The Real Prize

In November 2018, I was dressed in a blah-green gown, waiting for over an hour to have some diagnostic images. Knowing I'd be too nervous to sit and read, I'd brought a poem-in-progress to work on. Not just any poem, but — gasp! — a sonnet.

Writing a sonnet, or sticking to a prescribed pattern, is the opposite of my usual process, which is to let my subconscious tear across the page at a full gallop. But there I was in a cold medical facility, with my heart racing and my mind engaged by the intricate puzzle of my poem. Instead of solely thinking about the possible outcomes of the tests, I passed the time trying to find words that would rhyme with "wing" and "fist" and "peach" and also counting iambs on my fingers.

It was wonderful and rewarding in the way unpleasant experiences can sometimes be.

By the time I left the imaging center, I had good news from the doctor and a promising draft for a sonnet.

Fast forward to November 2019: Another green gown and more images and more good news from the doctor. Then, that evening, an email from Randal Burd, the editor/publisher of a literary journal called Sparks of Calliope: He had nominated the sonnet I'd written exactly one year before for a Pushcart Prize.

This is not an essay about prizes, though. About rankings or feeling like a winner.

This is a reflection on reminders: Sometimes good things, small comforts, a feeling that we are seen and even appreciated, come when we most need them. Of course there are many times when they don't come. But sometimes they do.

This post is also my bow to the power of writing — or painting or singing or any activity that's meaningful to you. This is to honor the things that bring us inspiration and delight. This is a small pebble of gratitude for those moments when our minds can emerge from the caves and tunnels and black holes of our fears to wander in open fields where the scent of the sunlit earth beats with a calm and steady heart that says, This joy, this peace, this comfort is real, and it is ours to find.