What We Don't Know

Part I: Jess

Just for a moment, the stars aligned

Just for a moment, fingers intertwined

Just for a moment, their hearts were full

Just for a moment, silenced was her inner bull

When the moment ended as they feared it would

The world had bent in a way she did not know it could

Life is fleeting and short, moments passing by

Feelings she tried to sort, others made her smile and cry

Just for a moment, the monotony stopped

Just for a moment, the moon and stars popped

Just for a moment, she dared to want more

Just for a moment, reality the stuff of folktale and lore

The intermittent high-pitched buzz of the oven timer interrupts my writing and brings me back to the reality that in one hour the East Side Poetry Club members will be at my apartment for our December meeting and cookie exchange. I have been a member of the group for the past year and a half and this is the first time I am hosting them. 

“Why did I volunteer for December?” I ask myself as I stand up from the couch where I have been trying to finish this month’s poetic contribution and move to the kitchen. Each member is required to make four dozen cookies to contribute to the exchange and share their recipe. My third dozen are done and I remove the cookie sheet to let them cool and replace them with the last batch. 

At twenty-eight I am the youngest member of the club by at least twenty five years. There are ten other women in the club and most of them are in their late sixties, retired or have never worked, who spend their days meeting for lunch, playing tennis and writing poetry. The original four members started the club forty years ago when they were stay at home mothers and their children were toddlers. They met through a community center program and quickly discovered that besides having small children in common, they also all dabbled in writing. The club started very organically with the women meeting each week at a local park or someone’s home and sharing what they had been crafting. Most mothers of young children do not have any spare time to write, so some weeks there was nothing to share and they drank chardonnay and gossiped instead. Eventually, they realized that even short stories were too much and committed to creating poems monthly to share at the meetings. That was the rule; you had to bring something you had written to share with the group for feedback.

The women were brutally honest with their critique of each other’s work, a trait every member appreciated and respected. In fact, if you were not able to hear honest, often harsh, criticism of your work the club was not the place for you. The result had been that every member, except me, had published work over the years. Most published in periodicals or online sites, once the internet became popular twenty years ago. However, one of the women, Maggie Beaverton, was something of a local celebrity having published a short book of poetry. She had made it on morning television shows and even top lists of poets. Maggie was the reason I joined the club, and more so the reason I offered to host the cookie exchange. I was in awe of her and her accomplishments. After publishing her book her life became one of adventure and fun, always being invited to cocktail parties, writing retreats in exotic places and dinners with other writers. 

Over the past two years I had struggled to establish a closer relationship with Maggie. I saw her as the missing ingredient to the recipe that was going to make me an established writer. The other ladies in the club wrote for fun. But I wanted more, I wanted to establish myself as a real writer and make it my career. I had dabbled in short stories since my junior year of high school. At age twenty-two I met my muse and for a time I produced what I thought were great short stories. However, every publisher I sent them to responded with a polite, but direct, rejection of my work. The relationship ended and so did my creativity. 

For a year I did not produce anything; my broken heart and confused brain needed a rest and I dove into my day job as an accountant because words hurt but numbers don’t. It was why I became an accountant; when the world of emotions and feelings became too hard, too overwhelming, numbers always allowed me to focus on the rational. Numbers and math had gotten me through my parent’s divorce, the traumatic death of a close friend in high school, several lost friendships in college and a devastating loss and being told “you don’t mean anything to me, you were just fun”. 

One Saturday morning, I found myself browsing the stacks of poetry books at the downtown bookstore. There was Maggie, looking at a book by Rod McKuen, my favorite poet and one I had turned to help me through my break-up. Maggie was stunning, glamorous even dressed down in jeans, a cream colored sweater and brown boots. I guessed her to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties. She was tall and in great shape with short blond hair cut in a stylish a-frame that just touched her shoulders. She wore minimal make-up, displaying nearly perfect skin with only a few small wrinkles around the eyes. She and I locked eyes as I approached the section of the stacks and reached for the remaining copy of the same book she was perusing. 

“You like his work?” she asked me.

“Definitely. Have you read Thirty-Six?” I replied. 

