I went back to college. I can hardly believe it. I have been waiting for “my turn” for a very long time. I am so grateful for an insistent therapist and a supportive husband who are helping me overcome my fear of failure. For me, I believe attending college is vital to my writing success. I need to learn so many things and I will triumph because of the confidence I hope to gain.

My first class…wait for it….writing in the wilderness. I honestly can’t think of a better synthesis for me, unless of course we add in motherhood. I am IN LOVE with learning. I don’t know if I can even put my adoration and satisfaction into words. For two Friday nights in a row I have sat at the feet of a very capable, intellectual professor with my laptop. I’ve typed away frantically trying to document every morsel while ogling out the windows of our classroom framing both the majestic peaks of Mt.Timpanogos and Cascade. For three hours each week cloud-gazing has been my privilege and philosophy has been my affair. I try to contain my awe with it all. My whole life has been waiting for this climax, I have to refrain from shouting hallelujahs at all times. Living the dream is overwhelming to my emotions. I’m grateful to have waited for so long because in the waiting I have honed wisdom and gratitude.

God knows what He is doing with my life.

So, my professor, Scott Hatch, is a poet. I swear I wouldn’t be happier if he was Emily Dickinson or Ralph Waldo Emerson. If you think about it, I actually am sitting at their feet, too. He has a lot to teach me. One of his teaching techniques in beautiful language and master transcendentalism is to have his students craft a writer’s journal. Every day, we are to write one paragraph and then when we are all through with our initial writing we are to extrapolate our favorite phrases. He said this is the beginning of poetry.

{this is me screaming in delight} I cannot believe I GET to do this!!!

I thought I would share today’s. I know I’ve been neglecting the blog.

17 May 2015

They gather around the kitchen bar on this Sunday morning. It’s not especially early; we’ve never been good at mornings. I am in my house-dress nibbling on a cupcake left on the counter and they are all already in their Sunday best exposing my guilt in the family’s sluggish morning habits. My hair probably looks like the inside of an anthill, but it bothers nobody, including me. This place is home and approval abounds. I tell of my horrible sleep and start to describe a dream that exposes my stressful night. I had left my five-year-old at school without realizing I missed her school pickup. My fifteen-year-old daughter pours fry sauce generously over her reheated fried rice in a white ceramic bowl, she’s unconventional in her breakfast choices She relays her dream about kissing some boy other than her boyfriend revealing her inner ethos that wants to be loyal. The eleven-year-old gathers and speaks about her dream of finding toys on the side of the road for her baby brother Max, her oldest sister refused to let her take them, disclosing the playful family theory that she is the meanest in the family. Dream interpretation at its finest. Who needs Freud?


They gather
good at mornings
Sunday best
hair like an anthill – it bothers nobody
This place is home
approval abounds
I tell
She relays
speak about her dream
interpretation at its finest
who needs Freud