Promises, Promises.

I'll be the first to admit it.

This blog has been full of empty promises. Promises to write, promises to update. Empty.

It's a good thing I'm not running for office right now (well, I think applying for jobs is kind of like running for office...), becuase someone would certainly call me out. In fact, someone already did. On a brisk and lovely walk this evening, I was telling Mark that my wonderful Millsaps writing class had completely slipped my mind (not to mention that it conflicted with #BachelorBracket), and I was upset that I wouldn't be motivated to write. I have noticed, more and more in the past few months as I have been traveling from place to place and spending a great deal of time sitting in airports, that I often think in essay form. My people watching starts in short sentences in my head, and then evolves into an essay. I told my mom about it, and asked if that was "normal," and she basically said no. So, I started to realize that yes indeed--I need to write.

Mark, in his infinate wisdom, said "Claire, remember your blog?" Oh yes, my blog. The one about Southern States of Mind. The one I was going to update every day with pictures and stories and questions and haiku relating to my two years in Jackson, my two years of teaching and learning about myself and others and everything in between. My blog--my place. Sometimes it was my place--I have 19 posts to my name, people--but it sort of got left in the dust. I filled its void with my writing class, with other short projects, and with thinking about writing, not actually doing it. But now that's over. "Claire," Mark pontificated, "I'll even give you short writing assignments! Like a class!" But no, dear Mark, I can do it on my own. I should do it on my own. Why? Because writing makes me feel as if everything can be organized. It doesn't make things necessarily better, but it gives me order, and the space and time to be with myself. It's scary to click "post" and watch that space become public. But it's important. And it's not as if I have a following. Let's be real people.

Anyway, the point is that instead of taking my writing class, so that I can stay up-to-date as to who Ben is going to choose (Kacie B. please--I hope SOMEONE knows what I am talking about), I'm going to update this blog as often as I can. Every day if I have a computer, every other day if I'm on a visit in Virginia or Oklahoma or Arkansas or Alabama and am writing essays in my head, instead of on a screen.

I have six more months to be here, to be present (thanks for that much needed reminder, my darling Sara Lynn). To explore and investigate and figure out before "real-er" things are supposed to happen. It has become clear to me over the last few days, after so many conversations with so many wonderful, wonderful friends, that "real-er" is not actually real. The last few weeks have been hard--applying for jobs, not exactly knowing what I want to do, but knowing where I want to be. Not knowing what everything (or almost anything) is going to look like after I leave. I'm not good at that. But if I try hard, and if I write and sing and laugh and remember how much I love Jackson, how much I love my job, how much I love my friends, I think it will be fine. And if I'm held accountable by this blog--by my Southern States of Mind--then by golly, it might should have to be fine. No, that wasn't a typo.

Once, during a time that was Hard, Suzy and I wrote a poem with a sentence that popped into my head as I was thinking about what I was going to write tonight.

"It's hard to exist in capital letters."

That's what we wrote.

It is hard to exist in capital letters. Bold and sure and great and more than fine. But I'm going to try.

To capital letters, to words, and to friends who always remind you who you are, even when you forget.

Love,
Claire

PS- Keith? I'm sure you stopped reading around the second sentence. Tomorrow, haiku.