerals from the ground, and their batteries will only last a decade at max, at which point they’ll be trash. Despite having installed a new executive board that is purported to be full of innovation and forward thinking, Starbucks produces a ton of waste per minute.

If you know me, you’ll know that I compost voraciously, I use handkerchiefs that I wash weekly, I carry reusable bags and bottles to the grocery store, I purchase consignment clothing, and I donate to organizations working to fight the conservation fight. My values around conservation of the earth are virile. So how can I rightly invest in companies that have such a harmful impact on the earth, even if, in Tesla’s case, the ecological benefits in the long run may outweigh the costs?

So, I brought this up to my financial group of ladies, as I’ve also known that the investment funds that support “eco” or moral entities do not perform well in the stock market. It seems that in order to make money in the market, I cannot live by my values.

My ladies said: Yep.

One did suggest my looking up the sustainable investment bundles, just to check out their recent performance (which I’ve not done yet). But the other woman said something that struck me even more brilliant:

Soon, I won’t need to invest in others’ ideas. My own success will fund me. My own ideas will fund my life.

This was a welcome thought: I do not have to play the game if I don’t like the rules. To me, it had felt as though there were two options: profit from Earth-raping and the demise of the planet or don’t profit.

That there is a third way doesn’t surprise me — though at the moment of realization, it always does! There seems always a third way; always a path I’ve not considered.

Consider that my own success, in whatever realm, will lead me to be financially prosperous and financially independent from corporate malfeasance? Yes, please.

action · authenticity · friendship

All in.

February 6, 2018 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

2.5.18 caravaggio Tour_Cheat beter

With daylight still apparent after my hour-long commute home, I dashed into my apartment last week, threw on sneakers, and grabbed my phone. I was in too much of a state of agitation and pent-up energy to listen to the tree sounds yet, so I opened the audiobook app and continued listening to Better Than Before, the habit-formation book by Gretchen Rubin.

She was talking about the strategy of “Pairing,” wherein we unite 2 things that need to be done (for example, treadmill desk at work). As I continued stalking over to the park-like cemetery in my neighborhood (where many folks run and walk dogs; I swear, not creepy!), I stopped suddenly struck.

I could unite 2 things I want to do.

For long, I’ve wanted to read more classical literature. I am an English major, MFA, and teacher, after all, and an avid (near-penitential) reader. And like many readers, I have on my shelf “aspirational books”: those that I’d love to have read, but struggle to actually read. E.g. Moby Dick, Ulysses, The Iliad.

What thunderstruck me on my walk was this: I could listen to the audio versions of these classic books. Perhaps that would not only help me to “read” them, but also to understand them. First up? Anna Karenina. I have indeed attempted to read the paper and cardboard version of this novel, but have been stymied by the names — who are they talking about again?? The Russians love to use the full “Christian” names, the diminutive names, the LAST names, all interchangeably to the point where I’ve absolutely lost track of who the hell is Tolstoy talking about anyway?!

So, thusly, my brainwave led me to the ebook app where I discovered Maggie Gyllenhaal(!) would read me Anna Karenina. Downloaded, earbuds in, I began to walk again in the falling light.

And folks, I UNDERSTOOD it!! I listened again on the slog-ride home yesterday, and I could actually recall portions of the plot and (for the most part) retain who was who!

I shared my discovery and attendant elation with a friend on the phone this past weekend. And she, too, was elated — and suggested we start a book club.

Now, Gretchen Rubin is a book-club lover and, honestly, I thought I would jump at the idea — it has been hard for me to read these books on my own. But with this new-found habit of listening to dense books rather than reading them (which I do plan to do once I hear it all), I’m not sure that I truly want to meet up and discuss them. I talk about books all the time.

I recounted this conundrum to my therapist last night, and she asked if I actually wanted to be in a book club. … “Well, not really,” I replied. “But what I would like is a regular poker night.”

