Usually, April, what T.S. Eliot called the cruelest month, is, but it’s also stunningly beautiful, a paradox for a working poet and a gal who, all too often, couldn’t say no. Because I make a hunk of my living from gigs — readings, workshops, talks, projects — and a good many poetry gigs are often ghettoized into April (aka Poetry Month), my Aprils were often overbooked. Not so coincidentally, I often was rocking a sinus infection that wouldn’t let up, a bout of migraines, and a heavy dose of insomnia during this time of the blossoming world ecstatic with life, the same world that inspires me to write poetry (and other things) in the first place.
For a good many years, I’ve been working hard at not working so hard, not just in April but in other months prone to get over-laden with too many yeses and not enough common sense. I can’t tell you how many times I looked at my calendar and realized that when I said yes to a three-week class, a half-day writing workshop, an online class, and a 600-mile round-trip talk (not to mention several volunteer gigs), I didn’t realize all happening within two weeks. “Stop hitting yourself,” we would joke as kids while repeatedly hitting ourselves, but the joke loses its humor when a woman is downing antibiotic, strong coffee, herbal wellness tabs, echinacea, and despite the trouble I have with sugar, a donut because “just fuck it” kicks in at such moments.
This year I’m pleased to report that April, as well as March and May, are spacious with time for 10 minute naps, perusing the New York Time, watching James Corbin’s crosswalk theater production of The Sound of Music three times (once while on hold with AT&T), and covering the bases of my work. I’ve also had the luxury and necessity of being outside more with the glimmering Redbuds and the dew-shining fields.
How I got here drew on the same obsessive planing that got me into this mess in the first place. With my therapist, friends, and on my own, I talked through, made charts of, analyzed late at night and too early in the morning, and fretted over what to say yes and what to say no to. Some of the no’s hurt. Some of the yeses were hard-won. In addition to my usual scheme of questions about how to make a decision based on if it’s mine, there’s a great team involved, it doesn’t hurt my health, and other factors (more of the advice I doled out for years without following it so well here), I worked the numbers. I vowed to keep myself to a certain number of events each month, and I looked at the actual income I would make versus the time involved in making it. I was astonished at how little some things I love doing actually bring in to pay the bills once I factor in preparation, arrangements, driving to and fro, and actually doing the thing itself. I also looked at how many free or nearly free things I do, none of which I regret, but which I need to cull to keep peace in the forest of my health and life.
Did I mention I’m also beginning the book tour for Miriam’s Well? Having driven myself crazy with things I’ve done to promote past books, I spent ample time studying what actually worked in the past and didn’t work. Driving to Oklahoma City and back was fantastic for seeing some beloved family members, who were the only ones who showed up to a reading I had booked. Paying some hundreds of dollars to do a blog tour for which I had to write 15 long posts or interviews with myself only to find a bunch of them posted on sites promoting romance or sci fi novels? Not such a great choice. I also decided to spread out my tour over 18 months since this book is heavy on the Jewish content, the number 18 (which is also the letter Chai) means luck and life in my religion, and mostly because such a wide swath of time means less at once. Because of not overbooking myself, I’ve been able to really focus on the launch events this Saturday without feeling too harried.
The work is just started, and as my friend Stephen reminds me, the road goes on forever. Also, there’s June, and let’s just say I didn’t do such a good job not overdoing it for June. Like making any change, it’s cha cha steps forward and back, plus some Marx-brothers-type tumbles into the ground. As I get older and realize I’m not so good at playing out the energizer bunny without having to pay the devil big-time, I’m committed to show up at the dance with more presence and health, and to stay home marveling at the ordinary a whole lot more too.