And she handed me the pen, and told me “make your mark,” and my mind, too nubile and distracted by the itchyness the tag at the rear of that awful neon yellow T, did not recognize the moment of my soul’s conception.
Susan Mayfield was my 6th grade teacher. Susan Mayfield is the most influential teacher of my life. She continues to be my muse, my cheerleader, my therapist, my guardian angel, my role model of living the single fulfilled life. And she is the reason I was recently published in this month’s edition of Mary Jane Farms (on sell at Borders and Barnes and Noble.) Not only did she send me the magazine about a year age, but her note insisted, much like the exchange between us almost 20 years ago, that I “belonged” there. Not that it “fit” me or “reminded her of me” but I belonged there.
I belong to writing. It murders me, and allows me to wallow around weaping in ashes before accumulating the most essential tidbits and reviving the white synapses back into electric motion. I am not fully alive if not writing, as if on life support with artificial machinations cruelly forcing failed and possibly unfaithful organs into slaved subsistence. Writing redeems, something, that which lies undefined and unholy and misshapened and incredibly worth, that in whole, is me.
Task #55: Get something published. Susan, you birthed me…my own mother’s namesake, and the avid cord ever connected, collapsing my frames of memory into the seed of who I have to yet become.
We mark each other, not pages.