I fear I look like a big ball of nothing. A ball of garbage. A tumbleweed.
I went to Holy Yoga the other day. A Christian-themed, donation-based yoga class. As the teacher guided me through sun salutations, and the music swirled around me, tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.
I just can’t seem to figure out why.
Why has life been sweet to me?
I have been trying to make some decisions regarding an MFA (Masters in Fine Arts, for Creative Writing) for three years now. I go back and forth, back and forth.
You don’t need an MFA to be a writer. A degree won’t give me talent. It’s going to cost a lot of money (i.e. loans.)
But. You would have an informed mentor. The program would impart structure on your writing life. You would have to create dedicated time to the craft. The craft of writing. The language I best understand.
Indecision results in roadblock.
When I lost my job unexpectedly, I hightailed it to the couch to cry. To ask God why.
And when he didn’t answer, I picked up the computer and filled out the application that I’d had sitting open on it for weeks.
I turned in my FAFSA yesterday, because the school acceptance letter told me that was the next step. I feel 17 again, like I did when I filled out papers to get out of my hometown. Just fill in this box here, and these three packets here, and we’re going to hand you a ticket outta here. I feel hopeful.
Does a tumbleweed have a predestined trajectory?
Watch me while I roll, it says, to the wind.
While I gather, I get bigger.
Watch me while I roll.