Several years ago, I opened my apartment door to find an Amazon package on my welcome mat. The package was addressed to me and the packing slip inside was as well. But without a return address or orderee. Inside the box was a slim, silver case, within which was a brand-new poker set. Chips and cards, even dice and a disk with “Dealer” printed on it. I’ve no idea from where it came, and have held onto it (in aspirational fashion) ever since.

I’ve lugged it to campsites, to winter cabins, but still the deck of cards remains sealed in its plastic sleeve.

“I’d love to have a regular girls’ poker night,” I said to her again. “To gather and kibbitz; to have fun, because, in the end, it is a game. But I’ve always been stymied by the fact that my apartment is too small… I’ve wanted a game night for years.”

And so, it seems, I’m going to have to enlist a few friends–maybe even a few new friends–to join me for blind betting, cut decks, and bowls of tortilla chips.

No, I don’t really know how to play — but I will.

authenticity · fear · truth

“Then that happened…”

February 16, 2015 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

This is what I said to my friend after I broke down on Friday night with the truth of how lost I’d been feeling.

She said to me, You can’t do that. You can’t say something like what you shared, and then cover it up with a joke like it wasn’t important or true.

And that’s what I want to do with today’s blog. I want to try to stem some of whatever reactions I believe you might have had to yesterday’s blog of anger and fear and isolation. Because no matter how I feel in a moment, I do need you greatly, and I want you to still like me and not to think that I’m a whiny, privileged person who’s lost perspective on the world.

So, I’m going to try not to do that, to reverse any effects of what I said yesterday. And simply let it lie.

I do know that my job is not scooping animal carcasses off the highway, or cleaning toilets, or any other job that many people have. I have friends who’ve lost children, husbands, gone bankrupt. I mean, I work at a high-end retailer in Union Square, not on a chain gang. And I’m going through cancer survivorship stuff, like I imagine and hope those of us who have to, do.

I know, too, that in times like these, we all seem to lose some perspective, and I allow myself to have that for now, because I do know it will change.

But, I guess I did need (or want) to put how I’ve been feeling out there, even in this impersonal forum, because it is the truth, and that’s what I tell here — with or without back-peddling.

So, whatever reactions you might have had (because I can see from the stats page that many people did read that blog), I hope … well, I hope it’s okay I put the truth there. And I’m trying to let myself be okay with it, too.

“You can’t save your face and your ass at the same time.”

authenticity · family · fate · love

Retail Christmas: A Family Tale

December 26, 2014 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

‘Twas the day before Christmas and all through the store

not a creature was stirring, it was really a bore.

But some time in the day as I walked back from lunch,

a gentleman remarked, Gee you don’t hunch.

What great posture you have, and a convo was struck

as his wife later joined and we talked cardio stuff

He and I spoke of their trip from Vancouver,

his wife in a fight with their my-aged daughter

I listened and shared; it was strange to be sure

to stand in the racks of not-quite couture

and be talking about things that do really matter

and not prattle on with plastic-smiles, idle chatter.

I gave words of wisdom that were passed on to me

about just showing up and letting her be.

We even talked of my dad, how things there are rotten;

he said try again, love is never forgotten.

I have my own opinion and still question his advice

it was odd to talk about this, but somehow quite nice.

Out came his wife, and we put things on hold,

I said a kind goodbye and to stay warm in the cold.

But as the wife handed me her card and I entered her digits

She shared she and her daughter were really quite in it.

I didn’t mention I knew, and just made the suggestion

Tell her you love her and are there to listen.

We smiled, it was strange, and out of the norm

to be talking real life in this capitalist storm.

A few hours later, my feet throbbing with pain,

I couldn’t wait to get out and back to the east bay.

When a coworker said there’s someone looking for you,

around the corner came the wife & her husband, too.

“I wanted to tell you,” she started to sob,

“I took your advice while I tried on some bras.

“I texted my daughter I was hurt, but am here,

and, Look! She replied!” her face stained with tears.

I read from her phone, while her husband looked on

a bit happy and startled at her goings on.

“I wanted to tell you, I’m so glad we met,

I wouldn’t have been ready before what you said.”

We teared up, exchanged hugs in the DVF stacks,

a slice of what matters near a discount sale rack.