“No. Actually, someone in my poetry group just introduced him to me at our last meeting. I thought I would check it out.” Maggie said as she thumbed through the book in her hands.

“You are in a poetry group? Wow, that sounds fun” I replied.

“Do you write poetry or just read it?” Maggie asked.

“Just read it. I used to write short stories, but I have been struggling for a while after a break-up so I thought maybe I would try something new to try to get my creative juices flowing” I responded wondering why on earth I was talking so much to this stranger. I was sure she could care less about my sad life and was just making pleasant conversation in the book store. 

“Yep, that happens. I have definitely been there. You know, you should join us. You are a lot younger than we are, so you might be bored, but you might also enjoy it. I’m Maggie, I’m not one of the founding members but I have been a part of the group for about twenty years” she said as she extended her hand to me. 

I reached out to shake it and was comforted that it was a full, genuine handshake. Not one of those limp, fingers only shakes that people give when they won’t remember your name two minutes after the conversation ended. “Thank you Maggie. I am Jess and I would love to come.”

“Great, let’s exchange numbers and I will text you the details. Some of the older ladies in the group haven’t gotten the hang of the texting, but I assume that works for you?” She said with a slight giggle.

“Yes, texting is definitely preferred” I said smiling back. We exchanged numbers, said goodbyes and agreed to talk soon.

There was a part of me that expected to never hear from the woman again. But within a few days she texted me the information for the next meeting. Since then I have been attending monthly but disappointingly Maggie has only come a few times. I thought we connected well in the store and I was really eager to talk with her more. In fact, once I found out that she was published I was secretly hoping she would mentor me to my first book of short stories. After the first club meeting I attended, she was either absent or when she was at the meeting, she was always in deep conversation catching up with the other ladies. I volunteered to host the December meeting and cookie exchange in hopes I could get her to join me for a glass of wine after the others left so I can have some time to talk with her about my plans. She has been so successful and lives just a glamorous, jet setting life, the whole club struggles not to talk endlessly about it when she is unable to come to a meeting. Secretly I am incredibly envious; her life is exactly what I envision for myself and I know that publishing a book the right way will open so many doors. 

I look at the clock, it’s already four o’clock and the ladies arrive at five. They are extremely punctual, often early, so I know it is time for me to get out of my day dream and finish getting ready. I pull the last batch of cookies out of the oven, top off my glass of Syrah and head to the bedroom with a spring in my step. 

Part II: Maggie

I am sitting on my couch in my leggings, a tank top and an old sweater. My hair is in a messy bun and I haven’t brushed my teeth yet even though it is almost four o’clock in the afternoon. I know that I need to get ready for my poetry club meeting but I just can’t seem to get myself off the couch. I haven’t been to a meeting in months. The ladies believe that I am just “so busy” with an exciting life of dating and book signing and traveling. But the truth is I haven’t done any of those things in two years. After my book of poetry was published, life was definitely exciting for a while. My publicist, Lorena,  was able to get me into some pretty exciting events and connected with interesting people. The best event was a week long writing retreat I went to in the Florida Keys. It cost a fortune, but Lorena said it would connect me with some of the most up and coming poets and help stimulate my writing for my next book. All that happened was a larger wedge was driven between me and Mark ending the marriage. We were already in debt and me spending ten thousand dollars without agreeing on it just highlighted that we were no longer on the same page. Since the money was gone and the kids were grown and living their own lives, the divorce was quick; we both wanted out and agreed on everything. We sold the house, split the profit and moved on. It made me sad that after over twenty-five years of marriage we could so easily be without each other.

I have not written anything worth sharing in years, which is why I avoid the club. I am ashamed that whatever talent I had at one point is gone; I am dried up as a writer, as a poet. But because I had been so elusive, no one knew the truth. I really like these women but my shame has been stronger than my desire for the intimacy the club provided. I am ashamed of the person I have become. After the publication I became so self-absorbed, so interested in connecting with “important people” and making myself into someone they would want to include in their circles. I had lost my marriage and distanced myself from family and friends. And in the end, when I do not have the talent to publish again, all of those people are gone and I am alone. 

