But one thing: each day we have a superhero persona, and some of us have more admirable superhero personae than others.

In other identities, I have to say I love this post by C. Dale Young:

“Yes, an aspect of being a writer is the odd need to return to the page again and again, to re-inhabit that moment, when creating, in which you can barely find yourself. That space, that place one enters when writing deeply, the space in which you cannot even surprise yourself because you haven’t got a clue what you are producing, the raw material seeming almost to come from nowhere, is addictive. But before the addiction, there had to be desire.”

That’s it.  And that is one reason I had a moment of insatiable hunger for poetry to read today.  In the end, while you may not have a choice on a daily basis what your superhero identity is, you must choose carefully your secret identity.  It may not be the one you’re famous for, but it’s the skin you wear most.

1.    A good neighbor who couldn’t sleep (and who has a strong cordless drill and saw)
2.    Children who slept at someone else’s house
3.    A level (or two)
4.    The cavalry arriving around 9:30 a.m.
5.    A nail gun, a table saw, a 13-year-old picket runner, and a good piece of string
6.    A pleasant distraction for lunch
7.    A plan for the end once the cavalry leaves
8.    Determination for one, and patience for another
9.    Bright halogen lights for working at night
10.  Children who go to sleep quickly

We had so many helping hands—to watch our dogs, watch our kids, dig deep holes, make food, pour concrete, dig wider holes—we never would have been able to do this ourselves.  I have more gratitude than I can muster for all the people who helped us this weekend—thank you a thousand times.  When it’s done, I’ll post pictures of the gates.

1. three posts that had cement that had to be removed, one of which had the mother of all rotted posts and a foot and a half of cement about 10 inches below grade.
2. three post holes that had to be moved due to tree roots or old posts
3. all the rest of the post holes with many tree roots to deal with
4. two kids lowered into a hole to look for a dropped tool after the hole got way too big

The word of the day was “tenacity.”  We may have worked to the bone, worked until it was dark, and only set two posts, but we got it done.

One of the best parts was also the worst–the corner post that was set with the right amount of cement by the previous fence-builders, but below grade, so the post had rotted.  It took two kids and three adults (and a Jeep) and about 4 hours to get it clear so that we could set the new post.  We poked it and pryed it with an iron rod, dug around it with shovels and hands, watered it with a deep root waterer to loosen it up, and then used a borrowed chain from a neighbor and a Jeep to pull the cement out.  In the words of the Wonder Pets, “What’s gonna work? Teamwork!”  So it was horrible that it was so stuck, but great that we could work together to figure out how to defeat it.  I’m on the verge of way-over-extended metaphors here, but you get the point.  Sometimes it takes a lot of work–and asking for help–and some low-geared, horsepower engines–to get unstuck.

Today was demolition day.  I started by removing the life forces that would be threatened by our actions—kids to school, dogs to grammy’s.  Then I water sealed the cross-beams while Marc demolished the fence with the sledgehammer(s), loaded the remnants into the truck and went to the dump. Twice. There are probably about 2 more visits to the dump tomorrow.

There’s something very satisfying about tearing something down that’s broken.  I do it with poems when they’re not working, too.  Extend this metaphor however you want—it still feels good to start something from scratch, from bare bones.  The hard part is getting rid of what seems to be standing in your way in order to start building.  We do this with our gardens—overplant, so that we can cull the extras out so the best plants survive.  This always pains me so much I never do it. I know it’s best for the plants, but I can’t. I see myself too much as a potential culled plant, and I don’t want to go the way of the compost bin.  This explains some of my Myers-Briggs personality traits.

In the meantime, the fence is down, and I feel like our yard is naked.  I want to cover it up with something.

***
In another area, Christchurch was hit by a pretty big earthquake today, so any positive energy, prayers, or any good words to the universe for the folks there would be great.

First, I really appreciated this blog post from Aimee Nezhukumatathil:

What I wanted to talk about here for my last post was the idea of gratitude in a writer’s life. A French proverb says, “Gratitude is the heart’s memory.” I would even say that Gratitude is the writer’s memory.

Second, I want to recognize C. Dale Young’s magnanimous ability for giving us writers some perspective:

Too many poets and writers out there are too entitled. People get sick and die every day. They hurt. They are ill. They might be in a war zone. They might be killed for being different. So, $2.00 to submit poems makes some people upset enough to go ape shit. Well, now I feel good for these people. I actually feel that if that is what upsets them, then they are in pretty good places in their lives. They aren’t dying. They aren’t sick. They aren’t being threatened with harm.

Gratitude is something that I try to think about every day. A list of things I’m grateful for?  Changes every day, but today:

1. My little girl learning to read
2. Trees
3. Chocolate covered blueberries
4. Motorcycle rides
5. Breathing

I could go on, but the point: I could go on. The fact that I have what I need, far more than what I need, that enables me to write poems every day for a month, build a fence, ride a bike, dream about teaching again, dream about a lot, climb a tree, drink a beer–is something to be amazingly grateful for, and to have perspective.

I also realized I’ve totally shifted away from how I wrote when I wrote the Antarctic pieces. Don’t get me wrong, I still have to physically restrain myself from writing about the Ice, but the way my head works with language is very different–which is a feat considering I’ve been writing about the Ice since 1999.  This new stuff is a lot of mental editing–like going on a marathon shopping spree for new clothes.  I try it on, and sometimes throw it out even before it gets down on paper.  Whatever I start writing has to feel like it fits, like a silk blouse. It has to be smooth, and pleasing; otherwise I toss it into the pile. Not even the “see if I like it later” pile.  The “back into the ether for you” pile.  I’m taking more risks, but also am falling into a few old habits. The good part is that I know they’re bad habits and that I need to fix them.

My head is already in “edit” mode, and in filtering out those poems I feel are ready to submit for the fall reading cycle. I am also ready to dive into the new manuscript and scramble it up a bit.  But first a bit of respite–at least long enough to replace about 100 feet of fence.

*poof*

*poof*

Harvest

*poof*