working poet

i don't know what it takes for one to reach that moment when they've actually made it. sometimes, i wonder if we all have a chance at it, or if only a few, a select group will ever truly "make it" and i guess that depends on what you mean by making it.

i sat here looking at my fingertips white and raisined from washing mountains of dishes, and it didn't take me too long (surprisingly), sometimes the dread of a thing is worse than the actual thing. thought i learned that long ago. and when we finally submit to the thing, it wasn't so bad. it was even a bit enjoyable.

i get paid to wash dishes, essentially at the new job. i'm not looking to wash dishes at home anymore, all the zen has gone out of it for me. but i know this is not right and cannot long be maintained. we run out of forks and spoons eventually. and i need to stop avoiding it, and get back to washing those dishes.

my now tender (strong but tender) fingertips are back to writing and i wonder if all those artists along the way who have not made it, lost their way in the mundane. or if they found their way through the mundane? the mundane never goes away, it always is waiting for you to come around again.

this could be lifesucking, or it could be lifegiving depending on how you receive it.

right now, it's okay that i've not made it, that i'm not close to making it. i'm not ready to peak yet. i have bigger dreams than that.

but i'm ready to rest. and remind myself that making it is not necessarily what other people deem it is for my life. it is only what i believe it to be.

at this moment, i have no idea what that looks like.

i just know, as long as i can, as long as i'm able, i'll be a working poet first.

i remembered this story of the dali lama, that struck me as utterly opposite of my interactions with the owner of the farm.

the dali lama was staying at a hotel in a town where he was giving a lecture. the first day, he greeted the housekeeper who was waiting by the door when he left for the lecture with such courtesy, such kindness, that each day one or two more housekeepers were waiting with that original housekeeper. by the end of his stay the halls were flanked with the housekeeping staff.

it is not about who you are, but how you treat people. do you respect them and garner that same respect in kind?

by that token, i did not give the owner her due, perhaps. but neither did she give me mine, demanding that i "know" who she is.

fine.

i never want to be that kind of successful person. i have met amazing, famous poets. some with the genuine willingness to treat others with dignity and respect equal to that of the dali lama and the housekeeping staff.

that is my ideal. that is what i strive to attain. to respect persons regardless of their station.

i didn't do so well with the owner and can do better, i will do better.

peace. out.