The Great Cargo of a Writer

“It is always a matter, my darling, of life or death…”

The words above comprise one of the last lines of the poem “The Writer,” by Richard Wilbur. I first stumbled upon Mr. Wilbur’s poem in my 20^th Century Contemporary American poetry course during my senior year of college. The poem is narrated by a mother whose daughter is a writer. The mother describes listening to the intermittent clicking of a typewriter upstairs as her daughter struggles to write a story. Feeling the hardship her daughter faces in being a writer, she compares her to a starling that was trapped in a room in their house once. The bird kept slamming into walls as it struggled to find the open window. He would fall to the ground but get back up every time. Eventually, the bird found his way to freedom.

While it struck me at the time, I have only grown in appreciation of the poem’s words. They perfectly depict the immense struggle, commitment, and sacrifice it takes to be a writer. I’ve thought a lot about this poem in recent weeks and felt the true weight of each word of it.

February has become a challenging month for me as a writer—made even more so last week. February is the month that this world parted ways with two beautiful souls whose lives I helped commemorate with the written word. February is the month I was enlightened to my true purpose as a writer and was bestowed with the honor of carrying out that purpose. February reminds me to stay the course….no matter how difficult….because the words any of us write are infinitely more important than we can possibly realize in the moment. 

On February 11, my friend Larry Kucsulain lost his battle with brain cancer. He was 32 years old and left behind a wife and 2 small boys….one of whom was just born in September. I only came to know Larry last May when I wrote an article on him for the Helena Vigilante, but he inspired me beyond words. An avid skateboard enthusiast himself, Larry was a passionate advocate for the skateboard community in Helena. He was a mentor to the young skaters in town and worked to transform the stereotypes people have about skaters. He made sure the kids knew that not only is skateboarding a serious sport but it can teach you how to be successful in all facets of life.  Larry was beyond grateful for my article. I was beyond grateful for meeting him.

Not long after my article came out I nominated Larry for a contest the Independent Record was holding. The IR was looking to recognize 20 outstanding leaders in the Helena community under the age of 40. I knew Larry had to be on that list.  I wrote a lengthy explanation of why he should be chosen and before I knew it I was opening the paper to see his smiling face in the article among the winning nominations. By writing my article and nominating him for the contest, I helped spread the word about all of the good work he was doing. I was persistent, like the starling, to use my gift as a writer to make sure all of Helena knew who Larry was. In doing so, I played a role in helping immortalize Larry and his life forever.

Hearing about Larry’s passing was incredibly hard for me given the time frame and circumstances. February 21^st this year marks the three year anniversary since my friend Joey lost his sister, Theresa, to Leukemia. She was 31 years old and left behind two-year-old twin daughters. When she passed, Joey asked me to help him write a eulogy for her. That piece of writing quickly became the most significant of my career. Preserving a small piece of the greatness that was her life opened my eyes to the true power and glory of the written word.

The situations between Larry and Theresa were disturbingly similar and unfair in ways I still can’t make peace with God on. I had the honor of meeting Larry and sharing his story while he was still alive. I never had the privilege to meet Theresa and when I shared her story it was in remembrance of a life already over. When I first heard the news that Larry had passed I broke down crying—not just because he was gone but because I finally made the connection in my mind between him and Theresa and the fact that writing was what connected me to both. I am eternally tied to them in a way I can’t possibly explain to anyone. God may have given me the gift of writing but they gave me the purpose for that gift.

I have this belief that writing can heal---heal the writer, heal the reader, heal the person the writing is about. Nothing I wrote could have saved Larry or Theresa, but I like to believe the words I wrote about each of them will, in time, offer healing to the loved ones they left behind. The individuals I have had the blessing of writing about are doing far greater things in this world than I am. But in helping share their stories and greatness, I get to be a companion forever on their journey. To Teresa and Larry, I carry each of you with me with every word I write.    

Writing is always a matter of life and death. The words we write can be the difference between keeping an idea, a belief, a memory, a relationship, a dream, an accomplishment or even a life vibrant and a part of us forever. It is critical that the ones who have the gift to write never turn away from it because the rest of the world needs us. This reality is what makes the life of the writer laden with such “great cargo.” When you come across a writer please wish them a lucky passage for me. The true ones will smile back at you in gratitude. 

The Writer by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house

Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,

My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing

From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff

Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:

I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,

As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.

