Nobody said it'd be easy

“I miss Mara." Urania flopped into a chair, picked up a book from the Poetry Plus Writer’s Collective, and growled. Home from their earlier-than-usual morning stroll, it was time to get to work. On the walk, Urania yanked at Henny’s leash and snarled at the pup for pulling… and pulled when the fourleg took too long sniffing. Nia snapped at Cal and Tal’s attempts to shift her mood.

“Nia… Look at us?” asked Calliope.

Nia looked up. “We know you are suffering. We are here for you. What’s wrong?”

“Well… for starters… We’ve been up since well before five, and we were rousted from deep slumber twice before that! What’s a muse gotta do to get a full night’s sleep around here?”

Tal shrugged.
Cal rubbed Henny’s soft ears.

“And… We have been paddling with all of the strength, skills, and charm we can muster.” She tugged at her eyebrow. “It seems we’ll never get away from the shore. We haven’t sold a single book since January thirteenth!”

“Still in the dip?” Tal ventured.

“Grrrrrr!” Nia growled.

Cal’s voice was as soothing as a hot cup of tea with honey. “Listen.” She read the last stanza of a poem written by Christine O’Connor, “The story begins here, In that dark space, Several hundred meters down, Where we join in the same creative light.”

Nia’s squared chin softened. “Thank you. Now let’s take what feels heavy, and find a way to lighten it, shall we?”

---

Typist here… I want to share a story that my friend Sana wrote. When I read it, I felt kinship in the choice I made so many years ago — to be a stay-at-home mom. In many ways it felt (still does) like a stand against the prevailing cultural winds. I am grateful for a spouse who saw the value in our choice (all signs point to a thriving young man) and who now supports my (The Muses?) work in The Dip.

If you enjoy Sana’s writing, here is a link to sign-up to receive her Friday Five-Hundred.

From the Newsletter of Sana Fayaaz

Plastic stethoscopes and pretend bandages were the hallmark of my childhood. I don’t remember asking for these toys, but they were present in ample quantity. When asked the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, answering “Doctor” gave me the look of approval. 

This messaging only became louder with more pressure. My Parents along with their three children got the opportunity to move to America. Mama sold her gold to buy the tickets. Papa sacrificed his reputable career as an Electrical Engineer to work a menial job for our survival. 

Being the oldest of three siblings, it was up to me to lead the way for them. I must step up and have my Parents’ sacrifices be worth it. I gotta be a Doctor.

Grueling Pre-Med courses and volunteer hours at the ER didn’t allow for time to think. I was barely making it, so I applied to schools in the Caribbeans. 

When I received a call and learned that I was accepted, the person on the other end sounded more joyous than me. Where did my excitement go? Not even a hint of happiness.

I called back and turned down Med school. My parents were furious and I became the loser of the family. 

In my efforts to reclaim my glory, I did another repeat version of finding my worth through a career: I took courses to become a CPA. In a dramatic twist of events, I scheduled my third part of the CPA a few days before my wedding setting myself up for failure. Needless to say, I never became a CPA. 

I became a wife and then a Mom, society’s least coveted roles. "You are just a Mom and a stay-at-home wife," I would hear my inner critic say, but back then I was convinced this voice was me and I believed it. 

After so many repeats of the same heroine and plot but different settings, I was weary and explored my heart’s desire beneath the rubble. I started writing personal essays centering around my life as a Mom and Wife in a community of Creatives and there was excitement and thrill; A willingness to learn more and a deeper way to connect with other humans. 

One day I heard a voice say, “I gotta be on The NY Times Bestseller list or else.” I bought into this deception until I tuned in becoming more aware of where this voice was coming from. It was the kid who wanted the look of approval, the young adult craving to be the golden child, and a human longing for acceptance.

Acknowledging each voice, I said: “I’m sorry you carried the burden of fulfilling other people’s vision. I’m sorry you thought you were less than because you didn’t accomplish these goals. This doesn't define our worth. NY Times Bestseller list will not define our worth. Simply write and simply learn. I am not going to taint my experience by pegging it to a future outcome.”