Not knowing

My view from the milk stool this morning is an announcement. After much soul searching, I decided to remove my application to Prescott College. While 20 years ago, this may have been an excellent path for me, the likelihood of my getting a job in that field (sustainable food systems) in my 60s was slim to none.

Instead, I put in an application and have been accepted into Lenoir-Rhyne University’s MFA in Creative Writing. This scares the crap out of me. I know I could hack my way through the dual MBA/MS as Prescott College – just like I did with my UNCG degree. Having to rely on my creativity – if indeed there is any – to make it through an MFA is utterly terrifying.

I wrote the head of the program – who is an amazing woman – telling her how much appreciated being accepted but that I was terrified – could I make it. She wrote back, “Yes, you are creative and smart and curious.” Well, yes, I guess I am. Then she wrote back saying, “I will teach plenty about being in the place of not knowing. It’s a good place. It’s where we need to be as writers.”

That was thought provoking. I spend the bulk of my life in a terrifying place of not knowing, or at least thinking I know. Just like I do believing that I’m an imposter and not worthy. It’s a miserable life. I’m constantly searching for that thing that’ll make it work, instead of just doing.

Take that stupid Lensbaby lens that I bought. I haven’t used it in probably a week. I make excuses. The light’s not good, it’s windy, it’s hot, I don’t have time. Instead of just going out, like I did this morning, and using it. The more I use it, the better I’ll get.

That’s it for today. I haven’t even started the paper.

Until later …