Cry Me A River
|This is the voice in my head.|
On the day of commencement, as I watch doctoral students walk across the stage to receive their diplomas, I'm not convinced that all the recipients possess remarkable intellectual talents. I am certain, though, that everyone has demonstrated the power to persevere.Readers, this is a most valuable truth that also speaks to where I find myself right now, holding onto that power to persevere by my fingertips. Reworking, revising, aligning tenses, reaching for the ever-elusive "done." My dryer does this thing where once the cycle is done it beeps loudly and then keeps slowly turning the already dry clothes, forever rearranging the shirts, towels and underwear, until someone comes along, opens the door, pulls out the clothes and puts an end to it all.
For some unknown reason, lately when I am feeling that I will be in this never-ending dry cycle forever, an image of Julie London, in her full '50s glory, comes to my mind. "Cry me a river," she tells me in her sexy, tired voice. "Cry me a river, you cry the whole night through. But that's not going to get you to done."
Couldn't have said it better myself.