A decade ago, I got an email from one of my college professors. She let me and a few other former students know that our poetry professor was ill and reaching the end of her life. We were urged to reach out and tell her what she had meant to us. I can’t remember now if it was said explicitly in the email, or simply understood, that as my poetry professor faced her mortality, she was grappling with whether her life had had an impact on anyone.
I stepped away from the computer. I went to the next room and sat down. I put my face in my hands. Not only was I losing my dear poetry professor, but she was wondering that? This is the poetry professor who had introduced me to Mary Oliver, a poet I still read to this day. This was the poetry professor who allowed me to study one-on-one with her for a whole term. We would sit in her little closet of an office and hunch over small poems, yet a whole world was opening for me, a new sky of light and stars. I lost track of time in that office. What did I need time for when I had words I loved? This was the poetry professor who said she would stick by me when the literature magazine that I edited (and she advised) had a fight with the administration over ownership and power. She did just that: she never wavered. Not once.
She taught me so much more than about stanzas and meters and line breaks.
After the email about my professor’s impending death, I wrote to her immediately, but to this day I do not know whether she got my letter before she died. And now, years have passed, but my memory of her has not.
On Tuesday night, I thought of her as I opened the box that got delivered. It held the pages of my first poetry collection—my publisher sent them to me so I could proof them. I thought of her the next day as I was teaching students how to write their life stories—how to use sensory details, how to show emotion through action and setting, how to reflect on the past. I thought of her the other night as I doodled a panel of hearts meant to represent my students and all they had given me and I, too, wondered if my life mattered, if what I was doing would have any impact on anyone. And I thought of her when I felt the joy that comes when one of my students has an aha moment. With clarity and understanding comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes peace.
Yes, Imogene Bolls, you had a tremendous impact, and you will always matter to me.
Upcoming Events
October 10, 1:30 p.m. EST (Zoom): Stop by and Chat with Me
As part of Press 53's anniversary celebration, I will be Zooming with anyone who wants to come by and say hello, ask questions, talk about publishing, about characters, about writing, anything! Please come by and say hello. Free of course. Join here.
October 10, 7:00 p.m. EST (Zoom): Reading from A Small Thing to Want: stories
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October 13, 2020, noon (EST): Let’s Write Together!
Having a hard time finding inspiration and motivation to write? Join me in this online one-hour session. We’ll talk about a piece of writing, I will give you a prompt, and then you will WRITE. This workshop is part of Press 53’s High Road Festival of Poetry and Short Fiction. Cost: $10. Register here.