A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,

And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling

Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;

How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;

And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,

We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature

Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove

To the hard floor, or at the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,

For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,

Beating a smooth course for the right window

And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,

Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish

What I wished you before, but harder. 

My Blog's 2-Year Anniversary!!

Last year my dad told me he would buy me an NHL team jersey to wear for hockey, but I had to pick the team and a player’s name to put on the back. I don’t watch a lot of professional hockey but I knew I wanted one of the original six teams and since I have family roots in Canada, I wanted a Canadien team. Wanting to differentiate myself from my dad’s favorite team, I chose the Maple Leafs. I didn’t know any of the players so I told my dad he’d have to pick one for me. I couldn’t have prepared myself for who he chose.

Tie Domi, #28. I’d never heard of him. But one 30 second YouTube video gave me a pretty good idea of why my dad picked him for me. The video showed him dumping a water bottle on a heckler sitting behind him while he was in the penalty box, which quickly escalated to a full out brawl. To put it simply, Domi was a FIGHTER. He played off and on for the Maple Leafs during his 16-year NHL career from 1989—2006.  He has more penalty minutes than any player in the history of the Maple Leafs and is ranked third overall in penalty minutes in NHL history. Every time I put on his jersey now, I remind myself to be a fighter.

On January 23, 2014 I celebrated the 2-year anniversary of my blog. The whole week leading up to my anniversary, I was trying to formulate what exactly to write about for such an auspicious occasion. For some reason my dad’s choice of Tie Domi as my hockey player kept popping into my head. He was a true fighter all the way through his hockey career. Looking back, I realized that I’ve been a fighter the whole way through my writing career as well.

I’ve been out of college for over five years now, and I have yet to go a single month without paid writing work. Most days it feels like I get paid in pennies, if at all. But when I think about the fact that I’ve never had a shortage of work, I realize that my dream is still unfolding. Achieving the greatness I want with my writing has been slow coming, but I’ve stayed the course. This past year has been full of writing milestones for me, and the most beautiful part is that I’ve had personal ties to all of them.

Last spring the editor of the Helena Vigilante asked me to go interview Larry Kucsulain, the owner of Cutbird Skateboards. I only had to spend about five minutes with Larry to realize that he is a truly unique soul. Not only is he an incredibly gracious and friendly man, but he is one of the rare people who is actually trying to make a difference in the world and change the lives of others. He is a major proponent of skating in town and dispelling all negative stereotypes people have about skaters. He helps kids improve their skills, keeps them drug and violence free and sees to it that their success as skaters transfers to their academic life as well. It was a true privilege not only to meet and befriend Larry, but to spread the word about all of the amazing work he is doing in the community.

 

Earlier this fall, I learned the heartbreaking news that Larry was diagnosed with stage 4 of an aggressive form of brain cancer. While immediately undergoing surgery and maintaining the most upbeat attitude possible, the last I heard he was moved to hospice care and only given 2—4 months to live. Not a single day has passed since I first heard the news that I haven’t prayed for him. For me, he isn’t just some skater guy that I wrote a humble article on. He is someone who touched my soul and who I am forever bound to by the words I strung together to share his story. Peace be with you Larry, and never EVER give up the fight. 

On April 19, 2014, I was baptized into the Catholic Church. It was the most transformative and beautiful night of my life. I was glowing from the inside all the way out for weeks afterwards. I was so inspired that I was practically bursting to write about every feeling inside me. I couldn’t get the words down on the page fast enough. As soon as I read through it the first time, I knew my Easter blog post was one of my very favorite ones. The best part though, was how many other people read and reacted to it. I think it meant something to a lot of people, regardless of where their faith and beliefs lay. 

A few weeks after Easter, my boyfriend of over 8 years proposed to me. Only a week into our blissful engagement, my family received a devastating blow. My fiancé, Andy, was diagnosed with MS. I saw the future I had started to plan flash before my eyes….and I wondered if this was how it would all come crashing down. But I quickly realized that God had not cast us aside or forgotten us. We were blessed with a wonderful and compassionate team of doctors who gave us reassurance and got Andy’s health as close to back to normal again as possible. He has been completely unfazed since and I know all the way through to my bones that he will triumph over his MS and it will never slow him or us down. 

