I was 10 the first time someone called me a bitch. It was after school. I was walking home with my friends when this little tow head from the fourth grade class came up behind us. He was one of those kids who packed too much swagger for any 9 year old. I told him to get lost and he said, "Shut up bitch."
I knew that he wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box and I outweighed him by a good 20 pounds, but I pummeled him anyway. We were just out of the line of sight of the principal and teachers at the school and right across the Elm Street Baptist Church in full view of Jesus, when I knocked him down, straddled him between by beefy little thighs and slapped his face.
I can still remember the red imprint of my hand on his cheek. It was a mark of vindication and satisfaction. He reluctantly growled, "Sorry" from between clenched teeth before I let him up. As I rolled off him, I remember looking up at the giant cross that embellished the church steeple. I knew that Jesus would not approve.
Perhaps that's why tow-head's teenage sister showed up a few days later, jumping out in front of me in the alley that cut across Elm Street. She pulled me to the ground by my hair and punched me three times in the face before hissing out a warning to stay away from her little brother. It turns out, tow-head came from a long line of bitches.
Since then I have tried to tame my inner bitch. I keep her locked in the dark recesses of my being. I try to make her comfortable by feeding her cookies and speaking to her in soothing tones. She still insists on coming out into the light of day every so often. I must admit, I kind of like the bitch. I mean even with her gnarly locks, her unshaven armpits and her atrocious table manners, she's not all bad. She's honest and she knows how to stand up for herself.
When I write, it is her voice that most wants to be heard. This is a little frightening, especially to my inner nice girl, the one who acts as stewardess to the world: Can I get you a pillow, a cup of tea, a piece of my soul? Anything to make your time with me more comfortable. They're battling it out inside me: the nice girl and the bitch. I put my money on the bitch. She really knows how to kick ass.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Day 30
It has been nearly 20 years since I attended a creativity workshop featuring a man named Gordon MacKenzie. MacKenzie was an artist and writer and what he did was pure magic. In the intervening years I have attended hundreds of workshops and classes and I have never witnessed or participated in a more memorable educational experience.
Mr. MacKenzie was an elfish little man with white hair and a beard who radiated warmth. He looked like a mischievous child on stage, fidgeting and strutting from one end to the other, as if he could barely contain the energy welling up from inside. Behind him on the stage was a clothesline, strung from one side of the stage to the other. Hanging on the line by clothespins were drawings on pieces of 8 by 11 white paper.
Each of us in attendance was given a single piece of paper when we came in the door. It was a Xeroxed sheet with miniature replicas of the drawings on the clothesline. Each drawing had a corresponding number. We were asked to call out a number if we wanted to hear about a particular drawing.
Most of the drawings were seemingly abstract, bearing no resemblance to people, places or things. Take number 11 for example, it was an upside-down dome with three attached fingers pointing toward the bottom of the page. Someone yelled out "Number 11" and Mr. MacKenzie launched into a story about his former boss, "a man who would yell at the cows for chewing their cud because they weren't producing milk."
The drawing was of an udder, a reminder that the creative process requires some cud chewing, time spent doing next to nothing. A painter can't always paint. Time spent watching the sunset or observing the interactions between a mother and child or reading a book, those are all part of the creative process.
That is my plan for the day: I'll be chewing the cud.
Mr. MacKenzie was an elfish little man with white hair and a beard who radiated warmth. He looked like a mischievous child on stage, fidgeting and strutting from one end to the other, as if he could barely contain the energy welling up from inside. Behind him on the stage was a clothesline, strung from one side of the stage to the other. Hanging on the line by clothespins were drawings on pieces of 8 by 11 white paper.
Each of us in attendance was given a single piece of paper when we came in the door. It was a Xeroxed sheet with miniature replicas of the drawings on the clothesline. Each drawing had a corresponding number. We were asked to call out a number if we wanted to hear about a particular drawing.
Most of the drawings were seemingly abstract, bearing no resemblance to people, places or things. Take number 11 for example, it was an upside-down dome with three attached fingers pointing toward the bottom of the page. Someone yelled out "Number 11" and Mr. MacKenzie launched into a story about his former boss, "a man who would yell at the cows for chewing their cud because they weren't producing milk."
The drawing was of an udder, a reminder that the creative process requires some cud chewing, time spent doing next to nothing. A painter can't always paint. Time spent watching the sunset or observing the interactions between a mother and child or reading a book, those are all part of the creative process.
That is my plan for the day: I'll be chewing the cud.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Day 29
I got an email yesterday from a student (learners, that's what we call them now). She has been courting me to be her mentor as she approaches her doctoral dissertation. She is interested in the effects of corporate racism and the experiences of African American professional women. As a black female executive herself, she knows first-hand the realities of racism. However, she has not always found professors willing to support her perspective.
After reading her email, I was immediately excited to work with her. I jotted down the names of black feminist authors I would encourage her to read. I began to strategize about how I would help her position herself in the scholarship to support her thesis and how I might defend her against pressure from other committee members. Like an anxious school girl responding to her first suitor, I woke up this morning thinking about how to reply to her email.
Why does the prospect of working with this particular student excite me so much? Perhaps it is my love of black feminist thought; or my desire to champion oppressed groups; or my compulsion to go up against the privileged fat cats in academia. I'm not sure. But I am sure about one thing. I need to follow the excitement.
I experience the excitement as a million effervescent bubbles rising up from my extremities to my head, as if I am a tall, clear glass being filled with ginger ale. It is pure energy. I am certain that everything I see in the material world is fed by this energy. It is the same energy that gave rise to Beethovan's 5th, the light bulb and m & ms. All of these things began in consciousness and were transformed through this energy.
All creative work, including writing is fueled by this energy that we experience as excitement. We have to pay attention. When we encounter something that makes us bubble over with enthusiasm we must write about it and read about it and talk about it and dream about it. We must immerse ourselves in that energy. Like a hot spring it will heal us and make us whole.
After reading her email, I was immediately excited to work with her. I jotted down the names of black feminist authors I would encourage her to read. I began to strategize about how I would help her position herself in the scholarship to support her thesis and how I might defend her against pressure from other committee members. Like an anxious school girl responding to her first suitor, I woke up this morning thinking about how to reply to her email.
Why does the prospect of working with this particular student excite me so much? Perhaps it is my love of black feminist thought; or my desire to champion oppressed groups; or my compulsion to go up against the privileged fat cats in academia. I'm not sure. But I am sure about one thing. I need to follow the excitement.
I experience the excitement as a million effervescent bubbles rising up from my extremities to my head, as if I am a tall, clear glass being filled with ginger ale. It is pure energy. I am certain that everything I see in the material world is fed by this energy. It is the same energy that gave rise to Beethovan's 5th, the light bulb and m & ms. All of these things began in consciousness and were transformed through this energy.
All creative work, including writing is fueled by this energy that we experience as excitement. We have to pay attention. When we encounter something that makes us bubble over with enthusiasm we must write about it and read about it and talk about it and dream about it. We must immerse ourselves in that energy. Like a hot spring it will heal us and make us whole.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Day 28
I was a feminist student activist, former community organizer and young mother who was soon to graduate with a master's degree in sociology when I was offered a job as a Child and Family Therapist. I didn't have a clue what that meant.
Fortunately, there was a book to guide my transition into the professional world of mental health. It is called the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM for short). As a "child and family therapist," I talked with kids (always under the guise of friendship) and observed them in their natural settings. Then I went to The Book and found a label for their behavior.
Sometimes they were Oppositional Defiant, other times Dystymic (which is an impressive way to say depressed). Occasionally I would get a kid with something really exotic, like Trichotillomania. Seriously, I worked with a kid who was a trichotillomaniac. He pulled out his own hair: the hair on his head, his eyelashes. Fortunately he hadn't yet reached puberty.
His poor little head resembled a garden that had been ravaged by angry rabbits. There were little tufts of soft, downy hair, surrounded by smooth canals of pink skin. I always thought that his head was a declaration. He was hurt and sad and angry about his parents' recent divorce and he didn't possess the words to communicate his needs. So he pulled out his hair and he got a prescription for Celexa.
It didn't take me long to realize that I was not a "therapist." I went on to become an "educator." It took me a long time to realize that they are all just labels; boxes we lock ourselves into. Even now I want to call myself a "writer." But what does that mean? Maybe I should get business cards that title me: Carbon Based Life Form. My tagline will read: The rest is a mystery...
We spend our lives trying to explain, understand, communicate, quantify and label our experience. Why is it so hard to simply embrace the mystery? As a writer, this is one of my goals. I want to let go of this need to explain every detail. Whereas some writers strive for thick, rich description, I want to learn to say just enough.
In music, they say that the spaces between the notes are even more important than the notes themselves. It is the silence, the emptiness, that brings the sounds to life. Maybe it's the same with writing. Those things left unwritten, the breaks in continuity, maybe that is the real story.
Fortunately, there was a book to guide my transition into the professional world of mental health. It is called the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM for short). As a "child and family therapist," I talked with kids (always under the guise of friendship) and observed them in their natural settings. Then I went to The Book and found a label for their behavior.
Sometimes they were Oppositional Defiant, other times Dystymic (which is an impressive way to say depressed). Occasionally I would get a kid with something really exotic, like Trichotillomania. Seriously, I worked with a kid who was a trichotillomaniac. He pulled out his own hair: the hair on his head, his eyelashes. Fortunately he hadn't yet reached puberty.
His poor little head resembled a garden that had been ravaged by angry rabbits. There were little tufts of soft, downy hair, surrounded by smooth canals of pink skin. I always thought that his head was a declaration. He was hurt and sad and angry about his parents' recent divorce and he didn't possess the words to communicate his needs. So he pulled out his hair and he got a prescription for Celexa.
It didn't take me long to realize that I was not a "therapist." I went on to become an "educator." It took me a long time to realize that they are all just labels; boxes we lock ourselves into. Even now I want to call myself a "writer." But what does that mean? Maybe I should get business cards that title me: Carbon Based Life Form. My tagline will read: The rest is a mystery...
We spend our lives trying to explain, understand, communicate, quantify and label our experience. Why is it so hard to simply embrace the mystery? As a writer, this is one of my goals. I want to let go of this need to explain every detail. Whereas some writers strive for thick, rich description, I want to learn to say just enough.
In music, they say that the spaces between the notes are even more important than the notes themselves. It is the silence, the emptiness, that brings the sounds to life. Maybe it's the same with writing. Those things left unwritten, the breaks in continuity, maybe that is the real story.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Day 27
I have this image of myself in high school. Walking across campus in all black: black turtleneck, black skirt, black tights, canvas Mary Janes from the import store. I am on my way to the theatre. I love the theatre. It's dark there and the other kids are weird like me. We are a club of misfits.
For a brief time I was queen of the misfits. I was awarded the "Most Promising Newcomer" trophy at the annual misfits ball (a high school version of the Tony Awards). My teacher tried to convince me that I should go to college and major in theatre. I smiled and nodded like a good little actress, knowing full well that I had no plans for college and that even if by some miracle I did go to college, I would never major in something as impractical as theatre.
