I am absolutely delighted to share with you that my newest collection of poetry, New Bird, is now available for purchase, in time for the start of a much needed spring: https://www.amazon.com/New-Bird-Melissa.../dp/B09TY95XZ9

These days have been dark and hard, and though it feels a bit strange to promote something personal at the present time, my hope is that it brightens your spirits some and gives you an opportunity to seek tiny bits of beauty in your own day.

In the coming days and weeks, I will sharing more information about a few New Bird related events I'll be doing, virtual and real life (a virtual poetry reading? poems hidden around Boston? a giveaway?), so stay tuned. And if you do get a copy of the collection, send me a note and let me know what your favorite poem is or how they are resonating with you. I'd absolutely love to hear.

The title poem, New Bird, is below. Take good care of yourselves and each other, Friends!

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​
New Bird

Just when I am ready to slip under
and
surrender to the slings and arrows,
knowing I’ve seen enough
certain that I can’t face another midnight,
some small speck of a spark
alights
and burns my skin
and lets me know that I am still here.
A cosmic match that begs me
to doubt the despair,
to wonder about my faith,
to entertain
the hope that there might be more to glimpse
in all the tomorrows I fear.
Oh God, please let there be more.

After almost four decades of familiar wings,
I might just come to the gate of Frances’ garden,
her century old roses wrapping me
in blushing pinks and reds,
their cool petals and sunrise scents
calling me back home
to this place that I’m meeting for the very first time,
like an old friend.
As the noon sun glows in greeting,
I just might see a new bird
perched on the worn, warm, red brick wall,
its feathers unfamiliar,
its song strange and silky,
its colors not known to my heart,
and
its glassy eye fixed on mine,
an invitation to stay.
I may just know what it was I was kept for.
Oh God, I hope it happens.

I might be meant to cross an ocean
for just this moment:
to see, to sense, to know
that there are still slices of world I’ve yet to
look upon, to love.
I’ve begun collecting scraps of what is, scratchy and wilted,
from which to build a nest of what could be, wild and strong.
Someday, perhaps, this unexpected raft might agree to
bear me over the white foam sea
and I will stand rooted like an oak
barefoot in the green grasses,
beneath a warm sky,
breathing easy,
with
forty thousand new birds to meet.

I once asked a student whom I was advising on a theatre project what they needed from me in regards to next steps in the process. I was expecting them to ask me to review the draft of their script or help them with subject matter research.

Their answer?

"Honestly? I just need a pep talk.”

Isn't that the truth? We all need support on a regular basis, someone to cheer us on, to reassure us that in the moments when our inner critics start shouting at us, insisting that we aren't "fill in the blank" (smart or capable or brave or, or, or) No matter if we are a beginner starting something completely new for us, feeling the wobbly-ness of the first time, or if we are years into a project or path, and are suffering with that awful sensation of being an imposter, hounded by the sense that soon, everyone will discover you have NO idea what you are doing and laugh you out of the room for trying.

I'm both of those things, ALL THE TIME. I know how paralyzing those fearful feelings are. I used to think if I could soak in enough support or confidence or reassurance, I would have enough to last me through the rest of my life. Though a one time pep talk can leave a powerful imprint on our heart, we are human, and we need pep talks and support and enthusiasm offered to us on a regular basis in order to sustain the kind of belief that we need to do our work (NOT a job) in the world.

To be fair, doubt and fear never really go away, but when we get a pep talk from time to time, from someone we trust and whose words we value, those voices tend to quiet down enough for us to glimpse the strength and beauty of our own heart, and allow us to take the next step towards whatever it is that we believe will make the world a better place.

And sometimes, the best pep talk is something akin to "You're scared? Feeling doubtful? Yeah, me too." Normalizing doubt and fear and "What am I doing and who in the world am I to be doing this?" are meaningful parts of pepping up a fellow human.

Students, teachers, children, parents, friends, partners, HUMAN BEINGS; no matter our role or relationship, we all feel scared sometimes and we all need encouragement.