 Once the dust from that storm had settled, I felt a tug inside me and knew that I needed to write about my experience….from engagement to ER. I felt terrified and knew that it would be emotional to write, but that was exactly why I knew I had to do it. By not writing about it, I would let fear conquer me rather than me conquering it. The response I received from that blog post was overwhelming. Messages started flowing in within minutes of publishing it that offered words of encouragement and support as well as praise for me simply having the courage to write about everything. To date, that post has the highest readership of any posts on my blog.

 This past fall, I had another article published in Distinctly Montana Magazine. It wasn’t exactly the article I initially proposed to them, but it still gave voice to my topic: women motocross riders. I am certainly not the fastest or most skilled rider. I have only rode in a couple of off-road races that I was happy just to finish. But as I’ve grown as a rider, I’ve had the privilege of riding alongside several other girls who aren’t afraid to get dirty and push themselves beyond what society often thinks girls are capable of. Opening the magazine and seeing my article and byline along with pictures of lady riders flying off jumps as well as a photo of me on my bike, was a pretty special moment to say the least. I hope other women read it and were inspired to try learning how to ride.

 Ever since I started writing for the Independent Record six months after graduating college, I always longed to write a feature article for them. Unfortunately, everything I wrote was usually brief and printed in special inserts in the paper. Thankfully, the gutsy ambition of my cousin this past summer finally lent me the opportunity to snag my dream in glorious fashion. Ashley, along with her boyfriend Sam made the decision one day to ride their mountain bikes the entire length of the Continental Divide Trail—which runs from the Canadian border to Mexico for nearly 3,000 miles! Not long after finishing their trip, Ashley’s mom contacted me to see if I could help get an article written about them. After hounding the IR editor for a few weeks, he finally gave me the green light. On Thanksgiving Day I opened the newspaper to see my article and several colorful pictures spilling over two pages in the newspaper. Not only did I get to check another item off of my writing bucket list but I was awarded the honor of getting to share my cousin’s incredible accomplishment.

 A few weeks ago, my writing resume was kicked up a large notch when I added SnoWest to my list of publications. After participating in a women’s snowmobile riding clinic with pro rider, Dan Adams, last February, I knew I had to write an article about it. Not only did that clinic dramatically transform my riding abilities and confidence but it opened my eyes to the serious level of commitment other girls just like me have to that sport. I asked Dan Adams if he could pass the idea along to the editor of SnoWest, which he was only too happy to do. After weeks of no responses back, I began hounding the editor and publisher myself. When they asked me exactly what I wanted to write about, I don’t think they were prepared for the passionate and well-versed response I gave back. I knew they wouldn’t be able to say no. After piecing together my memories and questioning some of the other ladies who attended the clinic with me, I had a ready to go piece. I submitted it along with several pictures and then began the anxious wait. When my January issue of SnoWest finally arrived in the mail I couldn’t flip through it fast enough until I saw my article. It was one of my proudest writing moments.

 While my name has yet to grace the spine of a novel at Barns and Nobel’s or make the New York Times Best Sellers List, I feel that my career as a writer thus far has been a successful one. What I am most proud of at the end of the day, however, is the fact that I’ve never given up on my dream. I've kept fighting. It isn’t easy being a writer and, for the most part, it doesn’t pay the bills. But the smiles and words of praise and gratitude I receive after each piece, is reward enough. 

I set a goal 2 years ago when I started this blog to make a difference with my writing and to do something good with it. Whether it’s telling the amazing stories of people in my community or helping open doors for women in the activities I love, I’d say that so far I’ve met my goal and then some.

Here’s to a third and hopefully even more glorious year of writing about and living the dream………  

 

The Little In Between Moments

Sometimes, I think, we devote so much time and energy to waiting and planning for those big milestone moments of our lives that we neglect to appreciate the small and seemingly insignificant moments in between. This past Christmas was a strange one for me. I knew going into it that it would be the last Christmas with my family before I get married. I know that next year, traditions may change and it is likely that there will be Christmases in the years to come when I won’t even see my parents and grandparents---who I traditionally spend Christmas with. The realization of that impending change only echoed what has seemed like an endless string of changes that I have struggled to cope with in the past few years.

Most of my closest friends have gotten married and popped out babies and no longer have time for me. Some friends have moved to other parts of the country and I hardly ever see them anymore. Others are wrapped up in their prospering careers and building their custom dream homes. And with wedding bells chiming in my ears daily, I now find myself on a collision course towards all those final bindings of adulthood…….and quite frankly, I hate it.

