April 8: Deep Cuts, Insecurities, Finding Solid Ground

Then [Ives] shocked the priest, rolling up the sleeve of his bright red cashmere sweater, which he wore that day with a white shirt and a red bow tie, to expose his arm:  his skin was covered with deep cuts and scabs from tossing and turning and scratching himself at night until he bled.

Ives tortures himself for years.  At night, when he sleeps, his grief-stricken heart takes control, and all the mental and spiritual anguish manifests itself.  He tears at his skin in his sleep, leaving his body covered with wounds and sores.  Like Job, Ives endures his afflictions, not understanding, struggling to trust God's will.


I've been struggling a lot recently.  Feeling a little stupid.  Unqualified.  Each time I stand in front of a classroom this semester, I have this sensation that my students think I'm some kind of fraud.  That they're sitting there, questioning everything I say and do.  Now, I know that I'm a good teacher.  I have the student evaluations to prove it.  However, I can't shake my insecurities.  I get knots in my shoulders before every class.

Usually, by this time in the semester, I've hit my stride, know what I'm doing.  This time, I'm still trying to find solid ground.  I'm beginning to believe I'm never going to feel comfortable.  It has a lot to do with the poetry workshop I'm teaching.  Brand new class and syllabus.  I have graduate students.  A lot smarter than the freshmen and sophomores I'm used to.

I know poetry.  I'm good at it.  I've been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice.  I've been nominated to be the U. P. Poet Laureate.  Twice.  I've published a book.  I'm the poetry editor of a respected literary journal.  That means people respect my opinion.  I don't think I've just been lucky.  Well, maybe luck had a little something to do with it.  I've worked hard, really hard, for what I've got right now.

I need to relax.  Stop doubting myself.  Take some deep breaths.

Saint Marty's really good at self-torture.  Not so much at deep breathing.

Maybe I was Sylvia in a former life