My mom is a truth teller. That may be her greatest gift to me. She never tried to hide herself away, the way so many mothers do. She was never a mystery to me and that made me less of a mystery to myself.
One day I found a baby book in the bottom of a box of old pictures and keepsakes. It had an ivory satin cover that was yellowed with age. On the front was a faded image of a smiling infant. I opened it to find my name written in big script on the first page. It was the handwriting of a young girl, a girl who, at the age of 17, should have been attending prom instead of tending to a newborn.
I turned to the page marked "First Year." There my mother had written a short paragraph intended to serve as an overview of my first year of life. She said that I was beautiful and smart. Don't all mothers believe their children to be those things? It was the next few lines that caught my attention. She said that she didn't know what she would do without me. I was her whole world.
I have thought a lot about those words in the years since I first read them. I have imagined myself as that baby, walking on unstable legs, not yet weened from the bottle, yet bestowed with the power to save her mother. I was a hero before I could tie my own shoelaces. It was the natural consequence of being born to a mother and father who had been victimized; parents who never had the chance to heal their own wounds.
Recently, through my own writing, I came to see how this pattern played out in my relationship with my own child. I wanted to be the hero in her life. It was, after all, the only role I ever really knew. In order to do that, I had to cast her as the victim. Sometimes I still do.
On Saturday, as I talked with friends about my writing and what it is revealing to me, I saw so clearly how my attempts to rescue Kat, to be her hero, have robbed her of the opportunity to make her own way, to be her own hero. I see her doing that now , despite me, and I realize that it is time to hang up my cape.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Day 58
A few days ago when I tried to transcribe the handwritten pages of my memoir, I was attacked by my inner demons. This is crap, the demons said, the ramblings of a novice hack. I was disturbed by just how vocal these demons had become and the impact they were having on my writing process.
I met for tea with some friends yesterday and shared my concerns. One of my friends asked me a question that opened a floodgate of emotion. I don't recall the exact phrasing, the specific words. It was something like: What do you hope to accomplish with your memoir? Or maybe it was: What is your purpose in writing the memoir? I really don't recall.
What I do recall are the raw, honest internal responses that the question generated. The answers came fast and sharp: I want the memoir to heal me. I want it to heal my daughter. I want it to be published and heal millions of other people. I want it to generate cash from its publication, cash that will bring even more healing to my family.
The eyes of my friends were upon me and I didn't want to speak. I was embarrassed to admit my expectations. I suddenly recognized how silly my fantasies would seem if I spoke them out loud. Realizing that they were nothing more than fantasies, I was ashamed that I had allowed myself to be swept away by them. My memoir was still in the womb and I was already weaving dreams of the ways it would give my life meaning and purpose.
Writing a memoir is a lot like excavating the family grave site. Each bone, each artifact that you uncover carries of legacy of loss and separation. The process is marked by layer upon layer of grief. I guess that in the midst of that pain, I wanted to believe that there would be some sort of reward at the end of the dig, a prize in the form of healing.
I woke this morning feeling dazed and still hungry for healing. Even before my first cup of tea, I scanned Facebook. I was intrigued by a link posted by my Mom. It was the video of a young man named Zac Smith just before his death from cancer at the age of 33. He talked about his desire to live to walk his daughter down the aisle and grow old with his wife. Then he said: "If God chooses to heal me, then God is God and God is good. If God chooses not to heal me and allows me to die, then God is still God and God is still good."
Astounded by his faith I thought about my own. I am not sure what God is. God, for me, is a mystery. I am certain of only one thing: there is a still, small voice that speaks to me. I don't know where it comes from but I know I have to listen and follow. Right now that voice says: WRITE! What becomes of what I write is not my concern. It is none of my business. I am not in control here. I am not God.
I met for tea with some friends yesterday and shared my concerns. One of my friends asked me a question that opened a floodgate of emotion. I don't recall the exact phrasing, the specific words. It was something like: What do you hope to accomplish with your memoir? Or maybe it was: What is your purpose in writing the memoir? I really don't recall.
What I do recall are the raw, honest internal responses that the question generated. The answers came fast and sharp: I want the memoir to heal me. I want it to heal my daughter. I want it to be published and heal millions of other people. I want it to generate cash from its publication, cash that will bring even more healing to my family.