The miracle that landed me in college turned out to be extreme poverty. During my second year, I signed up for an elective: Acting 101. I was excited as we filled the seats in the community college theatre, certain that they would all be impressed by my ability to slip into a character and bring her to life.
We read on the first day; an initial try-out of sorts. I was given a piece from a Eugene O'Neill play. My affect was flat and the words fell out of my mouth like lifeless pebbles. My accent was all wrong and my inflection was awkward and cumbersome. My talent was gone. I imagined it leaving me body; slipping out the window one night while I slept.
Despite my lackluster performance, I was cast in a one-act play. I played the protagonist: a gonorrhea germ. I was trapped, along with a syphilis germ, in the body of an unidentified host. I think it was a case of type casting. The woman who played the syphilis germ looked a lot like me, we were both short and round. The misogynist little director obviously thought that anything as distasteful as a STD should certainly be personified as fat and female.
I played the part of Gonorrhea but I didn't do it with much style or grace. That performance was my final curtain call. I knew I would never act again. My acting talent had dried up and blown away. I was no longer an actress. In my next life, I became a community educator and organizer. Later I was an activist.
Most of us have numerous incarnations in a lifetime. When I conjure that image of me walking across campus to the theatre, I realize that I am no longer that girl. Being able to distance myself in this way makes it easier to write about her.
For a brief time I was queen of the misfits. I was awarded the "Most Promising Newcomer" trophy at the annual misfits ball (a high school version of the Tony Awards). My teacher tried to convince me that I should go to college and major in theatre. I smiled and nodded like a good little actress, knowing full well that I had no plans for college and that even if by some miracle I did go to college, I would never major in something as impractical as theatre.
The miracle that landed me in college turned out to be extreme poverty. During my second year, I signed up for an elective: Acting 101. I was excited as we filled the seats in the community college theatre, certain that they would all be impressed by my ability to slip into a character and bring her to life.
We read on the first day; an initial try-out of sorts. I was given a piece from a Eugene O'Neill play. My affect was flat and the words fell out of my mouth like lifeless pebbles. My accent was all wrong and my inflection was awkward and cumbersome. My talent was gone. I imagined it leaving me body; slipping out the window one night while I slept.
Despite my lackluster performance, I was cast in a one-act play. I played the protagonist: a gonorrhea germ. I was trapped, along with a syphilis germ, in the body of an unidentified host. I think it was a case of type casting. The woman who played the syphilis germ looked a lot like me, we were both short and round. The misogynist little director obviously thought that anything as distasteful as a STD should certainly be personified as fat and female.
I played the part of Gonorrhea but I didn't do it with much style or grace. That performance was my final curtain call. I knew I would never act again. My acting talent had dried up and blown away. I was no longer an actress. In my next life, I became a community educator and organizer. Later I was an activist.
Most of us have numerous incarnations in a lifetime. When I conjure that image of me walking across campus to the theatre, I realize that I am no longer that girl. Being able to distance myself in this way makes it easier to write about her.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Day 26
Roseanne has a little allegory in her latest memoir. She tells the story of selling her soul to the devil in exchange for fame and fortune. It made me think about the time I sold my own soul to the devil. I am embarrassed to admit that I didn't negotiate a very good deal. Instead of fame and fortune, I got a job at a community college.
Granted I didn't exact much of a price for my soul, but keep in mind it was the community college where I started my own academic journey, where I was inspired to pursue knowledge and letters and a middle-class way of life complete with a house in a cul-de-sac. It was the place where I first imagined myself as a professional: a person in a suit jacket with a Dayplanner and a secretary like Della Street. I longed to have a job, no, a position, at Columbia Basin College, the place where I was born again.
I applied for every position that came down the pike. Occasionally I was interviewed. In most of these interviews I was a blathering idiot. My nerves got the best of me. I also came to see that I was at a disadvantage as a former student at the college. Most of the staff and faculty viewed their students as inferior; "second class" is the phrase I later heard from a man who would become president of the college. I started to feel like a guy trying to get a date at Lilith Fair.
Finally, the perfect job came along. It was a grant funded position running a program to help first-generation students plan and prepare for college. I thought that my status as a first-generation college graduate would finally be an asset, and it was, after the hiring committee realized that there weren't many people who wanted to take a chance on a position that was only funded for a few years, and the first person that they offered the job to, a Latina woman with experience in federal programs, turned the job down. In spite of my desperation in the interview, or maybe because of it, I was a shoo-in.
Desperation, that is the blood that seals the deal with the devil. The deal takes place in that moment when you are sure that you will do anything to cross the finish line first, get that great job, or win the big jackpot. I signed on the doted line and the job was mine. It was great at first. I enjoyed the staff I worked with. Our programs were successful. We even won some accolades for our work. Oh yeah, we also helped a few students and families along the way. It was all wine and roses until the devil came back to collect his due.
I would prefer not to get into that right now...suffice to say it was ugly and painful; there was blood letting and sacrifice. It took a very long time and a battle with the devil to reclaim my soul. It changed me. I am less naive, more cautious, less inclined to all or nothing thinking.
Today, above all else, I value my equanimity. So, when I dream of being discovered, getting published, going on tour, speaking to huge audiences, and making boatloads of money, I recognize that it is just a dream. Maybe it will come true. Maybe not. Either way I will be alright. The devil doesn't mess with a woman at peace.
*The character of the devil is fictitious; any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Granted I didn't exact much of a price for my soul, but keep in mind it was the community college where I started my own academic journey, where I was inspired to pursue knowledge and letters and a middle-class way of life complete with a house in a cul-de-sac. It was the place where I first imagined myself as a professional: a person in a suit jacket with a Dayplanner and a secretary like Della Street. I longed to have a job, no, a position, at Columbia Basin College, the place where I was born again.
I applied for every position that came down the pike. Occasionally I was interviewed. In most of these interviews I was a blathering idiot. My nerves got the best of me. I also came to see that I was at a disadvantage as a former student at the college. Most of the staff and faculty viewed their students as inferior; "second class" is the phrase I later heard from a man who would become president of the college. I started to feel like a guy trying to get a date at Lilith Fair.
Finally, the perfect job came along. It was a grant funded position running a program to help first-generation students plan and prepare for college. I thought that my status as a first-generation college graduate would finally be an asset, and it was, after the hiring committee realized that there weren't many people who wanted to take a chance on a position that was only funded for a few years, and the first person that they offered the job to, a Latina woman with experience in federal programs, turned the job down. In spite of my desperation in the interview, or maybe because of it, I was a shoo-in.
Desperation, that is the blood that seals the deal with the devil. The deal takes place in that moment when you are sure that you will do anything to cross the finish line first, get that great job, or win the big jackpot. I signed on the doted line and the job was mine. It was great at first. I enjoyed the staff I worked with. Our programs were successful. We even won some accolades for our work. Oh yeah, we also helped a few students and families along the way. It was all wine and roses until the devil came back to collect his due.
I would prefer not to get into that right now...suffice to say it was ugly and painful; there was blood letting and sacrifice. It took a very long time and a battle with the devil to reclaim my soul. It changed me. I am less naive, more cautious, less inclined to all or nothing thinking.
Today, above all else, I value my equanimity. So, when I dream of being discovered, getting published, going on tour, speaking to huge audiences, and making boatloads of money, I recognize that it is just a dream. Maybe it will come true. Maybe not. Either way I will be alright. The devil doesn't mess with a woman at peace.
*The character of the devil is fictitious; any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Day 25
Sometimes I think I have attention deficit disorder. I got up in the morning to write and I could hardly get a thought recorded before I moved on to another, totally unrelated thought. I am like a cat that moves from a squeaky toy to a piece of string to a beam of light streaming through the window, absorbed in each, but only for a moment and only until something new comes along.
This kind of tangentiality is often associated with creativity. But I find that it is hard to create when my mind is in this state. It seems to me that creativity requires two things: first, there must be a spark of imagination, an idea. Secondly, creativity requires focus, sustained attention to an idea. I am good at generating ideas; I struggle to maintain focus.
On days when I am particularly focus-challenged I give myself permission to write badly. Holding onto a thought for long enough to articulate and expand on it may seem impossible, so set the bar low. Just write. Just put the pen to the paper, the hands on the keyboard, just get the words on the page.
One of my literary heroes is Sy Safransky. He is the founder and editor of The Sun, a literary magazine that exists through his own grit and determination. In each issue he has a page with his own musings. It's one of my favorite pieces. Well usually. This month it wasn't as captivating or inspiring as usual. The thing I appreciate most about it is that Sy put it out there anyway. Thanks Sy for inspiring me to write anyway.
This kind of tangentiality is often associated with creativity. But I find that it is hard to create when my mind is in this state. It seems to me that creativity requires two things: first, there must be a spark of imagination, an idea. Secondly, creativity requires focus, sustained attention to an idea. I am good at generating ideas; I struggle to maintain focus.
On days when I am particularly focus-challenged I give myself permission to write badly. Holding onto a thought for long enough to articulate and expand on it may seem impossible, so set the bar low. Just write. Just put the pen to the paper, the hands on the keyboard, just get the words on the page.
One of my literary heroes is Sy Safransky. He is the founder and editor of The Sun, a literary magazine that exists through his own grit and determination. In each issue he has a page with his own musings. It's one of my favorite pieces. Well usually. This month it wasn't as captivating or inspiring as usual. The thing I appreciate most about it is that Sy put it out there anyway. Thanks Sy for inspiring me to write anyway.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Day 24
Sometimes I am like a dog with a bone. Give me something meaty to chew on and I just can't let go. Lately, I have been thinking about free speech and its limits. I'm not talking about the the finer points of the constitution. I'm talking about the boundaries that define our personal relationships; what we can say within and outside of our relationships and when disclosure becomes a violation of trust. Try chewing on that for a while.
As a writer (and trust me, I am still not entirely comfortable even calling myself a writer), my goal is to tell the truth. I recognize that the truth is the most powerful tool in my writing toolbox, particularly for someone like me: a non-English major with a limited vocabulary who grew up in the Ozarks, where English is a second language.
I do need to clarify one point. When I speak of truth it is with the understanding that truth is subjective and personal and contextual and ever-changing. I don't have access to any big-T Truth. I do, however, know what resonates with me, what moves me, what I see and hear and feel and experience. That's my truth. I have a strong need to speak my truth. I also have a need to be heard and understood, but that's a different bone that I'll come back to another time.
Sometimes when I speak my truth, other people are uncomfortable. I write about friends and family and people I see in the grocery store. Then I publish it in my blog, they read it and react with confusion or anger or hurt. Being that I am a nice person who wants to be liked (nah, adored), I am tempted to stop or limit my writing. Maybe I'll just write about people I don't know or maybe I'll limit my writing to only say things that are complementary. So much for truth telling.
