The Eighth Day (at Minnesota)

The Eighth Day.

In the Christian tradition, it refers to a brand new beginning. The hope of resurrection. The renewal of all things, from hearts and hopes to hinterlands and homelands.

It is as if we buck time, interrupt its rhythmic thrum, and introduce a disjuncture.

There are seven days in one week, but here comes the Eighth.

We must now reckon differently, count with a new measure, and evaluate with a new rubric.

Today is the eighth day I am at my writing residence.

What will I break with, so as to break forth?

All writers agonize over the same things, we just do it in our own unique ways. For a writer who gets the privilege of space and time away from the regular demands of work-life, there is guilt. It always feels irresponsible to detach and focus, what with all that life requires of us. Don’t we have deadlines, duties, and dear ones we can’t simply close the door on?

Then there is this sense of dread with the duty of creating. Will it amount to anything? How gratuitous is this and could I be deluding myself? What if the big, brilliant thought never, ever bubbles to my frontal cortex?

There’s more in this psychological trail mix that we are munching on. Hints of exceptionalism…