I make my way from the couch to the kitchen and start unwrapping the cookies I ordered from the bakery for the exchange. In the past I pretended I was an excellent baker too and passed them off as my own creations and people believed it, because I had created an image of perfection.

“I am such a fraud” I said out loud to my cat, the only living being that had been in my condo for months. “I can’t do this anymore”. This year I will confess that I bought, not baked, the beautifully decorated sugar cookies. It is a start to reclaiming myself and my friendships. 

I finish arranging the cookies on an etched glass platter and cover them with clear plastic wrap. I return to the couch and my laptop to finish the poem I have tried to write to bring today. It is not complete, is not my best work and I know my friend’s critique will be hard, but it will be welcome. I have accepted that at this point I need some tough love to get back on track.

Each and every day we walk through a never-ending maze

Our lives moving rapidly from place to place, phase to phase

Carefully placing our feet and choosing which turn we take

Contemplating our path and the decisions we make

We ask, is this one right? Should I have taken another?

What waits for us is a mystery, something to discover

How much is decided for us? How much do we choose?

If we give away our power to another, how much do we lose?

I hit print and hear the wireless printer engage as I walk down the hall towards my room to try to pull myself together. This day is long overdue, and while I am dreading coming clean I am hoping that the love and acceptance that I anticipate will materialize at the meeting. My teeth brushed and shoes on my feet, I take my purse, cookies and the dreadful poem and head out the door. 

Part III: Jess

I am standing in my kitchen loading stemless wine glasses into the dishwasher, careful to place them so they will not shift and collide.  It is almost eleven o’clock at night and the last member of the club has just left. This night certainly did not turn out as I imagined and I  am left mystified at how easily we can believe what we see, or don’t see, and the story we tell ourselves. I had been hoping to spend some time with Maggie and get some mentoring on how to emulate her success. But the Maggie that arrived at my house this evening was a different person from the person I met in the bookstore, or maybe the person I had created in my mind. 

She had arrived around fifteen minutes late, which in itself was odd as I remembered her being very punctual. She was the last to arrive; the rest of us had settled into my small living room with our glasses of wine and poems to share. When I answered the door and she stepped into the entryway I was shocked to see the physical changes. She looked older and worn out. She was still beautiful, but the glamour and elegance had disappeared not only in her clothes and make-up but in the way she carried herself; her shoulders slumped and her hair messy and a look of humiliation on her face.

“Hi” she said as she handed me a plate of beautiful cookies. “I am sorry I am late. Honestly, I almost didn’t come, it was a struggle to get everything together”.

“Well, these cookies look amazing. Clearly, you spent hours decorating. No worries, come on in and grab a glass of wine” I said as she removed her coat and hung it on the hooks behind the door. I quickly walked to the dining table and placed her plate of cookies on it for the exchange that would happen later. 

“Actually, Jess, I didn’t, that’s not the reason I am late” Maggie said. I turned around from the table and I saw that the other eight women in the group were looking at Maggie and taking in the difference in her appearance. It had been at least eight months since she came to a meeting and the change was remarkable in a negative way. “I didn’t bake the cookies, I bought them at the bakery near my condo. I haven’t baked the last few years, I should have been honest. In fact, I haven’t been honest with any of you for years and I can’t do it anymore. You are my friends.”

And with that statement she spent the next thirty minutes filling us all in on the reality of her life; the writing challenges, the isolation, the divorce and the fake persona she had created. By the end we were all in tears with her; partly because of the sadness of the story, the other part the guilt that we had missed what was happening to this woman we cared about.  I know the others felt that more than me, as their history went back over twenty years. I was touched to watch the evening unfold with such love and acceptance. 

For the rest of the evening I realized that if I wanted to publish my work, it was my job to do it. No one was going to mentor me into success, I had to want it bad enough to go get it. I felt a fire light in me like never before. The group gave me great feedback on the start of my poem and we discussed how to turn it into a short story which they agreed to critique the following month. 

As I finish cleaning up the kitchen I feel renewed and hopeful, accepted and strong and I could not wait for the morning to start writing again.