I long to tell my story, but I have no interest in telling yours. I am not a gossip. If you tell me that you were abducted by aliens last weekend, I will hold that in confidence. It is your story to tell (or not tell) as you choose. However, if you and I are driving along a deserted road in the backwoods of Idaho on a moonless night and we are suddenly captured in a light from above and we are beamed up into a spaceship where our minds and bodies are probed before we are dropped back down into your Subaru Outback only to discover that we lost four hours, you better believe I am going to write about it. I may even include a few details about what you said or did. If it embarrasses you or frightens you or makes you angry when I publish it in my bestselling memoir, you are free to write your own memoir disputing the claims in mine. I support you 100%.
I recognize that you may decide to sue me for defamation of character or some such thing. But I hope not. I hope we can talk it out. I hope that I you will share your pain with me and that I will hear you and that we can support each other in speaking our truth.
As a writer (and trust me, I am still not entirely comfortable even calling myself a writer), my goal is to tell the truth. I recognize that the truth is the most powerful tool in my writing toolbox, particularly for someone like me: a non-English major with a limited vocabulary who grew up in the Ozarks, where English is a second language.
I do need to clarify one point. When I speak of truth it is with the understanding that truth is subjective and personal and contextual and ever-changing. I don't have access to any big-T Truth. I do, however, know what resonates with me, what moves me, what I see and hear and feel and experience. That's my truth. I have a strong need to speak my truth. I also have a need to be heard and understood, but that's a different bone that I'll come back to another time.
Sometimes when I speak my truth, other people are uncomfortable. I write about friends and family and people I see in the grocery store. Then I publish it in my blog, they read it and react with confusion or anger or hurt. Being that I am a nice person who wants to be liked (nah, adored), I am tempted to stop or limit my writing. Maybe I'll just write about people I don't know or maybe I'll limit my writing to only say things that are complementary. So much for truth telling.
I long to tell my story, but I have no interest in telling yours. I am not a gossip. If you tell me that you were abducted by aliens last weekend, I will hold that in confidence. It is your story to tell (or not tell) as you choose. However, if you and I are driving along a deserted road in the backwoods of Idaho on a moonless night and we are suddenly captured in a light from above and we are beamed up into a spaceship where our minds and bodies are probed before we are dropped back down into your Subaru Outback only to discover that we lost four hours, you better believe I am going to write about it. I may even include a few details about what you said or did. If it embarrasses you or frightens you or makes you angry when I publish it in my bestselling memoir, you are free to write your own memoir disputing the claims in mine. I support you 100%.
I recognize that you may decide to sue me for defamation of character or some such thing. But I hope not. I hope we can talk it out. I hope that I you will share your pain with me and that I will hear you and that we can support each other in speaking our truth.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Day 23
I spent the weekend with friends. We shared thoughts and feelings and laughter and Thai food and pistachio nuts and chocolate. At this point, I am satiated, full to the brim.
Most of what I learned about friendship I learned from my mom. When I was a kid, my mom's best friend was Carol. They had a lot in common: both single parents, both working crappy jobs on the assembly line at Zenith. It was the 1970s and they were both young and pretty.
On Saturdays my mom would go to the beauty shop to have her hair shampooed, curled, teased and shaped into a great mound of cotton candy. She would come home from the beauty shop and spray it with a whole can of Aqua Net. This was all in preparation for Saturday night.
At about 6:00 my mom, my brother and I would pile into our red Pinto and drive to the trailer park on the edge of town where Carol lived with her son Mark. We would usually stop at McDonald's on the way over for hamburgers and fries. The three of us kids would sit in front of the television eating our dinner from paper bags while we watched Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw.
The real show was in the bathroom where Carol and my Mom stood side by side applying makeup in front of the mirror. They would emerge flushed with excitement and glowing, with pastel eyelids, long spidery lashes and crimson lips. They usually wore miniskirts or hot pants over pantyhose that made their legs look tan and firm. The smells that followed them out into the living room were sweet and intoxicating. My mom wore Charlie, just like the beautiful, bouncy blond in the ads.
Our babysitter would arrive and my mom would hug me before rushing out the door, headed for a singles' dance or a country music bar. I clung to her rabbit fur coat hoping that a little of the smell and the glamor would rub off on me.
I would be in Carol's bed when they got back well past midnight. I would pretend to be asleep while they whispered and laughed. They would tell funny stories like the one about my mom using the men's bathroom while Carol stood guard outside the door. They compared notes about the men who bought them drinks or took them out to breakfast, the men they always left in order to come home together where we all slept with Carol's pet pug in her gigantic king-sized bed.
In those early morning hours, just before sunrise, listening to my mom and Carol, I learned a lot about friendship and family and love and commitment. Mostly, I learned about the power of sisterhood. This weekend as I laughed and listened and shared with my girlfriends, my mom and Carol were there in the background in their hot pants and miniskirt, looking on and smiling.
Most of what I learned about friendship I learned from my mom. When I was a kid, my mom's best friend was Carol. They had a lot in common: both single parents, both working crappy jobs on the assembly line at Zenith. It was the 1970s and they were both young and pretty.
On Saturdays my mom would go to the beauty shop to have her hair shampooed, curled, teased and shaped into a great mound of cotton candy. She would come home from the beauty shop and spray it with a whole can of Aqua Net. This was all in preparation for Saturday night.
At about 6:00 my mom, my brother and I would pile into our red Pinto and drive to the trailer park on the edge of town where Carol lived with her son Mark. We would usually stop at McDonald's on the way over for hamburgers and fries. The three of us kids would sit in front of the television eating our dinner from paper bags while we watched Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw.
The real show was in the bathroom where Carol and my Mom stood side by side applying makeup in front of the mirror. They would emerge flushed with excitement and glowing, with pastel eyelids, long spidery lashes and crimson lips. They usually wore miniskirts or hot pants over pantyhose that made their legs look tan and firm. The smells that followed them out into the living room were sweet and intoxicating. My mom wore Charlie, just like the beautiful, bouncy blond in the ads.
Our babysitter would arrive and my mom would hug me before rushing out the door, headed for a singles' dance or a country music bar. I clung to her rabbit fur coat hoping that a little of the smell and the glamor would rub off on me.
I would be in Carol's bed when they got back well past midnight. I would pretend to be asleep while they whispered and laughed. They would tell funny stories like the one about my mom using the men's bathroom while Carol stood guard outside the door. They compared notes about the men who bought them drinks or took them out to breakfast, the men they always left in order to come home together where we all slept with Carol's pet pug in her gigantic king-sized bed.
In those early morning hours, just before sunrise, listening to my mom and Carol, I learned a lot about friendship and family and love and commitment. Mostly, I learned about the power of sisterhood. This weekend as I laughed and listened and shared with my girlfriends, my mom and Carol were there in the background in their hot pants and miniskirt, looking on and smiling.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Day 22
I was about 10 when my aunt had a "nervous breakdown." It wasn't uncommon for the women in my family to go a little crazy. But my aunt was the first one I was allowed to visit in the looney bin. It was on the top floor of Parkview Memorial Hospital, just a few blocks from where we lived on the wrong side of town.
There was a man who looked like a zombie walking up and down the hallway and a young women with long brown hair who talked like a little girl. My aunt told us that she was run over by a boat which "messed her up in the head." My aunt seemed perfectly normal, relaxed even, as we visited in the lounge area near the nurses station.
Despite my aunt's good showing, I didn't want to end up in a place like that with zombies and people who were messed up in the head. I sometimes worried that I might be crazy. I did, after all, have a lot of crazy ideas. I imagined myself as a movie star or a famous writer or a business tycoon, walking the red carpet, cameras flashing in an effort to capture my image.
Sometimes I tried to turn my dreams into reality. I usually started with something small; something I thought the adults might approve of; something I had witnessed on reruns of The Little Rascals; something like a lemonade stand. I imagined cars curled around the block, in line to get a glass of liquid sunshine. There were only a few problems: we didn't have any lemons, I didn't know how to make lemonade, we didn't own paper cups, and no one in our neighborhood had any money.
I accepted the harsh realities of poverty but I continued to dream. Mostly I kept my dreams to myself. Occasionally I would meet someone, a sister dreamer. I would share my dreams and listen to hers; we would weave them together into a shared vision. Eventually we would wake from our dreams and assess our stark surroundings.
I still dream all the time. I have a dream that has been percolating for a few weeks now. It started when I decided to stop making dinner for me and Bill. We used to eat at 7:00 p.m. every night, food prepared by me, sometimes begrudgingly out of a perceived obligation to feed my man (ugh!). I made a decision to stop and I did. Now, if I am, say, absorbed in writing the Great American Novel and I notice that it is 6:10, I don't have to stop in order to make a meatloaf.
It was this experience that gave birth to my dream of starting a nationwide, nah, worldwide campaign to abolish the family dinner. Let's face it, we women have been feeding our families for thousands of years and they just keep getting fatter. More importantly, how many works of art, how many masterpieces have been sacrificed to the family dinner table? It is time to stop the madness.
I imagine myself on the Oprah Winfrey Show, defending my campaign to abolish the family dinner, handing out rubber bracelets with our insiginia. She will bring on a skinny nutritionist to talk about the need for well-balanced nutritious meals and a family therapist to discuss the need for families to gather around the table and gaze into each others eyes and share their most intimate secrets. I will respond with pictures of Anais Nin and Virginia Woolf. Our slogan will be: Creative women don't stop to mash potatoes.
There was a man who looked like a zombie walking up and down the hallway and a young women with long brown hair who talked like a little girl. My aunt told us that she was run over by a boat which "messed her up in the head." My aunt seemed perfectly normal, relaxed even, as we visited in the lounge area near the nurses station.
Despite my aunt's good showing, I didn't want to end up in a place like that with zombies and people who were messed up in the head. I sometimes worried that I might be crazy. I did, after all, have a lot of crazy ideas. I imagined myself as a movie star or a famous writer or a business tycoon, walking the red carpet, cameras flashing in an effort to capture my image.
Sometimes I tried to turn my dreams into reality. I usually started with something small; something I thought the adults might approve of; something I had witnessed on reruns of The Little Rascals; something like a lemonade stand. I imagined cars curled around the block, in line to get a glass of liquid sunshine. There were only a few problems: we didn't have any lemons, I didn't know how to make lemonade, we didn't own paper cups, and no one in our neighborhood had any money.
I accepted the harsh realities of poverty but I continued to dream. Mostly I kept my dreams to myself. Occasionally I would meet someone, a sister dreamer. I would share my dreams and listen to hers; we would weave them together into a shared vision. Eventually we would wake from our dreams and assess our stark surroundings.
I still dream all the time. I have a dream that has been percolating for a few weeks now. It started when I decided to stop making dinner for me and Bill. We used to eat at 7:00 p.m. every night, food prepared by me, sometimes begrudgingly out of a perceived obligation to feed my man (ugh!). I made a decision to stop and I did. Now, if I am, say, absorbed in writing the Great American Novel and I notice that it is 6:10, I don't have to stop in order to make a meatloaf.
