So maybe enjambment is not a word that’s often kicked around in the common parlance but wow, it’s a great one. It refers to (since I know probably one of you, readers, will actually look it up) lines in poetry where a sentence is broken up across lines or stanzas. As in, “so much depends/ upon/ a red wheel/ barrow” ect.
In other words, when there’s more to say but the line is finished. A new start but the same thing continuing.
I want to share with you a few numbers in my life right now that are pretty large. This is my 201st blog post. Which is to say, I’ve been writing here for more than two hundred weeks. Which is a lot of weeks. Today is also my 712th straight day meeting my practice goal on Duolingo. Those are some long lines and I’m pretty proud of them. I struggle to be dedicated to much, so I’m proud to have those two things, however trivial, to say that I can stick with something.
Patterns like those are a bit of an anchor when the rest of things seem to be so up in the air. Enjambments can be so interesting but I’ll tell you, it’s not loads of fun living in a line break. The history of my line spacing has been pretty thick–about six months after grad school and Korea alike. Hopefully, this time will be a little more prompt. I haven’t had leads, really, other than that one interview (I kind of desperately hope that a second one will follow in the next couple weeks).
I need a bit of a cat intermission here, before wallowing a bit more in angsty poetry and existential job-related despair.
I don’t want to labor the point too much but I would like to, at least kind-of-briefly, draw your attention to Emily Dickinson’s enjambments. They so very often are simply dashes. Scholars have spent years either re-punctuating her poetry or trying to figure out what all her dashes mean. They’re such an enigmatic mark and her use of them is so peculiar; it’s a whole, mysterious thing. And I love them.
Here’s a concept to unite all this: one can have dedication without certainty, constancy without direction. I have come to the end of another line and, like plenty of lines before it in this confusing ‘adulthood’ I’ve been forced into, it’s enjambed and ending with a dash–something that isn’t clear, something that can go in any direction it chooses. It’s not a formal or tidy comma, colon, or semicolon. Ambiguous but done on purpose, even when that purpose is utterly unknown. A line that ends on a dash points onward to the next line; a poem that ends on a dash points onward into our very lives. Or maybe I’m reading too much into them. She’ll probably forgive me.
I have one more week to finish packing and cleaning and visiting a few more places I ought to visit. Mere days to write and read and apply to more jobs. To spend time with friends and sketch out to some degree the next part of my life. Hours and hours to spend sitting at my computer or standing out on the beach, hoping wretchedly for something to happen soon.
As before, I know intellectually that something will happen. Eventually. And not necessarily something that I will want. But right now, it’s the soon that is the most scary. Because, while I’ve had to go home before, I’m not going directly home. I’m roaming around near-aimlessly for a sec. And I know that I have some places to land but still. Sooner would be better than later.
To conclude, a small poem I’ve just now written, in the vein of all that’s come above. A special thanks to Emily Dickinson and all her weird capitalization and punctuation.
Oh God of the Universe:
Hear my prayer and help
me with my Soon.
Grant the patience until such time
as a Soon becomes a Now.
Be with me
in the great, unknown
Be the God of Waiting
and help me survive
all these dashes–