Knitting Good Karma (for writers who enter contests)

A few months ago I entered a writing contest. The prize was one thousand dollars plus two tickets to an event in New York where the winning story would be read aloud by actors. Professional actors, whose names you would recognize. There were no guarantees about this next part, but the prize-winning entry may also become part of a program to be broadcast later on NPR.

For weeks on end this potential prize shimmered in my mind.

The contest had strict requirements: the story could only be three pages long and it must contain an element of surprise. For my contest entry I submitted a fictionalized version of a story that happened to the family of one of my best friends from high school. I so loved this story that I asked my friend years ago if I could use it in my writing, and of course she said yes. Writers are always asking their friends this question. I worked a version of the story into the ending of a novel I wrote, the first ten pages of which won a 2005 manuscript prize. For this recent contest entry I drastically cut and revised the story, calling it “Addie’s Pecan Pie.”

I forgot to mention: the judge of the story contest happens to be an author whose work I (along with millions of other people) greatly admire.

Oh, I could just see it: my friend seated next to me (probably in the front row) with matching tears of joy on our faces as we listened to famous actors read my winning words about her family. My friend said she could see it, too, though she had no idea what she would be wearing.

“It’s New York,” I told her. “Picture something black.”

The contest website said the winning story would be chosen by the end of April and that, once the author had been notified, his or her name would be posted on that page. I developed a little ritual: anytime I passed by the computer, I’d pause to click on the bookmarked contest website page. I was single-handedly responsible for 6,943 hits during that last week of April, never mind how many premature hits during the month of March. April came and went, but no winner’s name appeared.

Finally, one day in May, I clicked on the website and learned that my friend needn’t be the least bit concerned about what to wear in New York because we weren’t going. A Yale sophomore had won the shimmering prize.

This made me feel very, very old.

The first thing I did was shoot an e-wail to a good friend who is also a writer. His immediate reply was the perfect blend of knee-jerk comments about the winning entry (which, of course, he’d not yet read) and high praise for my own writing, with a soupçon of encouragement stirred in. It was exactly what I needed at that moment, so over-the-top it made me laugh out loud. But I noticed my breath remained shallow and that my throat felt tight.

Something else was needed, something only I could do.

I went to my knitting basket, pulled out 8 mm needles, and a ball of cotton yarn in soft spring colors of green, blue, and pale yellow fading to white. I sat in a straight-backed chair that had belonged to my grandmother and began to knit. Just as if the winning author could hear me, I spoke her name right out loud.

“Congratulations,” I said to her, dipping a needle to pick up the strand of yarn. Then I added, “May you be safe, healthy, happy, and live with ease.” I continued to say her name, wish her congratulations, and repeat those words of loving-kindness meditation until I knitted to the end of the row. I am--no contest (ha, ha)--the world's slowest knitter, so I had time to say all this several times over. And, just as I knew I would, I felt my heart soften and expand.

How exciting for her, a sophomore in college, I thought, to win this prestigious writing contest. The photo on the website shows her standing in front of what looks like a building on Yale campus: a young writer with dark hair, a beautiful smile, and intelligent eyes. I pictured my own college-freshman daughter and, remembering how happy and proud I am whenever she wins a prize, I couldn’t help but smile.

By the end of that first row I was taking deep, slow breaths and my throat had relaxed. The prize-winning author’s name now sounded as familiar to my ears as that of a dear friend. There’s no telling how long I’d have continued to sit, knitting row after row, if I hadn’t jumped up to answer what ended up being only a telemarketing call.

When you enter a writing contest you never know how the story will turn out from your point of view. Maybe this time there will be a happy ending, maybe not. But I’ve decided to adopt a whole new ritual when I enter a contest from now on. Instead of compulsively checking the website for results, I’m going to stop, sit, and knit. Pausing long enough to weave a soft row of loving-kindness for my fellow writers and contest entrants surely can’t go amiss, even if I don’t know their names. I’ll certainly breathe easier while waiting to find out who the winner is, and hey, who knows--?

I just might knit myself good karma to wear for some future contest.

Mother's Day Rose

Mother’s Day Rose
by
Nita Lou Bryant


Suppose I show you
in strong clear light
only part of a rose
petal curve
stem shaft
jagged leaf.
Could you infer
the flower complete
whorled and lambent
above scented silken shadow?

In Honor of all the Secret Mothers

In honor of all the secret mothers out there, I am re-running what first appeared at Cafe Nita Lou on April 27 2008 and then, in a slightly different version, as the "Raising Austin" parenting column in the Austin American-Statesman on May 10, 2008.
Secret mothers, my thoughts are always with you on Mother's Day.

Secret Mother's Day
by
Nita Lou Bryant

I've been thinking about them a lot as Mother's Day draws near, all those women who don't have children. Some of them are close friends of mine.

I'm not talking about women who chose not to have kids and are happy with their decision. And I make no distinction between biological and adoptive moms. Both get to open Mother's Day cards. I'm talking about women who aren't anyone's mother but whose hearts ache for a child.

They're all around you. Women who for reasons of infertility or circumstance ended up not getting to be someone's mom. When I was one of those women I used to think of myself as a secret mother. Most people don't know about Secret Mother's Day.

Secret mothers have children only they can see, who dance down sidewalks ahead of their mamas like little wisps of smoke. Their names are Almost, Maybe, Someday, If Only and Hope.

The gynecologist who saw me through my first three miscarriages used to talk about silvery linings. He always said silvery instead of silver, as though that made the horizon brighter somehow.

"The silvery lining to this black cloud," my doctor would say, "is that you can conceive."

It didn't seem like much to hold onto, a little silvery wisp of smoke.

Secret mothers are faced with impossible choices.

Stay with the man you love who doesn't want kids or leave him and hope to find some other man who does. Have a child all on your own or no child at all. Undergo more tests and more procedures and keep trying or call a halt to medical intervention and give up. Explain over and over why you don't have kids or pretend you never really wanted them — not much, anyway.

Secret mothers throw themselves into the roles of aunt or godmother or family friend or teacher in order to have children in their lives some way, somehow. The longing to be somebody's mother never goes away, but they learn to conceal it. When asked, "Do you have children?" they simply smile and answer, No. They grow discreet, the secret mothers. They keep the big, long story of Why Not all to themselves. They don't talk about it anymore, even to their closest friends.

Round a corner quickly this Mother's Day, and you just might see them. You may glimpse a woman going down the sidewalk closely followed by what looks like a little wisp of smoke. If it's carrying what appears to be a folded piece of paper in its tiny silvery hand, you'll know that you're not seeing Almost, Maybe, Someday or If Only.

You're seeing Hope, who always makes her mama a Secret Mother's Day card.