Priorities

Her face is suffused with bliss as the whitewater carries her all the way to shore. She’s pushed up, beaming, holding onto the boogie board. When it scrapes bottom, she rolls off onto wet sand laughing, then carefully rises to her feet, turns around, and wades back out. Short auburn hair plasters her scalp, and she wears a matching floral-print one-piece. Again and again she rides, her elation contagious. So I set down my bag and hat, and go back in, though I’d been on the way home. Her delight in the day ripples out and I laugh with her, wading into the waves. I estimate her age at 80-ish, maybe 90. 

It’s good to be reminded of priorities. I’d been working on a marketing questionnaire for the novella’s publisher. (Letters to Lulu hits bookstores next year!) I got wrapped up in social media numbers, and noticed that I wanted to inflate them, in comparison to a mythical bestselling writer.

Hello! My value is not dependent on how many followers I have, nor the number of ‘influential’ connections. Yes, I understand the correlation to selling books. But I’d rather be healthy, riding waves at 80, than famous. I am inspired by the boogie boarder, full of joy in the moment. If folks appreciate my work, grand. If not, it won’t stop me from creating — and putting it out there — as it has in the past. 

Twenty-five years ago I was derailed by feedback to my essay, “Free Love Ain’t.” But I recently recognized that I’ve also been derailed by flattery. When another publisher expressed interest in my poetry manuscript last month, I walked around in a daze for hours. It threw me off balance. But why the disbelief? Of course he likes my poems. I like my poems! What kind of twisted thinking is amazed that someone likes my words? my work? me? 

Yep, kudos are great. And scorn stings. And I am the same dog, the same human whether you like me or not. I don’t have to conform or perform or pretend to fit in to garner approval. I am learning to approve of myself (practice practice practice). To that end, the phone is off. Notifications come straight from the bod. Ding!