On Patience, and Letting Go

When you are three months out of graduate school, at the end of a summer spent walking around Prospect Park and writing wretched revisions of your MFA thesis, a Big Deal Writer whose work you admire and with whom you have a very loose connection might, generously, offer to meet you for a glass of wine.

She might, unexpectedly, talk with you about the structure of your memoir, which she hasn’t read, but, based solely on your conversation, is able to grasp and talk through so expertly that you use her name in the subject line of subsequent drafts.

And then, three years and countless revisions later, when you are on the verge of sending out said memoir (drafting a query letter, making final line edits, setting yourself a hard June deadline), you might run into said writer at a conference and take her up on her offer to meet again, when she visits Minneapolis the following month.

You might giggle at the neon hotel bar with the techno soundtrack and the drunk, overdressed couple behind you, wrapping each other in slinky dance moves.

And you might sit there as she, again, without having read a word, and with no motive besides a disarmingly generous, empathic spirit and seemingly supernatural quality of wisdom, says the painful words that are also the exact ones you need to hear: You know it isn’t ready. 


One spring day a couple of years ago, A and I walked down a side street in the West Village. This was during a brief section of time we then recognized as charmed: both of us living in New York and working from coffee shops, coaching one another through tough, transitional times. (As, we’ve since learned, most of them are…)

I was feeling better about the manuscript at that point, but still not great. And I’d spent that afternoon struggling. I told her.

“I just listened to this really great podcast,” A said. We were crossing Mercer, side-stepping NYU kids with earbuds and denim coats. “It was about failure.”

My muscles stiffed.

“It was just about how, it’s such an important skill, as an artist. You know, to recognize when something isn’t working, and to let it go.”

I don’t remember what I said. I remember that I listened the way you listen to someone giving someone else driving directions, or the way you listen to something you’re not ready to hear.

It isn’t, now, that I am accepting failure.

I still hope, and believe, that a time may come when I will be able to finish this book.

But in this moment, I am accepting that that time isn’t now, or, likely, anytime soon. I am letting go of the way I thought things would go; accepting that my writerly life will unfold not how I wish it would, but as it must.

It isn’t pretty.

On Friday night, after talking with Dani, I biked home in tears. I’d forgotten my lights, again, and the mix of danger and disruption had me rush through downtown in a dizzy, slightly drunken cocktail of panic: I might get hit, I might have lost the primary purpose that had come to organize my mornings and afternoons.

When I got home, I let rip. I let my body heave with emotion, with shock, with loss. In the days since, I’ve felt something like grief.

But along with it, and perhaps even more strongly, I’ve felt relief.

I knew, I know, that the urge I felt to rush that book into the world didn’t come from certainty that it was ready. It came, instead, from impatience. From the desire to get on with it, to be done. Also, ego. (“But Dani, it makes such a difference to have a book in the world!” I moaned. She didn’t miss a beat. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t.”)

I had tried to convince myself of it’s doneness, I’ve realized, in much the same way I’ve tried to convince myself that I was in the right relationship. I have to assume that, when a book project does feel complete, and when the right (or, a right) person appears, I will feel some tendril of doubt: I don’t think we find total certainty when it comes to art, or to love.

And it is easy, when you’ve never finished a book or found a right person, to assure yourself that the grave, deep doubt at the bottom of your belly that you know should be troubling you, perhaps halting you, is simply normal. That this might be as close to complete, as close to right, as you’ll get.

It’s easy, in other words, when you want something deeply, to tell yourself stories and convince yourself it’s yours.


The morning before meeting Dani for a drink I got the good news that a wonderful journal will publish a new, weird poem of mine. I also got an email from an old friend, writing to tell me she’d connected with a recent blog.

It seemed to be some small gesture of foreshadowing, and of comfort: a reminder that in fact, my writing energies are driving me elsewhere. That even if I’m letting go, for now, of one project, it is worthwhile to pursue others.

In moments, I remember that. That things are right as they are, where I am.

And in others, of course, I despair.

“I just try to touch it once a day,” A said. Last night, I stood in my kitchen and talked to her on the phone; she was in her Lower East Side apartment, listening. “That feeling that everything’s perfect.”

And that, I replied, is the thing that we truly must remember.

Not just to be patient, but that it will always be hard. That those moments when we find patience, when we touch the reassuring idea that what is is what’s right, will so often elude us.

