When we were in Amsterdam in 2011, our daughter was 12 years old, and although she very much wanted to see the museums, having been brought up as an 'art kid' I suppose you could say, she also wanted to visit the zoo. There are sculptures throughout the zoo, and there is also a Japanese garden, and at the time we were there, the place had been yarn bombed.
Yesterday was a pretty fun day for me because I found out Rumi and the Red Handbag had rather magically and miraculously ended up on Harper’s Bazaar's #TheList: 15 Books for Fall. Earlier, the book had landed on 49th Shelf's list: Most Anticipated: Our Fall 2015 Fiction Preview.
This morning, my publisher wrote to say that thanks to the Harper's Bazaar list, my book has been ordered into bookstores in Canadian airports. Well, needless to say, none of this sort of stuff usually happens to poets, which I have mainly been up until now. And, I mean, the book hasn't even come out yet, and I haven't gotten a copy so far myself. (Soon, though, soon).
So, yesterday, admittedly, I was flying around high for a little bit. Okay, for most of the day. But today, it's back to life as usual. You know, sweeping the endless dog hair from the floor, trying to figure out what's for dinner, answering emails, organizing all the things, or attempting to and mostly failing. I've experienced enough of the usual writers' humiliations that I know to enjoy these lovely and random bits of good luck. But I also know that the way through this literary life is to neither become too excited by the good bits, nor too despondent about the bad stuff. Which is not to say you shouldn't feel all the feels, but just to remember that it's all ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
Anyway, I suppose yesterday I felt a bit like the yarn bombed buddha, colourful and exposed, and today I'm feeling more myself, or at least making my way back to being centred.