They left that day a little lighter it seemed,

and I wondered if this is what ‘meant to be’ means.

I don’t know why I’m there, in the overpriced store,

but for a minute I’m reminded what humanity’s for.

And maybe it’s not to sell lots of clothes,

to perfect my eyeliner or hike up my hose.

Instead I was given the gift of what’s real:

On the day before Christmas, I helped a family heal.

authenticity · career · generosity · love · work

God Shot

December 24, 2014 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

I suppose this could have been summarized as a facebook update, but I thought to write it instead. (On, yes, my very new [refurbished] MacBook Air, so generously given to me as a Chanukah gift from several contributors.

Yes, it’s materialistic [Ooh, shiny!], but yes, too, there are things that I couldn’t do with my old dinosaur that might come in handy — like if I wanted to work from home, Facetime my mom, or watch Netflix on something other than my cellphone!)

Yesterday, I had the day off from my retail job. I didn’t put this on Fbk either, but I had to take 3 days off last week after hobbling from my job mid-Tuesday to my chiropractor, my right ankle swollen and awful. The retail job is hard. The store itself is as large as a city block, and you’re standing most of the time, walking the length of the store others, and there’s no sitting.

Now, I know when I quit my regular desk job, I said I didn’t want to sit at a desk 40 hours a week, but maybe something in the middle, eh?

And it was with this experience and knowledge, my feet still hurting, but apparently getting used to it, as my coworkers and dr said I would, that I went yesterday morning to a cafe to continue working on my holiday collage cards.

I wanted to get out of the house, and I didn’t know if I’d get kicked out of the cafe as I spread cardstock, magazines, scissors and a glue stick out on the table. But, I wanted the human connection, too.

And, lo, I did not get kicked out. I sat there at the large “handicap accessible” table (don’t worry, no wheelchairs rolled in), and I continued cutting and glueing, pasting and maneuvering images. Even used the alphabet letter stamps I’d bought 2 years ago and the ink I’d been given when I was sick.

I sat there, content, enjoying, a little self-conscious and waiting to be scolded when a family with two daughters (I’d overheard) home from college for the winter break sat down next to me. One of the daughters tapped her family and looked over at what I was doing, and remarked, “Isn’t that cool?”

It was a sweet thing. I finished the card I was making and put it to the side of my over-large table, knowing I would hand that one to her when I left the cafe.

A few minutes later, her mother turned and asked me what I was doing, if these were for sale or what? I replied, No, these are just holiday cards, my presents to my friends. For fun. And then I handed her the one set aside and said, “This is for your daughter.”

She took it, surprised and grateful, and we exchanged names and shook hands. And I smiled at her daughter who’d admired my work. (“No one will ever believe I made this,” I heard the daughter say to her sister, amused.)

I smiled. I was glad to give her something. I was gratified that she’d admired something I consider so elementary and basic and fun for me.

And then, as the family packed up on their way out of the cafe, the mom turned to me again and handed me an envelope with the words Happy Holidays written on the front. I thanked her, and wished them all well, and they left.

In the envelope was a holiday card in which she’d written, “Thank you for your kindness to my daughter. Happy holidays.” And there was a twenty dollar bill.

It was one generosity inspiring another. But it was more than that to me.

I have felt so unmoored during this “job transition” time. Especially since I’ve taken on this retail job and can barely make it through a day with a breath to myself. I come home late, exhausted, and fall into bed. Chores are undone. Dishes unwashed. Groceries unbought.

I cried Monday morning on the floor of my closet as I got ready for the day, exhausted from the long Sunday hours. I have felt so alien to myself with so little “me” time, so little time to think about or explore what could or should be next.

I have felt lost, and a bit hopeless on the career/job horizon.

And yesterday morning, I sat in a cafe, doing something I love to do because it’s fun and creative and easy and whimsical. Because I know people will enjoy them, if even for only a few weeks on their mantle.

I sat there, and I was seen. My work was seen. And it was appreciated.

