When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.Spent most of my vacation writing. The morning shift. The Osprey shift. The gradual light on the green lawn. I have to admit that I never really got in the zone. I felt rushed and agitated. I had two brainstorms then I promptly forgot them, like the realization you’re always just about to make in therapy, only then it wobbles on the edge of consciousness. I have a fantasy about writers who work full time on their writing that is horse shit. There is nothing pure or privileged or all hail the queen. You have to get to the green. You have to sink it. It’s not up to anyone else.
How do you solve a problem like Maria?
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Betsy Lerner 
You just go along with what the Costume Designer says you have to wear.
Totally get this. It’s sure as shit hard not to psyche oneself out when there’s only a finite amount of time. The harder you try, the more frantic you feel. The fact you had two brainstorms and forgot them might mean they weren’t worthy of remembering – at least that’s what I tell myself.
I just watched a fantastic movie last night – THE REBEL IN THE RYE. Have you seen it? Talk about a tale of traditional publishing, and seeing all the machinations of a rise to glory, and then? No. No to publishing, ever again. I stand in awe, as did so many others, I’m sure.
“How do you solve a problem like Maria?”
You work around it (the problem; or, Maria defined as a problem, as an it, and not as a person; for what is a person but an it?). You redefine it. You cherish it. You turn your back on it. You stumble over it in the dark. You walk away from it. It follows you everywhere. You don’t solve it. It is defining, necessary, inescapable. You drink when you’re thirsty and eat when you’re hungry, and when you’re tired, you go home. If you’re already home, you go to bed and stare at the darkened ceiling until you fall asleep, dreaming of Maria.
I think that each writer must find her own way
I usually follow my heart
Poems come to me.
Prose is different
Harder+
A time of no excuses was the aim, the drive, the nightmare, the quest. It came, thank God before I am too old to remember why I wanted it. (Yes Donna, age still nips at my heels and is annoying.)
I said I had this summer to finish, this summer to finally walk down Maria’s aisle while the rest of the nuns sing that I am not worthy.
On the last day I punched the time clock, I told myself, I am worthy.
If not now, when?
If not now, when?
One month left.
Yes, to osprey time, the best time before the rest of the day fucks up my journey.
Yes to finishing.
If not now, when?
The path of least resistance is framed by horrendous scenery.
Wine.
A big pour. I usually don’t drink & write but when restless, yup. It helps.
Very carefully.🤔🤷🏻♂️
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My youngest daughter is a Maria. She’s 17. Headstrong, opinionated, argumentative, generous, and musically gifted.
Authoritarians do not like her. That’s fine by me. She bought a t-shirt recently that says, “I got it from my Mama.”
Maria’s aren’t a problem to be solved. They are an opportunity to explore. Just because someone/something is difficult doesn’t make them/it unworthy.
Keep pushing forward.
Imagine a world where all the Marias had been fixed. That would be pretty fucked up. White walls and ceiling, bars on the door, no window for sunlight or air.
You don’t really have to get to the green and sink it. There are whole other games, and a crazy friend like Maria knows enough by now to throw those stupid clubs in the water and help you go find a new thing, twice the fun, half the bunions.
You still have to work hard to win, but at least you found a game where the type of suffering suits you. And I quite like the collisions.
But, Maria isn’t the problem.
She only reminds all who toil within those lives of quiet desperation that there are other choices. Choices that may not meet certain societal expectations, that wander away from “normal”, yet bring a deeper satisfaction to the one willing to be some version of different.
You don’t. She’s a song.
Maria is a variant of the spelling of Miriam. “Miriam” means rebel or rebellion. Maria is not a problem, but a solution. Just like the song says, “When she’s around she takes my blues away.”
The muse does not play our games, but we must be willing to play hers. She is, after all, somewhat of a rebel, teasing us from our own timing. Most times we do not find her, but she finds us with a gentle tap on the shoulder, bringing surprises along with her, whether its in the dead of night, the dawning of a new day or when the sun beats down on one at mid-day in the Arizona desert.
We just need to be still. That’s how we deal with Maria.