It was this experience that gave birth to my dream of starting a nationwide, nah, worldwide campaign to abolish the family dinner. Let's face it, we women have been feeding our families for thousands of years and they just keep getting fatter. More importantly, how many works of art, how many masterpieces have been sacrificed to the family dinner table? It is time to stop the madness.
I imagine myself on the Oprah Winfrey Show, defending my campaign to abolish the family dinner, handing out rubber bracelets with our insiginia. She will bring on a skinny nutritionist to talk about the need for well-balanced nutritious meals and a family therapist to discuss the need for families to gather around the table and gaze into each others eyes and share their most intimate secrets. I will respond with pictures of Anais Nin and Virginia Woolf. Our slogan will be: Creative women don't stop to mash potatoes.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Day 21
Every morning before I write, I sit. I light a candle and breath. Breathing helps me clear the channels. I have been sitting for several years now and one of the gifts I have received from this practice is an increased awareness of what is happening with my mind and body.
Today as I was sitting I noticed a a sensation in the pit of my stomach. It was like a fog, a soup of fear and anxiety. My mind was flitting from one thought to another, landing only briefly on an idea before moving on to the next.
My mom had a dog once who would tear around the house, overturning end tables and upending plants. Buffer would knock over small children and old people in her excitement. A knock at the door would send her into a frenzy. Today, I feel a little like Buffer. She had to be tranquilized. Since that's not an option for me, I have to figure out the source of my anxiety.
It's really not very complicated. I have to go to a meeting later where I feel compelled to say things that may make some people uncomfortable or unhappy. I fear that they won't like me. This is one of my biggest obstacles: the need to please. My need for approval sometimes prevents me from being honest.
The creative life demands honesty. My commitment to live a more creative life requires me to conjure up the courage to face my fears and express myself regardless of the consequences...unless I could get my hands on some tranquilizers.
Today as I was sitting I noticed a a sensation in the pit of my stomach. It was like a fog, a soup of fear and anxiety. My mind was flitting from one thought to another, landing only briefly on an idea before moving on to the next.
My mom had a dog once who would tear around the house, overturning end tables and upending plants. Buffer would knock over small children and old people in her excitement. A knock at the door would send her into a frenzy. Today, I feel a little like Buffer. She had to be tranquilized. Since that's not an option for me, I have to figure out the source of my anxiety.
It's really not very complicated. I have to go to a meeting later where I feel compelled to say things that may make some people uncomfortable or unhappy. I fear that they won't like me. This is one of my biggest obstacles: the need to please. My need for approval sometimes prevents me from being honest.
The creative life demands honesty. My commitment to live a more creative life requires me to conjure up the courage to face my fears and express myself regardless of the consequences...unless I could get my hands on some tranquilizers.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Day 20
One of my favorite sounds is the thunk of the UPS guy dropping a package on my back steps. We order a lot of books from Amazon (and feel guilty for not patronizing our local bookstore). Bill and I used to joke that we are going to end up on the street somewhere with a sign that reads, "Will work for books."
I think that it is primarily loneliness that motivates me to read. The best books are those that serve as mirrors; I see myself in the ideas and stories. When I truly come to understand an author, I feel connected and understood myself. At times I even find a kindred spirit between the pages.
Imagine yourself as a child. Your mother asks you to clean out the garage. It is damp and musty and dust flies as you move the boxes of old record albums and clothing from long-dead relatives. You find an old trunk and cautiously open it up. Inside is a baby dinosaur. You rush into the house flushed with excitement and tell your mom.
"That's ridiculous," she says.
But you nag and whine until she follows you back to the garage. You open the trunk and there it is, the baby dinosaur. You smile smugly and look up at your mom. Your face falls when you see the confusion in her eyes. She doesn't see the dinosaur. You immediately start to think that you might be crazy. You tell no one else about the dinosaur although you occasionally sneak out to garage to take a peak.
When you are 18 you leave home and you decide to take the dinosaur with you. You pack him in a box and haul him in your old beat-up car to your new apartment along with your books and your Aerosmith poster and old diaries and the box of weed you kept hidden under the bed. The dinosaur lives quietly in your new closet for months.
You move a couple of more times over the next few years. You always take the dinosaur with you. One day you meet someone special and you decide to confide in him about the dinosaur. He looks confused. "A dinosaur? Are you crazy?" You don't want him to think that you are crazy so you never mention the dinosaur again. But you know he is there, in the garage with the old record albums and clothes that you inherited from your parents.
One day you make a new friend. Her name is Roseanne. You love the way she cackles at her own jokes. You invite her over for tea (wishing you still had that box of weed you used to keep under your bed). Over cups of Earl Grey she says, "You know, I have this dinosaur in my closet."
"A dinosaur? Really? Oh, we have to talk," you say with a sigh of relief.
That's what happened to me, well, kind of. Roseanne's new book was dropped on my stoop yesterday morning. By noon I was in love. In the introduction (before the post-introduction and the preface) she says: "After buying everything on earth that I can buy, visiting exotic places, and meeting princes and idols, all I found myself wanting was to be able to say exactly what I wanted to say when I wanted to say it."
Roseanne is a truth-teller. I am a truth-teller in training.
I think that it is primarily loneliness that motivates me to read. The best books are those that serve as mirrors; I see myself in the ideas and stories. When I truly come to understand an author, I feel connected and understood myself. At times I even find a kindred spirit between the pages.
Imagine yourself as a child. Your mother asks you to clean out the garage. It is damp and musty and dust flies as you move the boxes of old record albums and clothing from long-dead relatives. You find an old trunk and cautiously open it up. Inside is a baby dinosaur. You rush into the house flushed with excitement and tell your mom.
"That's ridiculous," she says.
But you nag and whine until she follows you back to the garage. You open the trunk and there it is, the baby dinosaur. You smile smugly and look up at your mom. Your face falls when you see the confusion in her eyes. She doesn't see the dinosaur. You immediately start to think that you might be crazy. You tell no one else about the dinosaur although you occasionally sneak out to garage to take a peak.
When you are 18 you leave home and you decide to take the dinosaur with you. You pack him in a box and haul him in your old beat-up car to your new apartment along with your books and your Aerosmith poster and old diaries and the box of weed you kept hidden under the bed. The dinosaur lives quietly in your new closet for months.
You move a couple of more times over the next few years. You always take the dinosaur with you. One day you meet someone special and you decide to confide in him about the dinosaur. He looks confused. "A dinosaur? Are you crazy?" You don't want him to think that you are crazy so you never mention the dinosaur again. But you know he is there, in the garage with the old record albums and clothes that you inherited from your parents.
One day you make a new friend. Her name is Roseanne. You love the way she cackles at her own jokes. You invite her over for tea (wishing you still had that box of weed you used to keep under your bed). Over cups of Earl Grey she says, "You know, I have this dinosaur in my closet."
"A dinosaur? Really? Oh, we have to talk," you say with a sigh of relief.
That's what happened to me, well, kind of. Roseanne's new book was dropped on my stoop yesterday morning. By noon I was in love. In the introduction (before the post-introduction and the preface) she says: "After buying everything on earth that I can buy, visiting exotic places, and meeting princes and idols, all I found myself wanting was to be able to say exactly what I wanted to say when I wanted to say it."
Roseanne is a truth-teller. I am a truth-teller in training.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Day 19
I got up this morning, had breakfast and started writing, as usual. I began with three pages of free writing, what Julia Cameron calls, "morning pages." This usually gives me some direction in term of the content I want to focus on for the blog.
I wrote out the question: "What should I blog about today?" The answer was immediate: "Healing." I have been focused on thoughts of healing because I have been battling sinus infections for weeks and woke up this morning feeling slightly better. I was amazed, once again, by my bodies ability to heal.
As I began writing about healing I soon realized that I would have to write about sickness and infirmity. That's when the critic stepped in: Uh, yuk, nobody wants to read about that stuff. I felt compelled to censor myself when I saw words like diarrhea on the page (even when I upgraded to gastric distress I felt certain that I had gone too far).
It is easy to spot the places we have shame. They are the hidden places, the dark closets of the psyche. For me, illness is a specter I do not want to face. It's not just the discomfort or the inconvenience of illness, those I can deal with. Illness, for me, is a character issue. It marks its victims as weak and vulnerable. It is difficult for me to admit weakness and vulnerability.
For most of my life I fashioned myself a survivor, a fighter. I suppose it was one of the two faces I saw on my mom when I was growing up. She was often sick, hospitalized with mysterious tumors that seemed to grow inside her like moss on a tree. When she wasn't sick she was a 98 pound ball of fire. This was the woman I wanted to emulate, the one who refused to take shit off of anyone, not the one laying helpless in a hospital bed.
Throughout the time I was in graduate school I battled a whole range of seemingly unrelated symptoms: everything from gastric distress to nasal congestion. The symptoms peaked on the day I sat facing my committee, just after completing my exams. They would decide if I went on. There was a table between me and the four stoic professors. On it sat a box of Kleenex that I carried into the room with me. They posed questions and I answered, pausing only to cough, sneeze and blow my nose. A mound of discarded tissues grew in front of me. My eyes burned and watered. I ached all over. I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. No one ever acknowledged my condition. They were only interested in the answers to their questions.
Looking back I wonder why no one ever paused to ask: Are you alright? The truth was that I wasn't alright. I probably needed to be on my sofa sipping chicken soup, but instead I was sitting in a cold room being judged by people who cared not one bit about my well-being. We were all just cogs in the wheel and cogs don't get sick, they just keep moving.
I wrote out the question: "What should I blog about today?" The answer was immediate: "Healing." I have been focused on thoughts of healing because I have been battling sinus infections for weeks and woke up this morning feeling slightly better. I was amazed, once again, by my bodies ability to heal.
As I began writing about healing I soon realized that I would have to write about sickness and infirmity. That's when the critic stepped in: Uh, yuk, nobody wants to read about that stuff. I felt compelled to censor myself when I saw words like diarrhea on the page (even when I upgraded to gastric distress I felt certain that I had gone too far).
It is easy to spot the places we have shame. They are the hidden places, the dark closets of the psyche. For me, illness is a specter I do not want to face. It's not just the discomfort or the inconvenience of illness, those I can deal with. Illness, for me, is a character issue. It marks its victims as weak and vulnerable. It is difficult for me to admit weakness and vulnerability.
For most of my life I fashioned myself a survivor, a fighter. I suppose it was one of the two faces I saw on my mom when I was growing up. She was often sick, hospitalized with mysterious tumors that seemed to grow inside her like moss on a tree. When she wasn't sick she was a 98 pound ball of fire. This was the woman I wanted to emulate, the one who refused to take shit off of anyone, not the one laying helpless in a hospital bed.
Throughout the time I was in graduate school I battled a whole range of seemingly unrelated symptoms: everything from gastric distress to nasal congestion. The symptoms peaked on the day I sat facing my committee, just after completing my exams. They would decide if I went on. There was a table between me and the four stoic professors. On it sat a box of Kleenex that I carried into the room with me. They posed questions and I answered, pausing only to cough, sneeze and blow my nose. A mound of discarded tissues grew in front of me. My eyes burned and watered. I ached all over. I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. No one ever acknowledged my condition. They were only interested in the answers to their questions.