I was an artist and I was rewarded, if that’s the word for it. I was in the world and I was given a “god shot” — a moment of, Moll, you’re on a path, we promise. This, arting, is one of them. Being in the world is one of them.

Go out. Be seen. Create. Give.

We see you. The Universe and those in it see me.

It was one moment. One interaction. One family. But it meant more to me than they knew. As lost as I feel, it was a reminder that I’m not a total fool for not toeing the party line.

This experience doesn’t point me in a direction, but it is a welcome dose of hope when I very much needed to know that what I can give to the world is indeed greater.

authenticity · community · growth · love · recovery · theater

Spiritual Echolocation

November 23, 2014 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

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I am not the best
judge of my progress or my abilities. But, even though I can’t rightly see myself, I’m beginning to notice that I am hearing
it from others.

And this in itself feels like progress: At least I’m hearing
it.

There was a time when I described compliments as one of those
bug zapper lamps people hang on their porch. The bugs merely get within range
of the lamp and they get zapped dead. Same with compliments for me: Anything positive that was said would get deflected before it even got close to
touching me. None of that here, pew! pew!

I’d said that you can’t receive a compliment if there’s no
complementary place within you to receive it. If there’s nowhere it fits
within your own understanding of yourself, then there’s no way that it can be
accepted. There’s no ring of truth, because you don’t believe it yourself.

Time passed, and I’ve become more able to receive positive
feedback about certain things, because I have begun to hone and cultivate the
place within me that is receptive, the place within me that believes you
because I believe it myself.

That said, there’s room for growth.

This week, I’ve had several experiences where I’ve been told
about my progress and abilities, and even though I can’t quite feel this, I’m beginning
to recognize that I believe them, I
believe others are seeing this, even if I’m not myself.

Hence, spiritual echolocation. I can’t see it myself, but I
believe in the feedback I’m receiving – so there must be something to it.

I know that feeding off external validation is not the
way to walk about the world, but what it’s doing for me is giving me hope that
one day I can see it. There is an
existence of a cave wall. Others are telling me so. If that is truth, there is
hope that I will see it, too.

On Friday night, after the first act of our opening night of
To Kill a Mockingbird, the director came
backstage. He was beaming. He was so glad and proud of the work I was doing
on-stage.

I was dubious. But I thought Wednesday’s preview night
went much better; it felt better.

He told me he was the only rightly judge of my performance,
and Friday night, I was better.

Whether I felt it or not.

On Saturday morning, I went for my semi-regular voice
lesson. And at the end of a phrase I’d sung, my teacher applauded and cheered –
he even gave me a high five.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, delighted.

No, I didn’t. I can’t hear myself.

The noise and buffer between what is and what I perceive is
loud and thick.

“We’re going to have to record you more then,” he said. “You
have to get used to hearing yourself.”

This morning, I was on the phone with my mentor, and I
reported these incidents to her, as I begin to parse out these places where I’m
being told one thing, but I’m hearing and sensing another.

She, too, had told me that I’m farther along than I can
feel. And she gave me a metaphor (because we all know I love those!):

She told me I am a tree creating deep, deep roots. A solid
foundation. And you can’t always see that growth above ground, but it’s
happening.

We were talking (again) about my questioning of where and
who I am this lifetime and where I’m going. And she said, some people have
really gorgeous foliage, and weak roots.

We’re doing the work now — early, some might say — that others
come to in mid and later life. Creating a root system, carving out the rot,
cleaning the wounds.

Like a field of asparagus, you don’t see its heroic work
until one morning you turn, and the whole field has sprouted green, fully
formed, like Athena.

I am not used to
hearing or seeing myself clearly. I’m not adequately armed with the ability to
track my own progress. And thank god for other people, then!

But I do feel the promise and the hope of their reflection.
I am beginning to hear what they’re saying instead of zapping it, because I’m beginning to uncover the place within me that believes it myself.

I’m starting to open to a truth that’s been, and is, hard
for me to swallow:

I am worthy.

adulthood · authenticity · inspiration · letting go · poetry · transformation · uncertainty · vision

Who’s Next?

