Rather than write today, I’ve been reading. Reading and editing, that is-- two of my favorite things. For the last several years I have been given one student per year to advise on what will perhaps be the largest undertaking of their lives thus far. The reason for this is because I was once that person. The program is called InterFuture and it is one of the most innovative study abroad programs in the country, allowing a select group of undergrads to create their own research projects and then, after about a year of planning, conduct that research. Oh, and then there’s the part where you have to write the thesis on the back end. I know how amazing this process was, but I also know how rigorous it becomes in the late stages of research design and at some point, it’s going to hit each student what they are taking on and it probably won’t happen until each one of them are on a plane come January 15th.
Since I’ve been in this student’s place before, I dedicated my free time today, commuting and waiting in the doctor’s office, reading iteration III of a research plan that was much improved from the last draft. It gave me pride knowing this person is taking advice and criticism—not just from me but her university advisors—and because she’s putting in the work, it makes me feel that my time has been worth it. The truth is, I have really enjoyed helping Felicia and I know her project is better the more thought I can put into helping her. And that makes me feel good. (Another thing that makes me feel good is knowing I do NOT have swine flu, as confirmed today!)
Being a part of the conceptualization, the ideas, the planning of a piece of research or of writing excites me. Helping to edit and hone that big idea is just plain fun and I’m of the old school where the printed copy and my ink pen catches more errors and provides more thoughtful ideas and solutions than looking at anything on a screen. While it takes time and energy, I can guarantee I will be doing this the rest of my life. Today’s poem takes from this theme. It is a lesser-known poem by one of my favorites, Seamus Heaney, an Irish poet I not only had the honor of meeting while conducting my own InterFuture project eleven years ago, but one of the poets who seems to be able to articulate the process of everything, from farming, to writing to living life and never denies having upward battles in all of the above.
I did not realize it until I read this poem twice today that what is described below is exactly what I do to myself when I write. Interrogate, arrest, draw weapons and fight. In that way I may be my own worst enemy as a self-editor, but once you find that breakthrough, a time where the words you've written convey what you meant to say, it's an overwhelming moment-- told so here in my favorite line from the poem below: "And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed, as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall." While I may not always be civil to myself, I am to my fellow writers' works and especially the young people. I aim to help in her learning, but in a way, aiding Felicia this go-around has made me realize I need to find that same compassion in helping myself. Heaney would probably agree.
From The Frontier Of Writing
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration--
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
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