Looking back I wonder why no one ever paused to ask: Are you alright? The truth was that I wasn't alright. I probably needed to be on my sofa sipping chicken soup, but instead I was sitting in a cold room being judged by people who cared not one bit about my well-being. We were all just cogs in the wheel and cogs don't get sick, they just keep moving.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Day 18
I was reading The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron and came across this passage: "I seldom conceived a delicious plan without being given the means to accomplish it." It is easy to dismiss such a bold claim, but I believe it.
As I look back, I can see that whenever I have had an earnest and clear intention it has been realized. The challenge is to get clear about the intention. I have been seeking this kind of clarity about my writing.
To say that I simply want to write is dishonest. I want more than that. Sometimes I think that what I want is to impact other people with my writing: move them, change them, transform them. From where I sit that seems like a pretty tall order.
I was a drama geek in high school. I remember performing a monologue once about a girl who lost her twin brother to leukemia. When I looked out into the small audience, there was a woman, the mother of one of my classmates, crying. I was mesmerized by the single tear running down her cheek. The knowledge that I could move someone in this way made me feel powerful.
This desire to change other people through my creative work is, no doubt, an egoic one. Ultimately it is tied to the need for immortality. We all want to leave our mark, to live on through our creative works or good deeds. Perhaps this is just another house of cards. Doesn't everything, after all, eventually fade away? Dust to dust and all that.
If that is the case, why create? What is the motivation? When we push all the egoic desires aside, we create because of the way it makes us feel when we do it. It's the same reason people bungee jump or sky dive or have sex. If we can learn to get out of the way, we can become a channel for the creative energy that Carl Jung called collective consciousness and some people call God. That experience can be transcendent.
So, there it is. That's my intention: to be a channel. I see myself as an expectant mother, taking the classes and reading the books to prepare for the birth.
As I look back, I can see that whenever I have had an earnest and clear intention it has been realized. The challenge is to get clear about the intention. I have been seeking this kind of clarity about my writing.
To say that I simply want to write is dishonest. I want more than that. Sometimes I think that what I want is to impact other people with my writing: move them, change them, transform them. From where I sit that seems like a pretty tall order.
I was a drama geek in high school. I remember performing a monologue once about a girl who lost her twin brother to leukemia. When I looked out into the small audience, there was a woman, the mother of one of my classmates, crying. I was mesmerized by the single tear running down her cheek. The knowledge that I could move someone in this way made me feel powerful.
This desire to change other people through my creative work is, no doubt, an egoic one. Ultimately it is tied to the need for immortality. We all want to leave our mark, to live on through our creative works or good deeds. Perhaps this is just another house of cards. Doesn't everything, after all, eventually fade away? Dust to dust and all that.
If that is the case, why create? What is the motivation? When we push all the egoic desires aside, we create because of the way it makes us feel when we do it. It's the same reason people bungee jump or sky dive or have sex. If we can learn to get out of the way, we can become a channel for the creative energy that Carl Jung called collective consciousness and some people call God. That experience can be transcendent.
So, there it is. That's my intention: to be a channel. I see myself as an expectant mother, taking the classes and reading the books to prepare for the birth.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Day 17
I woke up this morning gripped by fear. The wind was howling outside my bedroom window and the windows and screen doors rattled in their frames. I could hear the sound of objects hitting the side of the house: milk cartons and cereal boxes snatched by the wind from overturned garbage cans.
I tried to talk my fearful mind down; my fear was after all irrational. I was safe in my bed and the house remained firmly on its foundation. The fear didn't respond to logic. It was attached to a memory by a long string that stretched back nearly 40 years. As I lay in bed I followed that string all the way back.
It was early May in 1971. I was sitting on the front stoop of the old grey house we rented in Joplin, the place we escaped to when my dad was fired from his job in Kansas City. My dad sat on the sagging porch in a lawn chair. He was drinking the last beer. My mom had gone to the store for more while my little brother slept in the house.
I didn't like being left alone with my dad. I was a child who had already learned to value predictability. He was anything but predictable. My mom assured me that she would only be gone a few minutes and that she would bring me a surprise. I anxiously waited, soothed by thoughts of Hostess Snowballs, the treat I was hoping for.
It was unusually dark for this time of night, the sky full of ominous cloud, the air thick and damp. I watched the trees in the neighbors yard bend and sway, dancing amid the breeze until they suddenly stopped. For a moment there was an eerie silence. Then, from off in the distance, a train whistle. It sounded like a locomotive barrelling toward our house. I turned to my dad, "What is it?" I asked.
"It's a tornado." he said, before taking another long drink from his Budweiser which appeared to be his only interest at the moment. It would be up to me to save us. Unfortunately, everything I knew about tornadoes I had learned from The Wizard of Oz. I didn't know what to do so I just sat there imagining my mom as Dorothy, hoping she would find her way back home to us.
Just when I thought the train was right on top of us it seemed to change course and the whistling sound started to fade away. A few minutes later my mom pulled up to the curb in our ancient gold Oldsmobile. She breathlessly told us about being in the store when the lights went out. She had to leave without the beer. She described the destruction she witnessed on the way home: houses crushed by fallen trees, cars overturned, the Dairy Queen on Main completely blown away.
My dad suggested that we wake my brother up and go for a drive to survey the damage. On the way back we would stop at the store for more beer.
I tried to talk my fearful mind down; my fear was after all irrational. I was safe in my bed and the house remained firmly on its foundation. The fear didn't respond to logic. It was attached to a memory by a long string that stretched back nearly 40 years. As I lay in bed I followed that string all the way back.
It was early May in 1971. I was sitting on the front stoop of the old grey house we rented in Joplin, the place we escaped to when my dad was fired from his job in Kansas City. My dad sat on the sagging porch in a lawn chair. He was drinking the last beer. My mom had gone to the store for more while my little brother slept in the house.
I didn't like being left alone with my dad. I was a child who had already learned to value predictability. He was anything but predictable. My mom assured me that she would only be gone a few minutes and that she would bring me a surprise. I anxiously waited, soothed by thoughts of Hostess Snowballs, the treat I was hoping for.
It was unusually dark for this time of night, the sky full of ominous cloud, the air thick and damp. I watched the trees in the neighbors yard bend and sway, dancing amid the breeze until they suddenly stopped. For a moment there was an eerie silence. Then, from off in the distance, a train whistle. It sounded like a locomotive barrelling toward our house. I turned to my dad, "What is it?" I asked.
"It's a tornado." he said, before taking another long drink from his Budweiser which appeared to be his only interest at the moment. It would be up to me to save us. Unfortunately, everything I knew about tornadoes I had learned from The Wizard of Oz. I didn't know what to do so I just sat there imagining my mom as Dorothy, hoping she would find her way back home to us.
Just when I thought the train was right on top of us it seemed to change course and the whistling sound started to fade away. A few minutes later my mom pulled up to the curb in our ancient gold Oldsmobile. She breathlessly told us about being in the store when the lights went out. She had to leave without the beer. She described the destruction she witnessed on the way home: houses crushed by fallen trees, cars overturned, the Dairy Queen on Main completely blown away.
My dad suggested that we wake my brother up and go for a drive to survey the damage. On the way back we would stop at the store for more beer.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Day 16
When I was in my 20s I had a dream that I had two best friends: Roseanne Barr and Oprah Winfrey. They would call me on the telephone in the evenings and share their frustrations. I would offer sage advice on managing a sitcom or dealing with talk show guests.
Just the other day I saw Roseanne on a talk show, touting her new book. It was like a reunion with an old friend. I was intrigued by what she had to say about parenting. She was honest about her regrets, wishing that instead of trying to discipline, shape and control her children, she had merely loved them from a place of acceptance and understanding. I felt connected to her again through our shared experience and I was grateful for her candor, her authenticity.
Roseanne told this fabulous story about selling her soul to the devil in exchange for success. The hosts of the show, a collection of Hollywood housewives, looked on, their painted-on faces creased with confusion. They were obviously afraid of what she might say next. They were afraid of her, a woman unleashed. I laughed out loud when she said that her "national anthem debacle" was the first sign that the devil had come back to claim her soul.
I loved it when Roseanne sang the national anthem, belting it out in strangled tones and ending with her characteristic cackle. She was responding to the muse, marching to the beat of her own drummer. It took courage, woman balls. I dream of being so bold. Roseanne is an inspiration.
After seeing Roseanne on television, I found myself daydreaming. I imagined myself writing a letter to her with a proposal to write a book together, a book on parenting by two old crones who survived the trenches and emerged not as heroes but wiser none the less. She would love the idea and invite me to her nut farm in Hawaii. We would work on the book together on lawn chairs beneath the macadamia trees. We would sip margaritas, laugh, create and laugh some more. I would learn to be more bold, not by watching Roseanne but by living my dreams.
Just the other day I saw Roseanne on a talk show, touting her new book. It was like a reunion with an old friend. I was intrigued by what she had to say about parenting. She was honest about her regrets, wishing that instead of trying to discipline, shape and control her children, she had merely loved them from a place of acceptance and understanding. I felt connected to her again through our shared experience and I was grateful for her candor, her authenticity.
Roseanne told this fabulous story about selling her soul to the devil in exchange for success. The hosts of the show, a collection of Hollywood housewives, looked on, their painted-on faces creased with confusion. They were obviously afraid of what she might say next. They were afraid of her, a woman unleashed. I laughed out loud when she said that her "national anthem debacle" was the first sign that the devil had come back to claim her soul.
I loved it when Roseanne sang the national anthem, belting it out in strangled tones and ending with her characteristic cackle. She was responding to the muse, marching to the beat of her own drummer. It took courage, woman balls. I dream of being so bold. Roseanne is an inspiration.
After seeing Roseanne on television, I found myself daydreaming. I imagined myself writing a letter to her with a proposal to write a book together, a book on parenting by two old crones who survived the trenches and emerged not as heroes but wiser none the less. She would love the idea and invite me to her nut farm in Hawaii. We would work on the book together on lawn chairs beneath the macadamia trees. We would sip margaritas, laugh, create and laugh some more. I would learn to be more bold, not by watching Roseanne but by living my dreams.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Day 15
On Saturdays I meet my friends Barb and Anne at the Daily Grind. Sometimes we write but mostly we just talk about writing. Today I shared with them my sadness about giving up sugar. I told them about the little girl in me who is holding onto the candy with both hands. She digs in her heels and refuses to let go. It seems wrong to pry the treats from her little fingers.
They helped me to see that what she really wants is sensual pleasure. Those were the words Anne used: sensual pleasure. The words immediately struck a cord. My ears piqued at their sound. I liked the way they felt on my tongue when I repeated them. Sensual pleasure, that's exactly what I longed for.