That no matter how much we meditate or trust ourselves or practice mindulness and intention, there will (if we’re lucky) be parts of the day when we feel strong, and others when we crumple with impatience and doubt.


You know how it goes: when a subject is on your mind, the universe has a way of surfacing all that relates.

So it was that, earlier this week, I opened Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. I opened it in search of some morsel I might share with my Monday night class as we began our segment on poetry. Instead, I stumbled on the passage below, which says, I think, everything:

There is here no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without the fear that after them may come no summer. It does come. But it comes only to the patient, who are there as though eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and wide. I learn it daily, learn it with pain to which I am grateful: patience is everything!





On Canteloupe, Dating, and More Grandmotherly Wisdom

“We knew this was going to happen.”

My grandmother (Can we call her S? Should we call her S? Let’s call her S. Glad we had this talk.) was standing above my desk and handing over a plate of canteloupe–freshly sliced.

She was shaking her head.

“Ever since you were little,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Everyone’s been treating you like a princess.”

I grinned and nodded and, feeling rather smug about being so chirpily self-aware, resumed writing.

“Yep,” I said. “I know.

This all, as things often do, began with melon. (By often I of course mean one time–in the form of a five-page rant in a Philip Roth memoir from which I quoted extensively in the preface to my MFA dissertation.)

It was sitting there for days.

“Aren’t you going to eat the melon?” S had asked, nodding her head in it’s neglected direction.

I tried to submit that the thing was hidden: set, as it was, on a kitchen side table atop a camouflaging pink tablecloth and beside a malfunctioning clock radio that blinks constantly.

But then I fessed up.

“Actually,” I said, “I have a hard time with melon.”

S shot me a trademark look that conveys a particular brand of bafflement: one she is known to deploy when I tell her I’d like to dye a streak of hair red or paint one nail green or drink yet another bottle of flavored seltzer.

“What,” she pleaded, “does that mean?”

“Well, I’m kind of lazy about slicing it,” I attempted. “It’s just such a pain…and I never know how to tell when it’s ripe…and, I don’t know…I just tend not to eat it.”

I tried hedging my admission with the fact that I don’t much like melon to begin with; I even tried telling her that I sometimes deign to actually peel a mango.

But it was too late.

“What if I were to cut it for you?”

I gulped. “I mean–that’d be great!”

Which is how I wound up, the following day, cheerfully snacking on her pre-cut canteloupe and discussing the fact that I have spent my entire life dependent on others.

“One day I’ll get married and it’ll be fine,” I joked–a comment that shamed me so abruptly that I soon switched course.

“I mean, one of my few skills  is making friends. I always have friends around to help me with things.” Memories surfaced: my dear pal P sitting on the vomit-green carpet of a college bedroom, dutifully assembling my IKEA shelf; L, a grad school buddy, who singlehandedly folded and packed my entire wardrobe pre-move. I’m not joking.

By now, S had begun to fold the pair of yellow tights whose sight, balled up on my bed, had grown too much for her to bear.

“So listen,” she said. “If you have such good friends, how come none of them can help you with the husband part?”

If I knew the answer, of course, I would not have spent the past 450 words on a preamble. Alas.

As I told her, I can guess: set-ups are tough. Attraction is fickle. For all the millions of single men who supposedly populate Manhattan, most interesting people claim to know none.

S has no time for such excuses. She’s spent the larger part of 2012 in pursuit of someone’s phantom multiracial grandson, a doctor who lives in Philadelphia. (“What matters is that he’s nice!”)

Of course, most people love the idea of setting friends up. My parents met on a blind date–the couple who arranged them will forever occupy legend status in my family’s orbit. Recently, at what may have been the gayest party in New York City, I managed to consume a lot of aged whiskey and smooch the only straight man in attendance in dangerously close proximity to what must have been the priciest coat pile east of Battery Park–when the host walked in, he was only thrilled. “Fabulous!” he cried. “I love it when people meet at my parties!”

All to say that consensus seems widespread: there’s no better way to meet someone than through friends. And yet, in a lifetime of turning to mine for nearly every form of available assistance and support, from slicing my fruit to folding my clothes, seldom have they overtly tried to help me get a guy.

But then, as I suspect Roth would agree, men have a little in common with melon: difficult to pick out, hard to predict, a potential headache, basically, all around.

Perhaps I should give that doctor a call.