​​(seriously, go pep up someone you know today. it's free for you, and will make the world feel a little warmer for them.)

Recently, I was on a train traveling back from a holiday visit and about two thirds of the way through my journey, I found myself experiencing a relatively mild, albeit terrifying and uncomfortable, panic attack. Speeding down the tracks in the darkness of the winter evening, and all by myself, I felt truly frightened, alone, and out of control. I could hear the darkest voices in my mind clawing at my heart, and felt like I was trying to hold myself back from falling into an abyss of Big Feelings. My body physical tensed, my heart was pounding, and an uncomfortable heat swept over me, even when I had taken off my sweater and rolled up the sleeves of my dress as far as they would go. To top it all off, it was New Year's Eve, a night of what is supposed to be full of reflection on the past year's experience, and a sense of magic and anticipation about what a new year's invitations might entail. And here I was, crying silent, hot tears into my sleeve, trying to stave off what felt like an emotional avalanche, my head pressed as far towards the window as it could go, simply trying to not freak out my fellow Amtrak passengers.

I have had this experience before. Many times before. And yet, this time was different, and not because the panic and sense of crushing weight and emotional freefalling. What was different about this time was what I decided to do in the moment - on second thought, decided might be too strong a word, as it gives the impression of strength, control, and a sense of being able to press the stop button on the panic at will, which I truly believe isn't possible. Somehow, because of something I can't fully explain, or perhaps simply because of the way the wind was blowing through the universe that evening, I took advantage of the technology I had with me on the train and reached out. Usually in the midst of panic, I lock down. I convince myself that I need to go it alone, sit still, and mentally will the panic to pass through, and quickly. But on the train, instead of sit there alone (at least emotionally), refusing to reach out for help, I found myself connecting with many people I know and love.

I opened my phone and responded to kind New Year's text messages from dear friends in other states, letting their good wishes and thoughtfulness of thinking to reach out to me in the midst of the holidays permeate my raw emotional skin. I opened my email and found myself delighted at reading loving messages of gratitude from loved ones I had sent holiday cards to, reading the messages two or three times, really reading the words, believing them when they typed that they jumped for joy when they got to their mailbox to see some snail mail from me. And going against my instinct not to sign onto social media when I feel panicked or depressed, I opened Instagram and began commenting on some festive posts of folks I follow on Instagram.

Then, without consciously really deciding to, I opened my journal and began composing a poem to help me express what I was feeling and also offer some hope to myself. Writing poetry has always felt second nature to me and inherently soothes my spirit when it's feeling anguish or uncertainty. There's something incredibly empowering about transforming feelings of suffering into something that is beautiful, something that if shared, just might gift something meaningful to someone else who is also suffering. The act of writing this poem for myself on the train was meaningful in a stand-alone way. AND, as a creative human being (is anyone actually not a creative human being?), I felt a pull to share it. On Facebook, of all places. 

In the past year or two, Facebook has become even more of an incessant wall of noise for me than it has ever felt like before, and even when I have felt I had something I wanted to broadcast with the friends I have on the platform, I have decided not to. After all, if the platform brings me so much mental fuzziness, frustration, and general feeling of having wasted so much time, why would I contribute to that overload of too much information, especially for people I know and love in the real life? I care about my own reclaiming of attention, of course. And I care about that reclamation for those I connect with in real life as well. 

In the past year, I have become so focused on limiting the number of posts I share on Facebook (in my experience, something that has helped my mental health and focus IMMENSELY) that in many ways, I think I have also lost sight of how helpful and supportive it can feel to reach out when you are feeling wobbly and feel that big net of community catch you, or at the very least say, "I see you."  