We brainstormed various sensual pleasures. Anne mentioned play dough and the way it feels between your fingers. Barb described the smell of fresh popped corn (which immediately reminded me of the sound it makes when it hits the lid on the kettle). I shared how much I enjoy rubbing lotion on my feet. We talked about picture books and movie soundtracks and hugging.
Barb reminded us that it's not enough to simply go through the motions. The pleasure comes from being present and paying attention. In fact, it is by paying attention that sensual pleasures are revealed to us. It is when we are living in the present moment that we begin to see that there are sensual pleasures all around us.
This conversation set my heart and mind racing. It was like peeking through a kaleidoscope and seeing the beautiful images formed by tiny bits of glass coming together in an infinite array of designs. Suddenly the taste of chocolate paled in comparison to being fully present to, say, the feel of silk between my fingers or the sight of a sunset or the smell of a ripe peach.
They helped me to see that what she really wants is sensual pleasure. Those were the words Anne used: sensual pleasure. The words immediately struck a cord. My ears piqued at their sound. I liked the way they felt on my tongue when I repeated them. Sensual pleasure, that's exactly what I longed for.
We brainstormed various sensual pleasures. Anne mentioned play dough and the way it feels between your fingers. Barb described the smell of fresh popped corn (which immediately reminded me of the sound it makes when it hits the lid on the kettle). I shared how much I enjoy rubbing lotion on my feet. We talked about picture books and movie soundtracks and hugging.
Barb reminded us that it's not enough to simply go through the motions. The pleasure comes from being present and paying attention. In fact, it is by paying attention that sensual pleasures are revealed to us. It is when we are living in the present moment that we begin to see that there are sensual pleasures all around us.
This conversation set my heart and mind racing. It was like peeking through a kaleidoscope and seeing the beautiful images formed by tiny bits of glass coming together in an infinite array of designs. Suddenly the taste of chocolate paled in comparison to being fully present to, say, the feel of silk between my fingers or the sight of a sunset or the smell of a ripe peach.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Day 14
I woke up this morning feeling like shit: sick, tired, angry. I finally had to admit the truth. I am in an abusive relationship. It has been going on for a long time now, most of my life in fact. I want to end it but there is pull, this attraction. It's not so much love as obsession.
So, how does a person break free from this kind of entanglement? I have tried to leave sugar behind many times but it always calls me back. I want it even though it makes me sick. This morning I started composing a letter, a letter spelling out my intentions to leave sugar once and for all.
Dear Sugar,
I love you. I always have. But you are not good for me. I haven't had a good night's sleep in months. I can't breath. It's time for me to admit the truth: it is you, our relationship, that is making me sick.
It's hard to imagine my life without you. I love baking with you in the kitchen while we listen to NPR. I love you in coconut macaroons at Bucer's and peanut butter cups from the co-op. Some of the best times of my life have been spent with you. The holidays will never be the same. I have tried substitutes but they're not for me. I want you and it breaks my heart to let you go.
I have to start a new life without you. It's the only way to regain my health and my sanity. I will miss you. Please don't call or write. I need time and space to make a fresh start.
No longer yours,
Debbie
So, how does a person break free from this kind of entanglement? I have tried to leave sugar behind many times but it always calls me back. I want it even though it makes me sick. This morning I started composing a letter, a letter spelling out my intentions to leave sugar once and for all.
Dear Sugar,
I love you. I always have. But you are not good for me. I haven't had a good night's sleep in months. I can't breath. It's time for me to admit the truth: it is you, our relationship, that is making me sick.
It's hard to imagine my life without you. I love baking with you in the kitchen while we listen to NPR. I love you in coconut macaroons at Bucer's and peanut butter cups from the co-op. Some of the best times of my life have been spent with you. The holidays will never be the same. I have tried substitutes but they're not for me. I want you and it breaks my heart to let you go.
I have to start a new life without you. It's the only way to regain my health and my sanity. I will miss you. Please don't call or write. I need time and space to make a fresh start.
No longer yours,
Debbie
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Day 13
I woke up this morning and looked at the clock. 6:00 a.m. My brain said "enough sleep," but my body hunkered down a little deeper. I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and imagined staying there all day. I tried to rouse myself with the reminder that I finished my grading yesterday and was free to write today. Who cares, I thought.
I did finally manage to pull back the covers and lift myself out of bed, but the fog of apathy followed me from my bedroom to the office where I checked my email, then to the kitchen where I made myself some tea and oatmeal and then into the dining room where I sat down to write.
Without conviction or hope I opened my notebook. I had previously committed myself to 6 pages every day. Today I was like a writing machine. The words flowed freely. I didn't worry about whether they were "good." I didn't care. I just fulfilled my obligation to put the pen to the paper. I didn't have the will or the energy to struggle.
More often than not I do struggle, in part because I care too much. I get attached to a particular outcome (like the desire to write well, have my writing acknowledged by others, get published, become rich and famous and worshipped by throngs of adoring fans) and it becomes a preoccupation; a distraction; in some cases an obsession. My energy gets focused on the outcome and I fail to do the work that might someday get me there.
Today it occurs to me that apathy is my friend. It frees me from my attachment to the outcome so that I can do the footwork.
I did finally manage to pull back the covers and lift myself out of bed, but the fog of apathy followed me from my bedroom to the office where I checked my email, then to the kitchen where I made myself some tea and oatmeal and then into the dining room where I sat down to write.
Without conviction or hope I opened my notebook. I had previously committed myself to 6 pages every day. Today I was like a writing machine. The words flowed freely. I didn't worry about whether they were "good." I didn't care. I just fulfilled my obligation to put the pen to the paper. I didn't have the will or the energy to struggle.
More often than not I do struggle, in part because I care too much. I get attached to a particular outcome (like the desire to write well, have my writing acknowledged by others, get published, become rich and famous and worshipped by throngs of adoring fans) and it becomes a preoccupation; a distraction; in some cases an obsession. My energy gets focused on the outcome and I fail to do the work that might someday get me there.
Today it occurs to me that apathy is my friend. It frees me from my attachment to the outcome so that I can do the footwork.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Day 12
Yesterday Bill poked his head in my room. "Your blog was good today."
I found myself once again seduced by the sweet siren call of praise, made all the sweeter because it was coming from Bill. Part of my affection for Bill lies in his tendency to deal more in honesty than in praise. I appreciate his tendency to reserve judgement: both good and bad. At the same time, I crave his approval.
So there it was, his approval. Laid out for me like a prize jewel. He said it was "good." I can do better, I thought. I immediately started to think about tomorrow's blog. What would I write about? I could feel the pressure mounting.
It reminded me of low-fat cheesecake. It was early in our relationship. I made a low-fat cheesecake that was, Bill said, "good." I was determined to make a better low-fat cheesecake. I swapped out regular cream cheese for yogurt and added sweetened condensed milk to make it creamier. I experimented with different kinds of springform pans and baking methods. I toyed with various toppings and add-ins. I must have made (and eaten) a hundred low-fat cheesecakes. I'm not sure any were better than the first. Somewhere along the way it stopped being fun. It was like racing to the top of a stairway to no where.
I could see that I was doing the same thing here, creating a competition that I couldn't win. I decided to table my blog idea until morning. I woke up this morning and starting searching my mind for something to write about: a weighty idea, one that would fall to the floor with a thud, something substantive, something real, something meaningful and profound.
I closed my eyes and all I could see were little bits of dust and lint floating around in the darkness, as if someone took a fluffy blanket from the dryer and shook it off inside my head. I heard the muse say, "Write about that. Write about the dust and lint in your head." My first thought was, ah, now she's mocking me.
Then I remembered laying on my back in the grass. I must have been 9 years old. It was a warm day in August. The sun was high up in the sky. I dared myself to look directly at it. Then I closed my eyes and watched the light show behind my eyelids: bright, swirling streams of light, shifting and moving. Slowly the light faded until there were only flecks of white, squiggles and bits of fluff floating in front of the inky backdrop inside my head. For a few moments, my mind seemed like a vast and inscrutable place and I felt connected to the mysteries of the universe.
I read an interview with Andrew Weil yesterday. He said that human beings need altered states of consciousness. When did I forget how to get there?
I found myself once again seduced by the sweet siren call of praise, made all the sweeter because it was coming from Bill. Part of my affection for Bill lies in his tendency to deal more in honesty than in praise. I appreciate his tendency to reserve judgement: both good and bad. At the same time, I crave his approval.
So there it was, his approval. Laid out for me like a prize jewel. He said it was "good." I can do better, I thought. I immediately started to think about tomorrow's blog. What would I write about? I could feel the pressure mounting.
It reminded me of low-fat cheesecake. It was early in our relationship. I made a low-fat cheesecake that was, Bill said, "good." I was determined to make a better low-fat cheesecake. I swapped out regular cream cheese for yogurt and added sweetened condensed milk to make it creamier. I experimented with different kinds of springform pans and baking methods. I toyed with various toppings and add-ins. I must have made (and eaten) a hundred low-fat cheesecakes. I'm not sure any were better than the first. Somewhere along the way it stopped being fun. It was like racing to the top of a stairway to no where.
I could see that I was doing the same thing here, creating a competition that I couldn't win. I decided to table my blog idea until morning. I woke up this morning and starting searching my mind for something to write about: a weighty idea, one that would fall to the floor with a thud, something substantive, something real, something meaningful and profound.
I closed my eyes and all I could see were little bits of dust and lint floating around in the darkness, as if someone took a fluffy blanket from the dryer and shook it off inside my head. I heard the muse say, "Write about that. Write about the dust and lint in your head." My first thought was, ah, now she's mocking me.
Then I remembered laying on my back in the grass. I must have been 9 years old. It was a warm day in August. The sun was high up in the sky. I dared myself to look directly at it. Then I closed my eyes and watched the light show behind my eyelids: bright, swirling streams of light, shifting and moving. Slowly the light faded until there were only flecks of white, squiggles and bits of fluff floating in front of the inky backdrop inside my head. For a few moments, my mind seemed like a vast and inscrutable place and I felt connected to the mysteries of the universe.
I read an interview with Andrew Weil yesterday. He said that human beings need altered states of consciousness. When did I forget how to get there?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Day 11
I made a commitment to myself to read and follow The Artist's Way, a course for creative recovery. It was time to read chapter two and I was having a hard time focusing at home. I decided to take my book and go to the co-op to read.
Roman law refers to the commons, or Res communes, as those things common to all, spaces and resources that belong to the entire community. In Moscow, the co-op is that kind of place. There are tables situated at the front of the store for sitting, studying, socializing or eating. You need not buy food to occupy a table, all are welcome.
The co-op is a great place for people watching: there are college students hunched over glowing laptops, small children eating cupcakes with fancy swirled frosting, vagabonds with their belongings stuffed into worn backpacks.
It was mid-afternoon when I arrived at the co-op, book in hand. I ordered a tea and a gluten-free cookie. I didn't want to buy the whole package so they disassembled it and sold me just one. I chose a seat facing the east wall.