I don’t quite remember when times were simpler, but it was a long time ago. Thankfully, however, Christmas morning brought with it more than just presents under the tree. It gave me one of those “in between” moments. Those moments you don’t think much about at the time, but that mean something to you down the road. That moment involved me and my dad, two hockey sticks, and a slippery road.

The streets in my parents’ neighborhood were literally sheets of ice on Christmas day. I joked that if I had brought my skates over, I would’ve tried skating on them. Apparently my dad didn’t entirely think I was joking. After returning home from visiting some friends, he grabbed two sticks out of the garage and whacked a puck out onto the shiny street. He yelled at me to grab my new Toronto Maple Leaf’s jersey he’d got me for Christmas so we could take a picture playing on the street. 

With him in his Montreal Canadien’s jersey and me in my Maple Leaf’s one, we stood on opposite ends of the street passing the puck back and forth. I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood could hear the loud thwacking sounds of the puck hitting on and off our sticks over and over again. As we passed, my dad told me how he was pretty sure it was the first time he’d played ice hockey in the streets since he was a kid. He said how when he was a kid, all the neighborhood boys would get together and make sticks out of plywood because none of them had real sticks. Of course, the sticks were only good for about one hit or so before busting, but they didn’t care. He recalled the glorious day, though, when the first kid got a real stick and they all oooed and awwwd over it and swapped it between them. 

As he talked, I forgot all about my wedding stress and worries about work, money, friends, kids and a dozen and a half other things. All I focused on was the feel of the stick in my hands and the reverberation of the puck hitting against it. It seemed so old-fashioned to be out playing in the street before a holiday dinner….like something you’d see depicted in a Norman Rockwell painting. It seemed like such a simple thing, but in that moment I somehow knew in my gut that that moment would matter to me later.

I’ve had a lot of unique opportunities in the past couple of years to share in some of my dad’s greatest passions. Hockey has been one of my very favorites. I have played in dozens of games with my dad and he’s been there to see me score all of my goals. Those were great moments. But I think that Christmas morning, out on the slippery street outside our house passing the puck between us, was the best one yet.

We always take care to appreciate, document and put to memory the big moments in life like graduations, weddings, and babies. But sometimes, just sometimes, it’s those little moments in between that will grow the deepest roots in our soul and keep us appreciating and loving life and all of the people we share it with for much longer than a lifetime.

A Best Friend

For children, Christmas is a magical holiday---filled with elaborately decorated trees, endless trays of baked goods and candies and presents that appear from a mysterious red robed man from the frozen north. As we grow into adults, however, Christmas tends to lose its magical nature. It becomes more about money, family obligations, and desperately trolling department stores for the best bargain. We forget those cherished elements of Christmas that made our eyes light up in merriment as a child.

But ask any adult what their favorite Christmas present was as a child and it’s a sure bet that twinkle will reignite behind their eyes. I was blessed to receive the best present of my life early on---for my third Christmas.

My dad was born and raised around dogs…..namely German Shepherds. After all, what boy’s life isn’t complete without a dog? Anyone who grows up with a dog understands the immense value they bring to the lives of both children and adults. It only made sense then that he would want a similar furry friend for his daughter to grow up alongside.  

In December 1989, just two months shy of my 4th birthday, Santa left a humble cardboard box on our doorstep with my new best friend curled up inside….Cody the Keeshond. 

She was little more than a wet nose and ball of fur…..but she was my very first puppy. I don’t remember that first morning we met but I always look back through the pictures fondly. We didn’t seem to quite know what to make of each other, but there was clear love for her in my eyes. 

If you’ve never had a dog as a pet, you can’t possibly understand how quickly and thoroughly they enrich one’s life. And if you have had one, there are never enough words to convey what they mean to you. Dogs teach us the true meaning of unconditional love---long before another person does. They teach us trust and loyalty. They show us how sometimes the simplest things in life, like someone coming home at the end of the day, can elicit the greatest joy. Dogs don’t stress about the big things in life…or even the small things for that matter. All they want is a bowl of food each day and the occasional belly rub or pat on the head. If you were to put your dog and your spouse in the trunk of your car for an hour, I can tell you right now that only one of them will still look as happy as ever to see you when you open it back up. No matter how many problems you have in your life, you usually don’t ever come home to problems with your dog. In many ways, dogs are just little furry people that tag along behind us all the time. They have their own vibrant personalities and traits that we grow to know and love as the years pass.