While I am not advocating for oversharing on social media, or frankly, for sharing on social media period, on this really difficult New Year's Eve train ride, I sat in my seat and broke my own rules about posting on Facebook. After a brief debate in my head and heart, I surrendered to my desire to share the poem on my Facebook wall. Over the next ten minutes, hour, three hours, two days, people liked and loved and "cared" about the post, which was lovely. But even more meaningful were the comments. Several people replied that they "really needed" the words I shared, which were purposefully crafted for those of us who were feeling anything but "Happy!" on New Year's Eve. In the ocean of sparkly, dressed up shares on Facebook on a holiday eve, I found myself gutted at how lacking my own pain felt compared to the shiny sentiments, and wanted to broadcast a beacon to others who might feel like I happened to feel, letting them know they weren't alone. Some people just left heart emojis, which again, without words, implied that something I shared resonated with them. Resonance, even on social media, can be real. 

In a sea of filtered photos and updates that act as positivity propaganda, wherein the viewer is meant to believe that the social media poster is full of gratitude and joy all of the time (which isn't possible for human beings), I keep finding myself wishing - at least in the fewer and fewer moments I do spend on social media - that I would more often see things that feel real: images of unremarkable but incredibly courageous maintenance (as opposed to glow-ups), words that express what it feels like to be a human being with soft edges in a sharp cornered world, and admission of not knowing, of wrestling with, of improvising our way through the mess. Perhaps what I really mean is that when I do decide, on a rare occasion, to share something on Facebook, I have the willingness to share the rusty, ordinary, somewhat shabby, downright hideous feeling experiences - experiences that in the end, don't belong to me alone, but to all of us, whether we choose to face these hard truths of being alive or not. And in sharing, not only give myself a gift of feeling supported by others, but weave a sort of digital web, even if temporarily, of others who might feel a little bit misfit for the moment as well. 

Take care this New Year's season, Friends. We're all going to be ok, ok? (a short poem to help light the night a little if you are feeling a bit dim)

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A Prayer for the New Year

If all you can do
tonite
is cradle
the broken bits of what you hoped would be,
(or the unformed pieces of what you wish would wend their way to you)
in your
open, trembling palms -

Release your knotted jaw
to let a strained lullaby escape
your cracked lips,
a wisp of a prayer
released into the dark,
like a song thrush finding its way through the snow to the sky -

perhaps (just perhaps),
you might greet the coming of the moon
like a friend
who might carry with her in her pockets
a slice of hope.

Keeping a little writing vigil at my desk this late autumn afternoon, and expect that I will be here into the late hours. But at least I have some good company ✨

Moody mid-autumn light outside the window here, and yet, here in the dining room, the darkness is starting to creep into the corners of everything, letting me know that before too long, this candle will be the brightest light in the room. I've heated and reheated my mint tea twice already, and a third round in the microwave is inevitable. I'm wearing my husband's wool socks and feel proud that I've already taken three of my six supplements for the day. I'm trying to drink more water today than I did yesterday.

My meditation earlier this afternoon turned into a nap, leaving my cat delighted to have found me asleep in the living room chair, and found his place on my lap, and I wasn't mad about it. The laundry is done but not folded, and I have eaten an entire pot of chicken soup in the last two days. The slow cooker roast beef with carrots, onions, and mash potatoes is waiting for dinner, whenever I feel that I can afford to peel myself away from my laptop, where I am type, type, typing away as my MFA thesis draft deadline approaches this evening.

I had plans for a morning shower that never happened, though I am hoping to take a nice, hot, steamy rinse later on in the evening once the temperatures drop outside. After that, I plan to light a big blaze in the fireplace and try and burn away the rest of the perfectionism I'm hauling around about my paper, the semester, my own imperfections. I can't wait for the feeling of being curled up on the couch, surrounded by all the mismatched and personal treasures we have collected over more than 18 years together, and get away from screens, at least for the night.

I'm daydreaming of a cold January day spent in NYC, watching Hadestown in a warm balcony seat after taking a frigid but wonderful walk in Central Park and eating sushi together in a tiny booth in that unassuming Upper West side restaurant we happened to find that one time. I hope it happens. Until then, as Anne Lamott says, bird by bird; word by word.


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(I've not been writing here this fall, as my writing energy has been almost entirely poured into my thesis all fall, as well as a fair amount of private journaling. But sharing this glimpse of the homestretch here has made me realize how much I miss sharing in this way, and how much I want to get back to this small space sooner rather than later.)