Killing my Darlings

Passion. Nothing worthwhile gets done without it and yet sometimes the object of one's passion, the inspiration, is so out of harmony with everything else that's already paid for (or mortgaged) in your life that there is simply no reasonable ground for it to occupy. This might be something that you cannot afford, whether financially, emotionally, morally - or by some other measure which has meaning for you. This would be something which has the potential to destabilize everything else.

Simply put, we either pursue the object of our passion or we don't. Giving up the pursuit of what ignites us and makes us feel so alive is hard. Many times the outward pursuit is relinquished, but the inner self pines while going through the motions of what is 'left' of life.

As I look back, I see that this had become a pattern for me.
It started when I was eleven, with my first crush on the boy next door. I thought he was the most intriguing and enigmatic creature. We would fly our kites, ride our bikes, run through the rain and race stick boats down the flooded streets, climb trees and fight 'berry wars', pelting each other with the small inedible fruit of the largest tree in the park. Though we would hardly speak to each other directly, I would imagine that we were 'together' within the larger circle of our respective brothers and other friends who were always present.

When he got a girlfriend who was pretty and 'girly' I was devastated. There was no way I could compete. I was a hardcore tomboy, skinny with my hair cropped short. She had shoulder length fling-able hair, wore nail polish and lip gloss and sported two-piece bathing suits while I had not yet graduated from my Speedo Racerback.  It took me a long time to recover from the loss of what I never really had.

In college I fell for another boy, and while those affections were returned, things were complicated by the fact that we both had significant others. This was the first instance of my having to give up the object of my passion for a greater good - and it was hard. For years I did not move on, though I appeared to. There would be other instances, culminating most recently with a yoga practice with which I'd become too involved, to the detriment of my family life. Ultimately, I would find it hard to become too deeply involved with anything at all.

Weaving its way through all of these disappointments has been the practice of poetry writing.
Though the outcome of my efforts has been mixed, writing has yielded at least one very important lesson that I have at last applied to my life in general.

In the process of writing poems, sometimes there is a metaphor, line or word that we are so enamored with that we insist on it. Not that this element might be so bad, on the contrary, it might be brilliant - but our reluctance to take it out prevents us from discovering whether or not it really serves the poem. It is for just this reason that we are strongly advised to remove it.

In life, however, it's tough to question our natural affinities - and even tougher to eliminate them. It's unsettling to think we might have misplaced our love, or our attachments. And finally, it is crushing to think that something we love dearly might not be good for us or serve the highest good of our lives.

Let's be real - many of us might be quite content to leave the 'highest good' out of the equation. What is that anyway, but conjecture? Who can prove what is the highest good, and what combination of elements might bring it about? The argument can end right here and many times it does, however the poetry metaphor appeals to me for a few reasons:

Passion Located and Joy Defined
Passion can clearly be seen to reside with the creator (or experiencer), not capriciously popping up in random objects or situations. The opposite argument - that some object, practice or other person is the originator or source of one's passion, seems hollow. Joy in this context is seen to be what arises naturally out of the engagement of passion with whatever it chooses.  

Editorial License
Of necessity the writer is split - being both the creator and the primary audience for the creation. The editorial function is what causes and simultaneously bridges this gap. It's a kind of holy trinity: the creator gives, the editor takes away, the audience yeas-or-nays - but they're all you. The real-life application of editorial license encourages us to make hay while the sun shines, and to make our own sunshine if necessary.

Making Hay, Making Sunshine
The editor always has something to work with. The creator may become despondent, and the audience might be clueless, but the editor can evaluate what she's got based on her goals. Taking something away spurs the creator on; the editor is in charge of the storyline because she is not wedded to it. She is constantly working with what she has to maximize the Venn of the creator's passion and the audience's joy. 

The Law of Indeterminate Expression
The poem you end up with is never the poem you set out to write. This is an ironclad truth, and one the poet is deeply grateful for (though not at first). You may think you're one step away from perfection, but everything you change changes everything else and you just have to keep going with it till it resolves. If this is done faithfully, the result will say something more important, and say it better, than the original attempt could. Knowing and accepting this from the start takes some of the sting out of the vicissitudes of life.

Inspiration, Not Expiration
The writer is not bound by (or to) what inspires her or her writing. There is no obligation to pay homage, or to ascribe it any unusual power. The writer is free (indeed, required) to take inspiration and bend it to her own purpose. Either that, or it will bend her. Now I fully understand why the poet Kay Ryan told me (when I gushed to her about how much she inspired me), "Go forth and do differently".

As in poetry, chances are neither my passion, my joy, nor I will perish with the thing I must edit out of my life. No doubt something will be lost, something I will miss - except for the belief that in the end, good can and will come without it.