Cody became a member of the Middlestead family in December of 1989. For 13 glorious years she lit up the lives of everyone who came in contact with her. Then that moment came---the only bad time in a dog owner’s life---when we had to tell her goodbye. I spent one of my last afternoons with her laying in the grass out by my playhouse while I read Summer of the Monkey’s by Wilson Rawls. For those who don’t know, he is the same author who wrote Where the Red Fern Grows, a story that epitomizes the love and companionship between a dog and his owner. She had little energy and was clearly not feeling well at the time, but I like to think it meant something to her spending that time with me in the grass.

On June 17, 2002 Cody left us to run, play and eat as much as she wants in the best place possible. No time with any dog is long enough, but the love, compassion, friendship and joy they instill in us stays with us until the end of our days. I was so pleased to hear the other day that Pope Francis once again set himself apart from traditional Catholic theology by announcing that all dogs do go to heaven. “One, day we will see our animals again in the eternity of Christ. Paradise is open to all of God’s creatures," he said.

One day I hope to see Cody’s smile again and to finish the story we started together so many Christmases ago.

Love is Love...

A few days ago as I was scrolling my Facebook newsfeed, I came across a picture of two handsome men standing together holding hands. The left hand of one of the men was elevated slightly to show off a silver band on his ring finger. Both of their faces absolutely radiated happiness. The status accompanying the photo announced that one of the men had proposed to the other while they were out hunting for their perfect Christmas tree together. His response? "Of course I will!"

My first thought at seeing this post was, what a beautiful proposal! My next thought was how much I loved seeing that man proudly showing off his ring and demonstrating for all its significance.

Last week a federal judge overturned Montana's same sex marriage ban, making it the 34th state in the nation to allow such unions. All day long I watched as enthusiastic reactions to this news piled up on Facebook. I have been a devoted admirer of Montana my entire life, but on that particular day, I felt especially proud to call Montana home.

There are plenty of differing opinions on the subject of same sex marriage. From my observations, most of the people against it stand in opposition because they believe it desecrates the sanctity of the true definition of marriage. Most definitions of marriage are derived from scripture and because gay marriage strays from the traditional concept, it seemingly must also go against the will of God.

For several years before my baptism into the Catholic church, I struggled with the notion of joining for a number of reasons. One of those was because of the church's characteristic opposition to gay marriage. It didn't seem right to me to join a faith that was so openly against something I fully supported. I felt like I needed to agree with everything the church taught in order to join.

The more I considered joining the church, however, the more frequently I began attending Mass. And the more readings from scripture I heard, the more I felt drawn to the faith. Maybe it's the fact that I'm a writer that makes me turn more to the written word than the preached interpretations of it. And being a writer, I know just how many ways one can interpret a piece of writing.

During one of my RCIA classes, one of the instructors explained that Catholicism is the "thinking man's religion." It is meant to be questioned and thought about. If it wasn't, why else would Jesus have taught by way of parables? God won't hand us all of the answers to our questions about life.....he doesn't want to. He wants us to think and rationalize and come to see things for ourselves.

After thinking and rationalizing about my new faith----or rather the one that was always in me but took a while to come to light---I still find myself arriving at the same conclusion and stance on same-sex marriage. My opinion is that it should be supported even if it is not accepted.

Each of us is an entirely unique creation. That, I believe, is far more than deliberate on God's end. Christ taught compassion, unconditional love, complete acceptance and forgiveness. He didn't exactly play by the rules of the day either. He pushed buttons and went against the grain. He embraced the outcasts of society and extended an olive branch to those who hated him. And he paid the ultimate price by sacrificing his own life for all of us. ALL. Those who supported and followed him.....those who were unwilling to accept his ways.

I believe that each minority in society was placed here as a test and continued challenge for all of us. None of us are meant to walk this earth alone and unloved. But so many do because they are despised and ostracized for their differences. Even if we can't learn to accept everyone's uniqueness and chosen lifestyle, we should strive to support such things because that is a demonstration of compassion that this world desperately needs.

It was hard coming into a faith that is, at times, in opposition to some of humanity's individuality. But I realized that standing on the outskirts of something you wish would change and simply shaking your head at it, does absolutely nothing. Immersing yourself into it with the hope of enlightening others to an alternate way of thinking, however, provides an opportunity for growth and change. I believe this is true for most anything. Two thousand years ago, when God realized humanity needed salvation, he didn't send a mystical and incomprehensible entity to earth. He sent an average seeming man to walk among men and show them another way of thinking and living. Change must often occur from within and it is only possible when we are willing to look at life through someone else's eyes.