Behind me were two men who looked to be in their late 50s. One of them had a ponytail and splotches of white paint on his grey button-down shirt. I could hear their conversation and it pulled me from me reading. They were talking about All the Pretty Horses. Ponytail guy thought it was overrated. I drifted in and out of their conversation. Later they were talking about watercolors and I gathered that they were both artists.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two young men, talking, debating really. They went back and forth, arms flailing, faces strained. The words "public education" rose up like smoke signals from their exchange. I admired from a distance the way they seemed to navigate passion and civility.
A uniformed police officer came through the door and several hands went up to greet her. Ponytail guy shouted a joke about the price of coffee at the co-op and the need for an arrest. She laughed and said that's exactly why she was there: "Coffee."
I was suddenly filled with a sense of belonging and everything seemed right with the world. Just a few hours earlier I was watching a news story about the massacre in Tucson and now here I was so firmly grounded in this place I call home. For this moment, I was absolutely safe.
In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron talks about creative recovery as a process that begins with recovering a sense of safety and then a sense of identity. For me, both are situated in a sense of place.
Roman law refers to the commons, or Res communes, as those things common to all, spaces and resources that belong to the entire community. In Moscow, the co-op is that kind of place. There are tables situated at the front of the store for sitting, studying, socializing or eating. You need not buy food to occupy a table, all are welcome.
The co-op is a great place for people watching: there are college students hunched over glowing laptops, small children eating cupcakes with fancy swirled frosting, vagabonds with their belongings stuffed into worn backpacks.
It was mid-afternoon when I arrived at the co-op, book in hand. I ordered a tea and a gluten-free cookie. I didn't want to buy the whole package so they disassembled it and sold me just one. I chose a seat facing the east wall.
Behind me were two men who looked to be in their late 50s. One of them had a ponytail and splotches of white paint on his grey button-down shirt. I could hear their conversation and it pulled me from me reading. They were talking about All the Pretty Horses. Ponytail guy thought it was overrated. I drifted in and out of their conversation. Later they were talking about watercolors and I gathered that they were both artists.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two young men, talking, debating really. They went back and forth, arms flailing, faces strained. The words "public education" rose up like smoke signals from their exchange. I admired from a distance the way they seemed to navigate passion and civility.
A uniformed police officer came through the door and several hands went up to greet her. Ponytail guy shouted a joke about the price of coffee at the co-op and the need for an arrest. She laughed and said that's exactly why she was there: "Coffee."
I was suddenly filled with a sense of belonging and everything seemed right with the world. Just a few hours earlier I was watching a news story about the massacre in Tucson and now here I was so firmly grounded in this place I call home. For this moment, I was absolutely safe.
In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron talks about creative recovery as a process that begins with recovering a sense of safety and then a sense of identity. For me, both are situated in a sense of place.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Day 10
I have been writing some pieces based on my experiences as a mother. Sometimes my experiences conflict with what I have been indoctrinated to believe about motherhood, conjuring feelings of embarrassment and shame. For me, it is nearly impossible to write in the midst of shame.
There is one piece in particular that I have been working on for weeks. I write and rewrite, but the process is always clumsy and stilted. The words that end up on the page are contrived and lifeless.
Today, I meditated before I started writing, I consciously tried to open myself up to Spirit, to the muse, to the Writing Gods, to any power that might help me in ways I was not able to help myself. Still, the words refused to flow. Then, from out of the blue, the still, small voice whispered, "Try writing in third person."
I closed my eyes. I could see myself as a young mother: so inexperienced, so naive. The crystallized images presented themselves like a full-color movie. I decided to record what I was seeing, only this time I wasn't the star of the movie. I was the observer: detached, objective. I put my pen to paper and didn't lift it for nearly an hour. When I was done, I knew that I had written the truth.
There is one piece in particular that I have been working on for weeks. I write and rewrite, but the process is always clumsy and stilted. The words that end up on the page are contrived and lifeless.
Today, I meditated before I started writing, I consciously tried to open myself up to Spirit, to the muse, to the Writing Gods, to any power that might help me in ways I was not able to help myself. Still, the words refused to flow. Then, from out of the blue, the still, small voice whispered, "Try writing in third person."
I closed my eyes. I could see myself as a young mother: so inexperienced, so naive. The crystallized images presented themselves like a full-color movie. I decided to record what I was seeing, only this time I wasn't the star of the movie. I was the observer: detached, objective. I put my pen to paper and didn't lift it for nearly an hour. When I was done, I knew that I had written the truth.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Day 9
I got up this morning and wandered into the kitchen hungry and jonesing for a hit of caffeine. The sink was full of dishes and the dishwasher needed to be unloaded. I growled, not out loud, but in my mind. Bill was there and I didn't want to frighten him.
Some days, like today, are angry days. I don't really know why. I just know that I occasionally experience free-floating anger. I have learned to be aware of my anger, otherwise I run the risk of undiscriminately spraying ammunition that might hit innocent bystanders. Like a peevish child, my anger needs to be soothed and gently rocked.
I imagine what it might be like to harness the anger and use it in my writing. I am not there yet, but I dream of the possibility.
Some days, like today, are angry days. I don't really know why. I just know that I occasionally experience free-floating anger. I have learned to be aware of my anger, otherwise I run the risk of undiscriminately spraying ammunition that might hit innocent bystanders. Like a peevish child, my anger needs to be soothed and gently rocked.
I imagine what it might be like to harness the anger and use it in my writing. I am not there yet, but I dream of the possibility.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Day 8
I watched a film yesterday about a Chicago nanny who left behind thousands of photographs when she died a few years ago. They were discovered at a storage facility auction after being abandoned and have since been declared among the best of the twentieth century by some art critics.
I shared the link with a friend. I told her that I imagined the woman "consumed with passion" for her art. She wrote back with this question: "What do you mean by consumed with passion?" The question immediately took me back to another time, when Bill and I were first together.
We lived about 60 miles apart: me in Walla Walla with my son and him in Kennewick with his 3 dogs. We spent the weekends together. We quickly developed a routine. I would arrive in Kennewick on Saturday afternoon. We would go out to dinner and then go back to his small trailer. We would light candles and put music on the stereo.
Suddenly I was aware of no one or nothing but him and that place and what was happening between us. The rest of the world simply disappeared. He would share his memories of growing up in Pullman and later moving to Berkley. I would share my dreams for the future. We would find novel ways to pleasure each other and then whisper secrets in the dark. As we lay there enjoying the safety of our intimacy, the sun would peek in around the window blinds.
"Oh, my God, it's morning. We've been up all night." I would say, shocked at the number of hours that had passed without my awareness of them. I never stopped to look at a clock. I never paused to consider the time. I was completely absorbed in the experience. I was consumed by passion. I was transformed.
It is possible to write in the same way we make love?
I shared the link with a friend. I told her that I imagined the woman "consumed with passion" for her art. She wrote back with this question: "What do you mean by consumed with passion?" The question immediately took me back to another time, when Bill and I were first together.
We lived about 60 miles apart: me in Walla Walla with my son and him in Kennewick with his 3 dogs. We spent the weekends together. We quickly developed a routine. I would arrive in Kennewick on Saturday afternoon. We would go out to dinner and then go back to his small trailer. We would light candles and put music on the stereo.
Suddenly I was aware of no one or nothing but him and that place and what was happening between us. The rest of the world simply disappeared. He would share his memories of growing up in Pullman and later moving to Berkley. I would share my dreams for the future. We would find novel ways to pleasure each other and then whisper secrets in the dark. As we lay there enjoying the safety of our intimacy, the sun would peek in around the window blinds.
"Oh, my God, it's morning. We've been up all night." I would say, shocked at the number of hours that had passed without my awareness of them. I never stopped to look at a clock. I never paused to consider the time. I was completely absorbed in the experience. I was consumed by passion. I was transformed.
It is possible to write in the same way we make love?
Friday, January 7, 2011
Day 7
I took a little hiatus from my mediation practice. It was a little test. I thought that maybe I didn't need it anymore, that I had reached some stage beyond enlightenment that would allow me to transcend such needs. I was wrong.
I lit a candle and sat this morning. I tried to clear my mind and focus on my breathing. I had a rabble of butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I shifted and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. I considered getting up to remove my robe because I was too warm. But instead, I just kept sitting. Breathing. Before long the butterflies took flight and a calm descended on me. I felt empty, light, tranquil. I was only aware of my breath. There was peace.
I have learned many important lessons from the practice of sitting. Perhaps the most reassuring of these is that it is all about the practice. I don't have to strive for peace. I just have to show up, sit and breath. It almost always brings me to that still place within myself.
I am trying to apply this to my writing. Show up. Write. Let go. Stop striving.
I lit a candle and sat this morning. I tried to clear my mind and focus on my breathing. I had a rabble of butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I shifted and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. I considered getting up to remove my robe because I was too warm. But instead, I just kept sitting. Breathing. Before long the butterflies took flight and a calm descended on me. I felt empty, light, tranquil. I was only aware of my breath. There was peace.
I have learned many important lessons from the practice of sitting. Perhaps the most reassuring of these is that it is all about the practice. I don't have to strive for peace. I just have to show up, sit and breath. It almost always brings me to that still place within myself.
I am trying to apply this to my writing. Show up. Write. Let go. Stop striving.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Day 6
I feel obligated to feed my partner Bill. I'm a little embarrassed to admit this because I recognize that it represents a belief that is just a little insane. After all, I met Bill when he was 50 years old. He was not malnourished or disabled in any way. He even owned his own kitchen implements and a copy of The Joy of Cooking.
The girls from Sex in the City aside, most women I know feel this pull to take care of others, often at their own expense. We are taught and encouraged to be kind and self-sacrificing and nurturing and self-sacrificing and helpful and self-sacrificing. We continue to place ourselves on the alter of motherhood and marriage.
Years ago I read a book by Margaret Atwood about a woman who was engaged. As her wedding drew near, parts of her body began to disappear. Isn't that what happens to so many of us? We give parts of ourselves away until there is nothing left. We disappear.
The creative life is about self-expression. Before we can express ourselves, we must first reclaim ourselves. I am struggling to reclaim myself. The process begins by acknowledging, nurturing and honoring my own needs. Today that means cooking the food that I need and letting Bill feed himself.
The girls from Sex in the City aside, most women I know feel this pull to take care of others, often at their own expense. We are taught and encouraged to be kind and self-sacrificing and nurturing and self-sacrificing and helpful and self-sacrificing. We continue to place ourselves on the alter of motherhood and marriage.
Years ago I read a book by Margaret Atwood about a woman who was engaged. As her wedding drew near, parts of her body began to disappear. Isn't that what happens to so many of us? We give parts of ourselves away until there is nothing left. We disappear.
The creative life is about self-expression. Before we can express ourselves, we must first reclaim ourselves. I am struggling to reclaim myself. The process begins by acknowledging, nurturing and honoring my own needs. Today that means cooking the food that I need and letting Bill feed himself.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Day 5
I miss my lists.
