The Kanga's Pouch

Today a few things happened that may or may not be related, but still I’ve found myself connecting the dots, wondering if there are dots, or if it all means nothing more than I’m old.

First, I sent my novel to an agent. This is perhaps not a big first deal. I’ve finished several books and they all were sent away to various places. Each met differing levels of criticism. I have high expectations for this one and so it seems different, although it might not matter… the end result may be the same. It’s sort of like sending a beloved child to kindergarten, not knowing how they’ll be treated once they’re away. The difference is, of course, no one sends a kindergartner home with a note saying, “sorry, this isn’t right for us.” But, it is like once a child as gotten on the school bus, life isn’t ever really the same for them, or for me, because that sweet incubation time is over. I remember once visiting the zoo and watching a momma kangaroo trying to keep her joey in her pouch. The little guy wanted sooo badly to leave, but every time he made the attempt, his mom shoved him back in. I really empathized with that mom kanga when my children wanted to leave the pouch. I wasn’t ever ready for the school bus, the driver’s license, the mission call. Just like I’m never ready for the rejection letters.

I’m probably not ready for my novel to leave home, not because I don’t think it’s finished, but because I don’t want to face the world of hurt that’s waiting. I could keep it here, fiddle with it, crossing Is and dotting Ts, shoving it back into its pouch.

Not because it’s not ready, but because I’m not ready.

Another milestone. My blog passed the one thousand hit mark today. I don’t know if this is a lot or a little, because I don’t want to ask. Somehow asking someone how many hits they got on their blog seems a little like asking their bra size. It shouldn’t matter, A, B or C, because we’re all curvy in our way and whatever we put out into the world is uniquely our own. So, a thousand hits…what does that mean?

And one more thing. I’ve been teaching piano for about four years. Braden is one of my oldest students; we’ve been sharing the bench for a long time. Last week I wrote a letter of recommendation for Braden’s application to an art school, knowing full well that if Braden’s accepted, our years on the bench are over. Braden and I rarely talk of anything that isn’t music related, but, if he leaves, as he should, I will miss him. Not because he isn’t ready to go, but because he takes a part of me with him.

I hope he’ll be treated kindly.