November 7, 2014 Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

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“Creativity requires the courage to let go of
certainties.” ― Erich Fromm

This is the quote of the day relating to the daily
meditation I’m doing through the Oprah/Deepak 21-day challenge.

Strangely or not, it’s what I was writing about in my
morning pages before I logged into the meditation. The idea of uncertainty, of
letting go of what’s known. And how very close to that I feel right now.

I found out yesterday I didn’t get the job I was in several
rounds of interviews and mock sessions for during the last two weeks. And all
for the better, I think. In fact, I’d reached out to an old schoolmate I’d seen
on LinkedIn had worked there to ask her thoughts. And when I wrote back that
they didn’t hire me, she wrote: You are better off. That place is a shit hole.

So there’s that!

But, this morning as I reflected on where I am, with the one
avenue I was pursuing more actively than others cut short, I find myself
without an exact destination. Which is where in fact I’ve been, but I’ve been
distracted with the possibility of this employment.

What brought me to considering the question of Who’s Next
was my bringing out an old reader packet of poems from an undergrad course I
took. I’d brought it down a few days ago; I was 22 when I took the class,
finishing up from the lost semester when I’d been otherwise engaged in a padded
room.

The day after I brought the packet down, a friend of mine
mentioned teaching again, putting together a C.V. (a teacher’s resume) and
syllabus. I went online to higheredjobs.com yesterday to poke around and see.
And again, I sort of went all blank about it. I see titles like Professor of
18th and 19th Century Romanticism or of Rhetoric, and I call myself
uninterested and unqualified.

And then after a while of poking around online anyway, my
computer overheated and shut down on me, which was probably for the best!

But, today I opened that packet labeled Twentieth Century
Poetry II, and I read the names and poems of Robert Bly, Gwendolyn Brooks, yes, even the
ubiquitous Plath. I read my margin notes, and was amused to see that my
handwriting looked as it does now.

I was interested in the poems, but I wasn’t sparked. These were the
dreams and longings of a different person. The person who ate these poems up,
who devoured and analyzed and waxed prosaic marginalia.

I remember the classroom I was in when we read Spenser’s
Faerie Queene. I remember being the one student who was really intrigued by his
epic traitorous, political poem hidden in monarch-approved meter. I remember the classroom where the professor
told us stories of the poets’ lives, who’d met who and exchanged letters, the
relationships behind their lyrics.

I remember the room for my make-up semester, on a different
campus, since my cohort had graduated. The computer lab where I wrote short
stories and saved them onto the new smaller, square floppy disks that were
actually hard.

This morning I reread the same works that meant so much to
me then, a woman who felt she had no voice, and poetry was a quiet art that
could conjure hurricanes, that could release those that were teeming in my
body.

But, I don’t feel it in the same way now. I of course want
new generations of students to hear tales of those smoky rooms where creativity
was incubated and smile in camaraderie at Spenser’s thinly veiled subversion.
But, I don’t know. Is it me? Is it me now?

There’s a quote from a Yogi tea bag I have taped over my
kitchen sink, along with all the others I felt necessary to collect. It reads:
Empty yourself and let the Universe fill you.

I haven’t ever really known what that meant, or how to do
it. I haven’t known how to let go of all I know, of all my plans, of labeling
what I know and feel and have done as relevant or useless. I haven’t been able
to answer the call of that tea quote until today.

I do feel emptied. I
feel emptied of direction, of specific ambition, of perspective on myself. But it’s not a negative
feeling.

I feel like a student in a new class, but one I don’t know
the course title to. I don’t know which of my skills will be useful in this new
class, what of my knowledge will be relevant.

I don’t know if I’ll need a paintbrush or a calculator, what I’ll grow to learn, or who will be my teachers. I don’t know who else I’ll meet in class, and who I’ll
never see again. I don’t know the iteration of myself who will be called upon to
show up here, or who will be created from being here.

I only know that this nameless class is the only one on my course schedule
for the foreseeable future, and that perhaps at the end of it, I may be able to
answer what iteration of Molly is next.