one of my favorite poets gets long-listed, and crying during poetry readings

The week-long announcements of the National Book Award long lists was created for book nerds like me. (And yes, I realize 90 percent of my readers just stopped paying attention with that opening sentence.) Each morning, I've eagerly scrolled my feedly feed for a blog entry to show me a new list of stand outs. Monday was young adult literature, which I don’t really follow. But Tuesday was poetry, which promised some new-to-me writers to check out. And at the very top of the list beamed one of my favorite (if one of the only ones I read) poetry books this year. I might have fist pumped while yelling the author’s name. I was at home when this happened, just so you know.

You see, I’ve actually been wanting to tell you, to tell everyone really, about this writer. Meet Ross Gay. I first encountered his writing through an essay, Some Thoughts on Mercy. It was waiting unassumedly in a magazine I’d subscribed to, and in an evening of disciplined reading I opened the magazine and didn’t expect much. Then, I started reading and was startled and also drawn in by his tone, which seemed to communicate an incredible amount of grace — for the police who profile him as a criminal for the color of his skin, for his country that has allowed this behavior to remain the norm, for himself and the wild range of emotions he felt in response. And then the ending. The ending is what got me because he starts talking about his early attempts at bee farming, which at first seems an odd way to reflect on the intense personal experiences he shares. But then you catch onto the emotions he’s describing in his encounter with these bees is so closely reflective of how he responds to the world around him. I can’t do it justice, you just have to read him.

The emotional power and fresh use of imagery in including that scene should have told me this guy was a poet at heart. And he is. But I didn’t really get into his poetry until just a few months ago. The writer’s name had tucked itself into the back of my mind because I kept that wonderful essay as an example of the kind of writing I’d like to emulate. Then, at a writer’s conference, his name jumped out to me when I skimmed the program for seminars to attend. He was doing a reading from his new book. I earmarked the page and put it on my schedule.

The reading included five poets. The first read her over-serious poetry in an over-serious tone that nearly lulled me to sleep. But Ross sat at the end of the table, his long legs splayed before him, his grown out hair tucked into two small buns like martian, his impossibly wide grin spreading the length of his deep jaw. His graciousness was written all over him. I listened as the other four poets read. And then Ross stood up and the energy of the room changed. He smiled and bounced slightly. He set his timer for his 15 minute time slot, and explained he would read one poem from his book, the title poem: Catalogue of Unabashed Gratitude. And off he went.

This wasn’t a reading, it was a performance, a full embodiment of the feeling he meant to convey, which was a joyful thanksgiving for things that most consider quite simple, but in which he recognizes a deeper gift. It was for the words he spoke, and also how intimately and fully he felt them, that I started to cry right there in the brightly lit convention center room. I was a bit embarrassed at first. I feel deeply, but usually not publicly. Maybe it was the lack of sleep and overconsumption of sugar, I reasoned. But then I realized that this is what poetry is: an invitation to live fully and be thankful for all you receive.

I wish you could have been there with me, but second best is watching a different reading of the same poem for yourself. Go here. Minute 23 is the good stuff. (Well, it's all good stuff, but you know what I mean.)

they will keep coming back to you

For me, one of the best parts of visiting far away friends and family is having my coffee made for me. I mean, I guess this is beside the obvious benefit of seeing said friends. My normal routine when I'm home is to get the coffee pot ready the night before and set the timer so that it's brewed by the time I wake up. Staying with friends (or, as was the case last week, having friends stay with me) means that I don't have to think about coffee the night before, because my friends make it for me. (It is occurring to me now that maybe this is something to look for in a husband - someone who will make my coffee? Noted.)

A few weeks ago I stayed with some dear friends in Seattle who made my coffee for me - nice and strong, too. The first morning I was with them I welcomed the coffee but refused breakfast. I had a banana and was eager to get out the door and downtown for the last day of my writing conference. The second morning was different. It was a cold, rainy Sunday morning, and I'd just slept more than 10 hours after 3 long days at the writing conference. I wandered downstairs in my pajamas, hoping there was still some coffee left. Parents were puttering around the kitchen while the kids played around them. They would soon be heading off to church for the morning, while I would stay back and watch rain from their window and contemplate a run (but instead wrap myself in a blanket and read one of the books I'd bought during the conference and allow all the new ideas from the past few days settle in). On the counter, my friend had assembled breakfast options: some rhubarb crisp and two different kinds of oatmeal, which she makes in big batches to nourish her family for days on end.

And that's what I wanted to tell you about, because this oatmeal almost outdid the strong coffee that was waiting for me that morning. I know what you're thinking - oatmeal is usually pretty boring, especially before it's sweetened with raisins and brown sugar. But this oatmeal was special. To make it, my friend had sliced fresh ginger root and added it and some cardamom pods to water, and set it to boil. When the water bubbled and rolled, she added the oats, but also some shredded carrots (and I think she told me she put coconut milk cream in there, but I'm not sure when that happened). I heated mine up with raisins and sugar. It was warm and homey and filling, just like my stay with these friends. And I realized that my friends are on to something here because when you feed your guests this kind of food and have the coffee waiting for them in the morning, they will keep coming back to you.

I've recreated the oatmeal a few times since I've come home. Here's a quick recipe in case you want to try it for yourself (and some future houseguests).

Warm and Homey Oatmeal (yes, I just made that name up)
1 3/4 cup water
sliced fresh ginger
a pinch of salt
a piece of cinnamon stick
a few cardamom pods
a few whole cloves*

Bring these all to a boil over high heat in a covered pot.

Add:
1 cup oatmeal
1/2-ish cup grated carrots
handful of raisins (I used regular, golden would be great, too)

Turn burner down to medium. Bring mixture back to low boil, and cook for about 5 minutes or to your preferred consistency, stirring occasionally. If you plan to use some as leftovers, I'd leave on the thinner side because it thickens as you let it sit.

Makes 2 servings (approximately).

*I haven't tried the cloves yet, but the idea came this morning. I plan to try it next time.

invitation

I wish you could have been there with me.

To experience the rush of winding through the crowds of 12,000 writers carrying bags fills with books and pens and notebooks. To stop for coffee and a scone on the walk from my hotel to the Convention Center, the only real decisions ahead being which panels to choose from. To laugh with me at all the cliches - the mysterious young man in a long black peacoat who sits in a chair, opens his moleskin, and looks around to make observations about all the other attendees, or the young, hip panelist who used the word "narrative" and the qualifier "sort of" after every other word (i.e. he had a... sort of difficult time living out his narrative when he had these... sort of hallucinations...). To discuss excitedly the reading Gregory Martin did of his Stories for Boys and the book on aboriginals in Australia that Amanda Webster is writing.

When I left Seattle, I walked through the airport wheeling behind me my carry-on, heavy with books and journals I'd acquired, while my heart - eager and hungry for what is next - pulled me forward.

I wish that because now I am back and real life has gotten its hold on me and forced me to settle into its regularity and commitments. I am thinking about groceries and cleaning my toilet and when I'll make time for lunch with my friend who works down the block instead of what books I want to read next and the new ideas I have for free writing.

At the conference I wore a badge on a lanyard around my neck to enter the convention center and gain access to the panels and speakers. I hung my pass up on the mirror above my dresser when I got home, knowing I wanted to keep it but not sure why I felt a need to display it. Now it's there as a reminder that I have access. The invitation to that kind of excitement and motivation is a standing one - I'm trying to hold on to this even while I wash dishes and sit in traffic.