-- If I'm writing, then I love everybody, but if I'm not writing, I don't love any of you people . . . -- Dr. Peterson
I will never forget the first time Dr. Peterson said that to me. That statement, as simple as it is, was one of the first things that really rang true for me being an English major. I quickly did an inventory of my life and realized writing is always where I turn. When I'm writing, I'm generally happier than when I'm not. Writing, whether it is my own form of poetry, which I don't really consider poetry in the classic sense or re-writing my book four times until I can live with how it ends; all of those things have been therapy for me over the years. I have survived some of the harshest things thrown my way (up to this point) by writing about them -- hence the blog you are now reading. Blogging is a relatively new (for me), socially constructed tool, and while I don't know what I think of it, I will play along for a bit. As writers, all we want at the end of the day (usually) is for our stuff to be read, to be given some sort of credibility or have someone say they understand what we mean; the rest is gravy.
Monday night I attended a poetry reading by three of the professors in our department. Originally, I think we had it set-up as a goodbye deal, as two of them are leaving, but one of them got upset and said he wouldn't have agreed to read had he known it was his own farewell reading. So nothing was mentioned about their departure at the end of the term and instead they did what they do best -- they shared their work with their colleagues and their students. "I'm just now learning how to talk to you" read Dr. Peterson from the first line of his first poem and immediately the tears began to fill my eyes. I know this poem. He has read it to me before in his office. I knew where the poem was going before he finished it: two spouses, always having to learn how to talk to the other one, missing the children now that they've left the home and the ghost that still roams the halls (in this case, Dr. Peterson's mother), but I think in ways, the quiet that's left behind after years of having rough-housing and arguments and love fill its rooms.
Listening to the poems, we laughed as an audience and yes, a few of us cried. For me, poetry is one of those things I can't really write, but I appreciate it. Dr. Peterson, in particular, has been one of my favorites, simply because of the amount of time I've spent in the last two and half years, in his office, on a Friday afternoon, leaning against the door frame as he read me some random lines. Always the showman, a conversation would make him think of a poem (it didn't have to be his), and the next thing I know, he's standing in the middle of his office reading to me. I've thought numerous times over the last few years: I will miss these Fridays when they no longer exist. Another one of my professors, while not inclined to jump up and read me poetry (even though he has done so over the years), has meandered over to his bookcases more than once, looking for a source that will enhance or conclude our conversation. Pulling a book from his (way-too-organized) bookshelf, he will find the passage and read it aloud to me, leaning over the desk to show it to me in the off chance I don't believe him. Those few lines will then spark a different 30 minute long discussion. My moody poets. That is what I have called them for the past two years, as it is what they are. Passionate about most things, caught up in their own heads usually, academics that just want to write their own stuff, but have to pay the bills somehow -- my moody poets. There are not words to describe the hole that will be left by their day-to-day absence in my life.
I'm beginning to process that this life I've led for the past two and half years is coming to an end. For all of the ups and downs and in-between, it has been one hell of a ride. These people taught me to love literature and appreciate words and what they can do to people and for people, while simultaneously giving me the courage to be myself. Coming in to my first class with the latter of the above-mentioned professors, I was quiet -- as in, I did not talk. We communicated for the first half of the semester via my papers, because I wouldn't say or ask him what I needed to know. He played along, he wrote me essay length responses and forever changed my world by his presence in it. Coming in to his first class, I was a scared kid really, who had been hurt and didn't trust anyone. I would like to think that I'm leaving Heard Hall and my beloved professors as someone a little bit older, a little bit wiser and more trusting than the person I came in as. Even though one of these professors might argue on the little bit wiser part . . .
Yesterday I was in the office, and one of the professors looked at me and asked, "So what's the plan when you leave here? Still changing from day-to-day?" Turning a little bit red and making a momentary decision on whether I wanted to tell him what was going on or not, I stood up from my chair and said "Come with me". Closing the door to his office, I sat down in a chair and told him about the changes happening in my life and how they were partially responsible for my not knowing where I'd end up or what I'd be doing after graduation. The plans I did have -- out the window. Time for a new game plan. There are some things that have to be done, and order in which I have to do them, but the rest?!? For the first time I don't have a "plan," I don't know exactly how things are going to go. As his eyes got wide momentarily, I laughed out loud at his initial reaction. Leaning back in his rolling office chair, he asked me if the person behind all this change was rich? Good looking? Shaking my head when appropriate, his follow-up questions gave him even further reason to believe I had lost my mind, but he just looked at me and said okay. The things we do for love don't always make sense he told me, but still, this wasn't what he expected from me either.
Love,
The Rambling Gypsy
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