I’ve laughed
a lot.
I’ve cried
in jewelry stores.
I’ve made
wishes in rivers and lit candles in churches.
And I’ve
fallen in love with the idea of being lost.
You see,
this year has been exceptionally transitional for me: mentally, emotionally,
and physically. I worked our Pittsburgh residency in January, left for Los Angeles
(AWP) in March, followed that up with a trip to Las Vegas (StokerCon) in May,
and now I’m sitting in my room at Trinity College in Dublin writing this note
to all of you. For those of you who don’t know, I’ll be leaving Carlow at the
end of month. It’s a really bittersweet moment for me, but I have a lot of
wonderful opportunities/plans lined up, some of which I can’t exactly divulge
quite yet, but will when I have the chance. Working for this program has been
such a blessing, and the people I’ve met because of it, both in Pittsburgh and in
Ireland alike, will always be special to me, because each and every one of them
has opened my eyes up to a different style of writing, reading, thinking, and
being. It’s truly been a gift and one that I will always, always treasure. But with everything that’s
happened this year in both my personal and professional life, it’s important for
me to reevaluate a lot of things in my life when it comes to where I am, where
I’m going, and where I want to be. If you asked me a year ago where I would be
today, my answer would have been completely different, and in a lot of ways,
that’s heartbreaking, but it’s also beautiful, too, because I feel more at
peace with myself in this moment than I ever have before, and I realize that a
big part of that is because I’ve started using my voice.
Quietly,
at first. But it’s getting louder.
Even if it
still shakes sometimes.
So I’ve
been standing at the River Liffey and watching the sunset. I’ve been drinking
coffee in cafes half-asleep as I scribble poetry in my notebook. I’ve been
carrying around a meditation stone to remind myself to breathe, and I put my
hand in the lake at Glendalough to feel the energy of the space. I walk around
Dublin thinking about my doctoral application and how I’m writing essays and
filling out paperwork to get funding to move overseas. I want to teach. I want
to write. I want to wake up in cities where I don’t know the language, and I
want to sleep in beds, on benches, and on campsites where I can see the sun
rise in different parts of the world. I want my body’s internal clock to be so
confused that I sleep when I need to, eat when I’m hungry, and live the life
that I promised the high-school version of me that I would.
I grew up
in a small town where hardly anyone ever leaves. I dated my high school
sweetheart up until graduate school, and I lived such a sheltered life that I
didn’t know anything about anything, including who I was. I had barely traveled,
I couldn’t do anything on my own, and I was so afraid to make decisions based
on what I wanted that I spent a good portion of my life miserable and walking
on eggshells. Graduate school helped to change that. So did living on my own.
But these past two years with Carlow have taught me to open my eyes and my
heart to new possibilities and new places. So yeah. I don’t know where I’m
going to end up a year from now. It might be back in school, it might be
selling cemetery plots, it might be writing poetry in Galway. But the important
thing here is that I’m fine, and I’m happy, and I’m so excited for everything
that is ahead of me because there’s this terrifying excitement that I’m holding
in my hands that is telling me that I can do and go and be anything and everything
that I want.
I don’t
even have to say silver lining, because I’m over this perpetual darkness that’s
been clouding my vision all this time. Life is a journey-it sounds cliche, but
I think we forget that some time—and it’s not meant to be easy and it’s not
supposed to be static or lived in one place. I have adventure in my eyes and an
imagination that keeps me up most nights because all I want to do is tell
stories and travel and collect moments. I want to take pictures. I want to
kayak down rivers. I want to eat food and drink beer that I can’t even
pronounce, and when I do finally come to the page at night, I want to smile because
I’m in Amsterdam, or London, or leaving my classroom in Pittsburgh, or sending
a new manuscript to Raw Dog Screaming Press.
I want to
write letters to my friends who live across the country.
I want to stand
in history and witness how it’s changing me.
I want to
celebrate the fact that I’ve been in Italy and Ireland, and that I’m collecting
stamps in my passport.
Everything
has a way of working itself out.
I’m just
along for the ride so I can write it all down.
With midnight walks and open windows,
Stephanie M. Wytovich
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