Driving and crying
All the way home from Oakland
because the young engraver you so thoroughly vetted (i.e. know nothing about beyond his stellar work)
totally ditched your lesson.
This was the day in which you were going to invest money to learn the use of your Lindsay Graver,
the one you've had since your first mother's day three years ago.
The one that is wasting under your leather bench,
the one that would make life so much easier.
Three years of some day
You get home and you call your mentor, chin wobbling.
You ask if she knows anyone who can help and as always she has answers,
You send a few emails.
Panic hovers for some reason, still.
Your mentor texts you an Instagram picture of the guy who was supposed to teach you today,
half naked behind his girlfriend. Posted this hour.
You feel stupid and suddenly old.
All of this resistance, all of these little pressures,
You gather the manuals.
Your husband reads their Greek and translates them into English.
You are all plugged in.
Hug his neck, that kind and patient man.
Thank him for this gift given three years ago.
Haltingly at first, you engrave.
See a ballerina dancing on a crescent moon.
Let it be chicken scratch.
Let it look kinda rough,
with a twisted foot and a crab hand,
please let those things be.
Let yourself get out from underneath the critic
long enough to play.
All of this to say: when things fail, when resistance threatens to keep everything caged
just keep breathing, keep trying and keep taking baby steps relentlessly
Don't let things not going the way you think they should keep you from
doing what you've longed dreamed.
Always and forever,