The Road Less Traveled

“I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference…..”

Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the chaos and struggle of a journey that we forget where it all started in the first place. Two weeks ago I received a beautiful reminder.

It was my soon to be sister-in-law’s 21^st birthday and Andy and I paid her a surprise visit while she was studying in the library at Carroll College. I don’t honestly think I’ve stepped foot inside that building since graduating. We wandered the two floors, weaving in and out of bookshelves and study cubes, trying to find her.  We walked by a shelf containing all of the bound theses that seniors from over the years have slaved away at to finish. My eyes scrolled over the book spines desperately searching for my own name. Finally, on the shelf with the other 2009 theses, I saw my last name and thesis title etched into the blue binding. I pulled it off the shelf and then stood there for a moment just staring down at the book in my hands.

As I was finishing up my junior year of college in the spring of 2008, I was asked if I was considering doing a thesis. I learned that I could only graduate with honors if I completed a thesis. Having maintained a 4.0 GPA my entire college career up until then, it seemed like a terrible waste if I didn’t graduate with honors. But what would I write about?

At first I proposed writing an analytical piece about female authors from Montana and how the region influenced their writing…..or something like that. I figured I would sort out the real details later. I jotted a brief description down on the application, had my advisor sign off on it and submitted it. I was officially writing a thesis! I didn’t spend a single minute afterwards thinking about that fact though or my undeveloped topic. 

Then one summer afternoon, just before I was to begin my senior year, everything I had planned changed. 

I was struggling to repair a broken friendship with someone at the time and was emotionally distraught over what to do. I found myself driving up to the tower on the top of MacDonald Pass—I needed to clear my head. I got out of the car, sat down on some crumbling concrete steps with a notebook in hand, and begin writing. I don’t know how long I saw there writing, but when my pen finally paused, I glanced up and felt an answer click inside me.   I knew what I was going to do for my thesis.

As soon as school began at the end of August, I immediately approached my advisor and told him I wanted to write a collection of poems for my thesis instead. I was told I would need to write a minimum of 20 poems for the project. A thesis without any boring research involved? Seemed like I’d found the easy way out……….I couldn’t have been more wrong.

For the next 8 months, I poured everything I had into writing those 20 poems. I didn’t have to spend hours hunched over library books or scrolling the internet for research sources. My sacrifices were much greater. I wrote 20 poems about people and events pulled directly from my own life. And let’s just say, I didn’t pick the happiest of moments or the most loving of individuals to reflect on. I had a tattered and tear-stained notebook I filled with the often aimless thoughts of my mind and slowly crafted them into works of art. It was exhausting. It was heart-wrenching. It required me breaking and giving up pieces of my soul in order to do it. And the worst part was, I workshopped many of my poems during writing classes in school. Whenever students or my teachers said something critical, I knew deep down that they were just discussing the words on the page. But to me, it always felt like a personal attack on my life because the poems were taken right from my life. 

Just before Christmas, I found myself paging through a booklet I’d made of the poems I’d written thus far. It was to be Christmas gift for someone who appeared in several of the poems. As I was reading back over them, I was overwhelmed for the first time in my life with a feeling I thought I’d never ever find. It was passion. I had finally discovered my passion and knew that being a writer was what I was meant to spend my life doing. That moment alone made all of the work thus far and the months of work I had yet to do before graduation all worth it.

A few weeks shy of graduation, I walked into the library and handed a lady my thesis, in its entirety. I knew I should have felt relieved and exhilarated like all of the other honors candidates. But what I felt like was that the real work was only just beginning. My thesis wasn’t an accomplishment to me—it was the inaugural step of a journey. It was something I simply felt compelled to do. And everything about me and my life since has been different ever since. 

Seeing my thesis in the library that night reminded me of how much effort it took for me to come to the realization that I am a writer. And seeing my words bound up in a hard back cover, inspired me to keep doing what I’m doing until I can walk into any book store in the world and pick up a copy of my own book. Choosing the path of a writer with any amount of seriousness absolutely means taking the road less traveled. But I have been walking that path long enough now to know with certainty, that it will truly make the difference in the end.  

The graduation poem I unknowingly wrote to myself