Notes to self in rainbow season
On rejection
Rainbow season has arrived in Cornwall and I really should know by now that layers are a must, a waterproof is mandatory and that hanging your washing out outside in this weather is like playing Russian roulette. (Please tell this to Lucy from the other day, who managed to hang out not one, but two, full loads of washing on the line only to be caught out in torential downpours both times!)
I started September with the greatest of intentions, excited by the prospect of getting back to school, getting back to work and finally getting back to writing. I felt some proper smug back-to-school September energy, had made a list of places I wanted to submit to and had even bought myself a brand new notebook.
Then came a nasty virus, a flurry of writing rejections, news of work being cancelled and financial uncertainty.
Two more rejections arrived in my inbox in quick succession yesterday and the reserves of resilience that I’ve cultivated over the years are now running on fumes. My inner critic has been shouting in my ear that maybe now is the time to have a rethink. That maybe, I really need to put my energy and efforts into finding a bettter way to provide a consistent and reliable income for my family.
Over the past few weeks, I have watched with pride (and tears trickling down my cheeks) as my children have stepped into new places and spaces. I’ve watched them grow and expand with each new experience, returning home full of stories, wonder and delight. I’ve realised just how tall they are, how rapidly they are maturing and how quickly their world is expanding.
Our family orbit is changing and we are all shapeshifting. I watch in awe at how my children step into these new experiences with such openess and willingness to just feel all the things. And yet, I find myself oscillating between trying to hold on yet having to let go. It is another new season of mothering that I feel both ill-equipped and unprepared for.
When the second rejection came through late yesterday afternoon, a hot flush of shame crept up my neck and I felt the tears start to prickle. That sick to the pit feeling started to rise and the voice in my head that I am simply not good enough started to shout loud. I began to chastise myelf that I wasn’t resilient enough and that my heart should really be hardened to rejection by now. That really, I just need to put this dream to bed.
But then, I think back to the small girl who escaped to books and poetry as a way of processing the world around her. I think back to that little girl who just wanted to find a way to make sense of it all. The one who, as she grew, found that writing and reading was a solace, a comfort and a companion.
Little did that small girl know that in her awkward middle, baggy-outlined years, that she would still be trying to make sense of it all through writing.
And so I look now to all the words I have actually written this year, to all those half poems hidden in my notes app and to all those waiting in the margins to find a place on the page.
I think about all the work I’ve sent off, all the residencies and writing opportunities I’ve applied to and all the children’s stories I’ve sent out into the world, hoping to find a home.
I think about the many hours of co-writing sessions and workshops I have held and what magic there is to be sat in the company of other writers. I think about all the softly spoken writing dreams and wishes that we share with each other and what beauty there is when we do that. And what a privilege it is to hear the work of others spoken aloud for the first time.
And then, I think about what it is to sit in the company of your own work and how hard yet how important it is to sit with the discomfort of it all. How a tender heart is actually no bad thing and how acknowledging when rejection stings and bites is just as important as it is to cultivate resilience and discipline. For even when it pours with rejection very often there is the chance of a rainbow, you just need to stand in the rain for a while to see it.