Many moons ago, I ate lunch with my boss and our team. Back then, I was a vegetarian and ordered gnocchi at this excellent Italian restaurant near our office. The restaurant had a crackling fireplace and wooden beams zigzagging across the ceiling.
Out of nowhere — zap! — he asked me what my goals were.
In our office building was a doctor’s office. To that doctor’s office came a boy or man with one of those halos drilled into his skull. I had trouble looking at this man from the balcony above without feeling a tad nauseous. I did not like thinking of having metal drilled into me.
This was a loooong time ago, and I’d never seen a halo.
It seems odd that I saw this boy enough to remember it. He must have had a lot of doctor’s appointments.
I kept thinking of that boy — thought of him many times over the years — and wondered if he got 100% better.
I was young, but I was never the kind who felt immortal. A lot of people in their 20s do feel that way, and I think everyone should enjoy that time period if they can. I felt extremely mortal, especially after seeing that halo.
When that boss — such a great person — asked me what my goal was, I told him I would have a book of poetry published.
His eyes became wide.
I knew why.
There’s no money in it.
Business people often want to know why someone would pursue something with no money in it. If you’re reading this, you’re probably an artist of some kind. I know I don’t have to tell you. 
Unless you’re the kind who sells installations to Nordstom’s for $25,000 a pop.
The words escaped my mouth before I realized it. I was a bit surprised at myself. I figured the ‘right’ answer would be to say, “raise $42 million for INSERT NONPROFIT HERE)” since that is what our company helped to do.
What’s amazing is to look back on that conversation and think that the poetry book is coming. After all that time.
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
In 1987, I was that boy with the halo. I pray he is 100% better. But, if he is like me, he is not. The older I get, the more I pay for that time I spent in the halo.
I’ve been reading your blog for about three years now, off and on. your poetry, your voice, your life experience, seem so similar to mine. Over the years I’ve grappled with feeling like I don’t belong, like i was kicked out of life, art, love, by a group of peers i’d known in college. That group of people migrated all over the united states, and I imagined that any people who carried shades of that small group would feel the same about me.
you, your blog, this network and your magazine grab the personalities of all of those people, except this time I get to be included, and I am like you. A great relation.
I hope someday, in my life, maybe, to see my own book. Thank you.
Lisa,
Thank you for your thoughtful post. I had not thought of it as not belonging, yet I see where you’re coming from on that. To me, writing poetry seems so normal –why wouldn’t you, right?–that it takes me a moment these days to remember some folks find that odd.
I’ve also found, over the years, that more and more people find my writing of poems strange.
Usually, they seem to think it’s interesting even if they don’t read poetry.
Here’s to not belonging — at least in the way we might think we should.