As part of my new commitment to creativity, I decided to abstain from list making for a time. You know, fly free, take a walk on the wild side. It's been 4 days since I made my last list and I am jonesing.
For almost every day of my adult life I have made a list of things "to-do." Those lists bring order to my world. I know that everything will be alright as long as I do the things on the lists. Sure, the earth is getting hotter and the economy already tanked and I owe tens of thousands of dollars in student loans and I am overeducated and underemployed, but the lists are the road out of despair.
Without the lists, I feel lost. Oh sure, I still manage to do things, but those things don't count because there is no list to mark them off of. It is the marking off that brings me real satisfaction (I prefer making a definitive line through each action item as they are completed, checkmarks are too tentative for me). With each item I mark off I am filled with a sense of accomplishment. I am only good enough when I do enough. The lists are the rods that measure my self-worth.
What will become of me without my lists?
As part of my new commitment to creativity, I decided to abstain from list making for a time. You know, fly free, take a walk on the wild side. It's been 4 days since I made my last list and I am jonesing.
For almost every day of my adult life I have made a list of things "to-do." Those lists bring order to my world. I know that everything will be alright as long as I do the things on the lists. Sure, the earth is getting hotter and the economy already tanked and I owe tens of thousands of dollars in student loans and I am overeducated and underemployed, but the lists are the road out of despair.
Without the lists, I feel lost. Oh sure, I still manage to do things, but those things don't count because there is no list to mark them off of. It is the marking off that brings me real satisfaction (I prefer making a definitive line through each action item as they are completed, checkmarks are too tentative for me). With each item I mark off I am filled with a sense of accomplishment. I am only good enough when I do enough. The lists are the rods that measure my self-worth.
What will become of me without my lists?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Day 4
A few days ago I met some friends at the Daily Grind for an impromptu writing workshop. We sat on benches pulled up to rickety wooden tables and responded to writing prompts, pens scribbling feverishly for 10 minutes at a time. Then we each read aloud. After I was done reading my friend said, "That was good. That was really good."
Like a needle to the vein, it was just the fix I craved, the fix I always crave. I could feel the warmth rush through my body. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain there was a whispered voice, "She likes it. It is good. You are good." For a moment, there was complete satisfaction, peace, joy. Immediately the pleasure started to recede. It wasn't long before I was craving another fix.
I asked my friend not to respond this way because it feeds my addiction. I imagine myself responding to blank stares after I read. I know that I will read this as disapproval. I will fill in the blanks: "It stinks. She hates it. I am a crappy writer." It feels like a no-win situation.
As I was writing my morning pages this morning I asked for guidance, as if the page was a wise old oracle. There was an immediate response: "Spend time alone with your writing. Develop an intimate relationship. Let no one come between you and your writing."
Like a needle to the vein, it was just the fix I craved, the fix I always crave. I could feel the warmth rush through my body. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain there was a whispered voice, "She likes it. It is good. You are good." For a moment, there was complete satisfaction, peace, joy. Immediately the pleasure started to recede. It wasn't long before I was craving another fix.
I asked my friend not to respond this way because it feeds my addiction. I imagine myself responding to blank stares after I read. I know that I will read this as disapproval. I will fill in the blanks: "It stinks. She hates it. I am a crappy writer." It feels like a no-win situation.
As I was writing my morning pages this morning I asked for guidance, as if the page was a wise old oracle. There was an immediate response: "Spend time alone with your writing. Develop an intimate relationship. Let no one come between you and your writing."
Monday, January 3, 2011
Day 3
I haven't actually set out on this voyage I call the creative life. I suppose I am still busy packing my bags, trying to figure out what implements I might need along the way. Getting sick so early on was a clear reminder that the creative life requires a healthy body and a clear mind; self-care is essential.
I saw Cornel West, the former academic turned public intellectual, a few days ago in a film. He was talking about the examined life and how it requires courage. He quoted William Butler Yeats who said: "It takes more courage to examine the dark corners of your own soul than it does for a soldier to fight on a battlefield." For me, the examined life and the creative life are one and the same. Both require courage. Unfortunately, courage isn't something I can wrap up in a bundle and pack inside my suitcase. It is like a cup that must be constantly refilled.
I have been consistently afraid most of my life. I was afraid as the new kid every time I changed schools. I was afraid when my dad got drunk and threatened to kill himself. I was afraid when my mom had heart surgery a few years ago. I was afraid yesterday when I imagined that something terrible might happen to someone I love. I used to think that courage meant building walls to hide behind. More and more I think that courage requires vulnerability: a willingness to face the fear and remain open.
Trusting the fear to be my teacher is one kind of courage. I hope that it will teach me to be a better writer.
I saw Cornel West, the former academic turned public intellectual, a few days ago in a film. He was talking about the examined life and how it requires courage. He quoted William Butler Yeats who said: "It takes more courage to examine the dark corners of your own soul than it does for a soldier to fight on a battlefield." For me, the examined life and the creative life are one and the same. Both require courage. Unfortunately, courage isn't something I can wrap up in a bundle and pack inside my suitcase. It is like a cup that must be constantly refilled.
I have been consistently afraid most of my life. I was afraid as the new kid every time I changed schools. I was afraid when my dad got drunk and threatened to kill himself. I was afraid when my mom had heart surgery a few years ago. I was afraid yesterday when I imagined that something terrible might happen to someone I love. I used to think that courage meant building walls to hide behind. More and more I think that courage requires vulnerability: a willingness to face the fear and remain open.
Trusting the fear to be my teacher is one kind of courage. I hope that it will teach me to be a better writer.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Day 2
I have been thinking about this blog for months. The idea was first conceived when I read a quote from Michael Foucault. He said, "...we have to create ourselves as a work of art." I believed him and I started to question what it might mean to follow his advice. I decided to commit myself to the creative process for one year.
In preparation, I have been reading what other people have to say about creativity, mostly writers I respect, people like Anne Lamont and Natalie Goldberg. I even started a self-directed course to cultivate creativity based on the book The Artist's Way. I began to feel as if I was in training to prepare myself for the creative life. January 1, 2011 was the date I set to begin my adventure.
I woke up yesterday wheezing and sniffling: a sinus infection. I tried to ignore the tiredness, the run-down feeling that signals a depleted immune system, but my stuffed up nasal passages screamed for attention. The voice of my muse was drowned out by sounds of sneezing and nose blowing. All I wanted to do was lay on the couch and watch television. Surely my muse would not approve.
I got up this morning, still sick, but determined to create. I did a little free-writing to clear out the cobwebs and then sat, looking ahead, the day spread out before me like a clean blanket at a picnic. More than anything I wanted to stretch out on that blanket and rest. Suddenly it occurred to me: perhaps it was my muse speaking, telling me to rest. Creativity requires vitality and energy. Perhaps that is the first lesson any artist needs to learn: take care of yourself.
In preparation, I have been reading what other people have to say about creativity, mostly writers I respect, people like Anne Lamont and Natalie Goldberg. I even started a self-directed course to cultivate creativity based on the book The Artist's Way. I began to feel as if I was in training to prepare myself for the creative life. January 1, 2011 was the date I set to begin my adventure.
I woke up yesterday wheezing and sniffling: a sinus infection. I tried to ignore the tiredness, the run-down feeling that signals a depleted immune system, but my stuffed up nasal passages screamed for attention. The voice of my muse was drowned out by sounds of sneezing and nose blowing. All I wanted to do was lay on the couch and watch television. Surely my muse would not approve.
I got up this morning, still sick, but determined to create. I did a little free-writing to clear out the cobwebs and then sat, looking ahead, the day spread out before me like a clean blanket at a picnic. More than anything I wanted to stretch out on that blanket and rest. Suddenly it occurred to me: perhaps it was my muse speaking, telling me to rest. Creativity requires vitality and energy. Perhaps that is the first lesson any artist needs to learn: take care of yourself.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Day 1
When I was in the 6th grade there was a city-wide coloring contest. Mrs Bryton handed out the entry form which featured the outline of a fire hydrant. A brief description at the top of the page indicated that contestants in grades 3 through 6 would compete for the chance to create designs that would be used to decorate real fire hydrants all over the city.
For me it was a chance at fame and glory. I took out my big box of 64 crayons, all neatly sharpened and standing at attention like toy soldiers. Mark Haden, with his tussled hair and dirty fingernails, sat in front of me, scribbling furiously with a little stub of blue, as I stared at the lines of the naked hydrant on the page.
I thought long and hard before I picked up a crayon. The judges of this contest would be adults. I knew how to please the adults. They wanted something neat, something that made sense. I was searching for a logical design. Then it hit me. It was 1976. How about the centennial? I carefully removed my red, white and blue crayons. I would give them exactly what they wanted.
Logic paid off and I won the contest. Over the years, time and again, logic served me well. It helped me succeed at school and work and even in my personal relationships, or at least I thought it did. I won pats on the back and blue ribbons for being reliable and predicable, for playing it safe and coloring within the lines.
It worked until it didn't work anymore. It's hard to pinpoint the moment when things first began to change. Perhaps it was finishing my Ph.D. I completed the exams and the dissertation, did everything that was expected of me. I followed the rules, both spoken and unspoken, and I was rewarded with yet another degree. I found myself saying: "Now what? Is this all there is?"
I am writing this blog because I am confident that the answer is NO! There is something more to life. I suspect that the creative process is a method of mining out the joy. It may even be the very reason we are here.
I am committed to living my life more creatively. For me, that means honoring that which is most alive in me. It begins with listening to that still, small voice inside. It is stepping into darkness and trusting myself to fly.
For me it was a chance at fame and glory. I took out my big box of 64 crayons, all neatly sharpened and standing at attention like toy soldiers. Mark Haden, with his tussled hair and dirty fingernails, sat in front of me, scribbling furiously with a little stub of blue, as I stared at the lines of the naked hydrant on the page.
I thought long and hard before I picked up a crayon. The judges of this contest would be adults. I knew how to please the adults. They wanted something neat, something that made sense. I was searching for a logical design. Then it hit me. It was 1976. How about the centennial? I carefully removed my red, white and blue crayons. I would give them exactly what they wanted.
Logic paid off and I won the contest. Over the years, time and again, logic served me well. It helped me succeed at school and work and even in my personal relationships, or at least I thought it did. I won pats on the back and blue ribbons for being reliable and predicable, for playing it safe and coloring within the lines.
It worked until it didn't work anymore. It's hard to pinpoint the moment when things first began to change. Perhaps it was finishing my Ph.D. I completed the exams and the dissertation, did everything that was expected of me. I followed the rules, both spoken and unspoken, and I was rewarded with yet another degree. I found myself saying: "Now what? Is this all there is?"
I am writing this blog because I am confident that the answer is NO! There is something more to life. I suspect that the creative process is a method of mining out the joy. It may even be the very reason we are here.
I am committed to living my life more creatively. For me, that means honoring that which is most alive in me. It begins with listening to that still, small voice inside. It is stepping into darkness and trusting myself to fly.
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