I Lifted a 3 lb Weight!

Increment #3: Submit a short essay to a literary magazine or journal: Done!

I did it! Remember that May 1st deadline? I finished my 1,000-word essay and submitted it to Cleaver lit mag’s Short Creative Nonfiction Contest on the theme, Duality. Yes, big theme, small container. I love creative challenges like this. I hope this one loves me back :)

I was sooo happy of myself (thank you Elana via Gretchie for this combo, happy for + proud of = happy of), I could’ve done a cartwheel! And then.

Oops. Nooooo.

I realized I’d misattributed an action described in the tiny body of work.

Egads. Backward cartwheel. In-breath forgetting to let itself back out.

A lesson in the ethics of creative writing for sure. Remember, this was Creative Nonfiction, not Creative Fiction.

Gulp. Ok then.

I wrote to Cleaver’s editor/contest coordinator, described my misstep and my ethic, and offered to withdraw my submission. This was all on May 1st. I did an inward pivot and chalked it up to learning, and patted myself on the back (and front, and up, down, all around) for simply getting the piece written and submitted.

Blink.

Blink blink.

She wrote back offering to open my submission for a quick swap-out from the incorrect to correct version, since none of the evaluators had yet opened any of the entries.

Blink blink blink.

Grace and rush and rush and grace!

I am still learning so much from this process of going all-in as never before as a writer. In returning to (re)build this body memoir, I’m learning about how grace happens in a writer’s life. I’m learning what’s required not only to do the creative work, but what kinds of structures, containers, spaces and times of day best serve this. I’m learning about a new kind of focus and a new kind of tiredness, both. I’m learning what nourishes my concentration and what throws me way out and off my center for the rest of a day. I’m learning how to stand with and behind myself, having my own back while also feeling Spirit and ancestors of so many streams there behind me. I’m learning about this thing called faith in much bigger, quieter ways. I’m learning about the determination of crows, the assurance of mourning doves and the playful precision of hummingbirds.

I’m learning about the whole-person muscularity of creative writing. Speaking of muscularity and muscles . . .

These were my mom’s 3-lb weights which she kept in the cutest little bag EVER. This is how little it is . . .

. . . and my hand is small!

Part of (re)building this body memoir involves strengthening my muscles of attention, listening, consideration, imagination, courage, willingness, experimentation, sustained focus, and did I say learning? It involves strengthening my muscles of boundary management, inner authority and incrementality (thank you InterPlay for those last two!). Without realizing it, I’ve been in a kind of weight training program.

I’m learning it’s not just about strength but flexibility, pliability and restoration too.

Who knew???

You, dear reader, really do give me strength to remain faithful to this work that has been wanting to come through for so long; please don’t underestimate how much your reading means to me, nor my thankfulness. There can be no writers without readers. Oh, and vice-versa too, right?

To close, here’s another excerpt from what was submitted to Cleaver.

*

I’m struck by how much it means for me specifically to be with the women from Okinawa. They have come over 6,000 miles to the belly of empire, from my mother’s mother’s homeland, to give voice to the realities of women, land and waters. All the bodies. All the Life.

My own body feels both powerfully at home with and inspired by these particular women—their stature and movement, their incisiveness based in relationships and research, their commitment and humor.

Is this what belonging feels like?

On our last day together, we gather in small groups. I continue to learn from all the women about creative, nonviolent, indigenous forms of feminist activism.

Once the small group disbands, my longing to connect with the women from Okinawa persists. I continue in conversation with two of them. I express my deep desire to visit there one day.

One says, “Yes, come and visit us!”

I imagine a homecoming. At last.

The other woman places a collection of pages into my hands. It is an endless spreadsheet, double-sided in 8-pt font: “Postwar U.S. Military Crimes Against Women in Okinawa.” The rows and columns detail accounts of abductions, rapes and killings of Okinawan women and girls by U.S. GI’s since 1945, when the U.S. occupation began. These are only the crimes reported.

My inner jaw drops to the ground.

*

Stronger together—let’s do this,

Coke