Vidalia Fig Sauce

My tears this week have been torrential, and come from such a deep place in me, that they seem incapable of doing anything but pouring. Like Vermeer's Milkmaid's milk, they seem to be in a permanent state of streaming.

Applying to this graduate program is my heart on a plate. I have let my writing languish on simmer on the back burner because I don't want anyone to reject it. I haven't applied before now because I've been afraid of not getting in. And if I didn't get in, I wouldn't know how to not take that as a statement about my artistic validity and talent.

I know what actors and actresses mean when they say "it's an honour just to be nominated." I am pleased with myself for simply taking this personal step of bravery, but I want what I'm seeking. I don't just want the experience. I've been crying because everything I yearn for is lingering in the world between already and not yet.

There was not one thing in my life today that the mere thought of did not absolutely terrify me. It wasn't helpful terror (the catalyst kind). It had me frozen to my desk chair, and I almost forgot how to function.

Some distance and time later, I am eating chicken smothered in vidalia fig sauce with potatoes and spinach--feeling that I nearly didn't escape the screaming of my own doubt.