I Might Be a Real Live Writer (Worn Redux)

Even those who write against fame wish for the fame of having written well, and those who read their works desire the fame of having read them.

--Blaise Pascal


I took part in an event yesterday that was incredibly gratifying. I read a little piece of mine at BookPeople. That’s right. BookPeople.

Sorry. But I can’t help but have gotten a little puffed up. BookPeople. It’s BookPeople, people! Real authors read there, and sign their books there, and generally just wallow there in the presence of their own overwhelming writerdom.

Don’t worry, I didn’t stay puffed up for long. After hearing the other writers read their pieces, my inner critic reared her unobjective head and reminded me why I should remain modest. They were really, really good. But on the up side, I am thrilled to have been included in such a group of talented writers (one of whom is my good friend and fellow Yoga Mama, Sharyn). There were fourteen of us. And many of the other writers have been published many times, some of them in publications such as RedBook, the Washington Post, and the New York Times. Wah.

At the least of it all, I can say I didn’t suck! I didn't whisper or stammer. I didn't fall down on the way to the podium. I didn't fart or vomit or choke on my own spit. I didn’t faint. I enunciated clearly and I delivered the lines well. I got nods and laughs in all the right places. All in all, they liked me. (They really, really liked me.)

So here are the details: It was an Austin Jewish Association Bookfair Event at BookPeople. (Did I mention it was at BookPeople?) If you’ll be out and about in Austin this week, please do some shopping at BookPeople. Through Sunday, May 13th, 20% of every purchase goes to the Austin Jewish Academy Scholarship Fund and Library.

I read the following, which is a reworking of a piece you guys have seen: I shared the original version with you bloggers about a year ago. (You can see the original version if you scroll to the very bottom of my April 2006 archive.) Here is the new and improved version, good for one five-minute reading aloud (at BookPeople).
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Worn

There is a tired patch of dirt beneath the swing that hangs in our front yard. The earth underneath the swing has been trampled and kicked and stomped on until finally no grass grows there. It is a worn-down spot in the middle of what I like to think is a beautiful front yard.
The rest of our yard holds long blades of thick green grass, around which little bugs crawl and hide. There are so many great places to play in, in our front yard:
the long sloping driveway ripe for little trucks and tricycles,
the sidewalk crevices that shelter doodle bugs and caterpillars,
the leaves that line the curb,
the flower beds around the trees and next to the house.

Still, my children always run first to this worn-down earth. It is the bosom of our yard, seemingly lifeless, under-appreciated, and beaten down with love and use.

I look on this patch fondly. It is a mirror to my motherhood. Leaves are splattered around the edges like so many gray hairs peeking through the rest of my mane. It has an unsmooth, uneven shape but it is still beautiful. I like to tell myself it is. Sometimes life reaches up and gives birth to new grass making its round unwieldy figure neater and smaller. Other times it seems to grow more bulky, weightier, and I fret over the size of it when I know I shouldn’t.

Sometimes I look at our yard in full and I try to see the whole of it, beyond this little empty place where no grass grows. It seems to have appeared overnight. But it’s hard to see past it. It screams for my attention. It practically throws a temper tantrum. I swear I can almost hear it: It yells: “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” And sometimes I want to scream back at it to shut up! But I don’t. I usually don’t.

My babies are young: they teeter at the threshold between infancy and childhood. They are only two and three years old, no longer toddlers, but not quite “big kids” yet either. They are at that place in between; they want independence and sometimes they take it, but when they do, they almost immediately return to a place of comfort.

This small area in our yard is a comfort to my children. Yes, the earth looks dry and rough, unwelcoming. But in spite of appearances, it is predictable, constant, reliable. If I am the mother I want to be, it is like I am.

This little borough of the outdoors lingers at the edge of the lawn, conspicuously waiting for its little people to descend upon it, to love it, to learn from it, to make use of it, to wear it out. Because it’s their spot.

This raw terrain is at the mercy of the children who play here. Everything about it is exposed. There is no grass to protect it from the cleated heels of a little boy's shoes. There are no weeds to soften the blow when my daughter throws her ball against it again and again. Nature knows that. I know that.

I am a mother. But I am more than a faded patchwork of maternity. I am worn. But look just beneath my surface. There is vitality here: intelligence, intensity, creativity, fertility (though God forbid I prove my fertility any more than I already have).

When the grass finally grows together over this naked soil, how happy I will be! My yard will be beautiful again, physically beautiful by conventional standards, by the standards of the neighborhood association. I can’t wait! I’ll get my yard back. There will be no gaping holes where grass should be, no interruption to my flower beds. And I can take the swing down! But, then again, I’ll have to take the swing down…

Maybe I can wait. Soon enough, the grass will grow together again. Until then, I’ll linger too at the edge of the lawn, and watch what happens until it does. I’ll conspicuously wait for my little people to descend upon me, to love me, to learn from me, to make use of me, to wear me out. Because I am their mother.

I’ll do that. I’ll willingly be as vulnerable, as available to them as their favorite trampled spot in the front yard. I am just as haggard, just as faded, but happy all the same to be worn with such good use.