The eyes of my friends were upon me and I didn't want to speak. I was embarrassed to admit my expectations. I suddenly recognized how silly my fantasies would seem if I spoke them out loud. Realizing that they were nothing more than fantasies, I was ashamed that I had allowed myself to be swept away by them. My memoir was still in the womb and I was already weaving dreams of the ways it would give my life meaning and purpose.
Writing a memoir is a lot like excavating the family grave site. Each bone, each artifact that you uncover carries of legacy of loss and separation. The process is marked by layer upon layer of grief. I guess that in the midst of that pain, I wanted to believe that there would be some sort of reward at the end of the dig, a prize in the form of healing.
I woke this morning feeling dazed and still hungry for healing. Even before my first cup of tea, I scanned Facebook. I was intrigued by a link posted by my Mom. It was the video of a young man named Zac Smith just before his death from cancer at the age of 33. He talked about his desire to live to walk his daughter down the aisle and grow old with his wife. Then he said: "If God chooses to heal me, then God is God and God is good. If God chooses not to heal me and allows me to die, then God is still God and God is still good."
Astounded by his faith I thought about my own. I am not sure what God is. God, for me, is a mystery. I am certain of only one thing: there is a still, small voice that speaks to me. I don't know where it comes from but I know I have to listen and follow. Right now that voice says: WRITE! What becomes of what I write is not my concern. It is none of my business. I am not in control here. I am not God.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Day 57
When I was 5 years old we lived in the projects. A place called Hocker Heights on the outskirts of Kansas City. I was sitting on the stairs talking to my Mrs. Beasley doll when one of the kids came stomping down from above. He carried a whole stack of pie tins, the kind that come from the grocery store with frozen pies inside, only these were empty. That didn't diminish his enthusiasm. He stomped out into one of the many mud puddles that substituted for a yard. He plopped himself down and announced, "I'm making mud pies!"
Soon there was a small crowd of kids: some were making pies, some were selling pies, still others were buying the pies to take home to their make believe children. All of them were covered from head to toe with mud. I was fascinated and repulsed as I watched from me seat on the stairs. I had no intention of soiling myself. Looking down at my pristine red dress, my brilliantly white ankle socks and my polished Mary Janes, I felt superior.
For me, cleanliness wasn't just an empty virtue. It was the thing that set me apart from my poor neighbors. It was the difference between poor and poor white trash.
Soon there was a small crowd of kids: some were making pies, some were selling pies, still others were buying the pies to take home to their make believe children. All of them were covered from head to toe with mud. I was fascinated and repulsed as I watched from me seat on the stairs. I had no intention of soiling myself. Looking down at my pristine red dress, my brilliantly white ankle socks and my polished Mary Janes, I felt superior.
For me, cleanliness wasn't just an empty virtue. It was the thing that set me apart from my poor neighbors. It was the difference between poor and poor white trash.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Day 56
I was driving to Winco one day, not long after moving to Moscow. I had the radio tuned to KRFP, Radio Free Moscow. There were two women talking. Their laughter reminded me of tinkling wine glasses. One of them read a piece from SARK about the relationship between self-love and creative expression.
I became so immersed in the words that I had to pull my car off the road. I sat there on A Street watching the snow fall outside my window as I listened to these two women chat and giggle and read and revel in the joy of being together. I felt included, drawn into their circle of friendship.
It was perhaps a year later when I learned that one of the women on the radio was Leeanne, a new friend I made through my involvement with the Compassionate Communication Network of the Palouse. When I met her it was like being reunited with an old friend. Later I told her about how her voice on the radio months earlier had eased my loneliness.
Leeanne called me last night, bubbling over with enthusiasm, as she so often is. She had a proposition. She wants me to do a radio show with her. Something to help spread the message of nonviolent communication. We scheduled a time to get together to discuss ideas. My mind immediately started entertaining daydreams of a relationship advice show with a comedic format.
That is what the creative life is all about: Recognizing those moments of synchronicity that spark our imaginations and offer opportunities for creative self-expression; Allowing our minds to open to the possibilities; Removing the boundaries that normally keep us fenced in; Entertaining dreams and offering ourselves up to them. Creativity is a way of being in the world.
I became so immersed in the words that I had to pull my car off the road. I sat there on A Street watching the snow fall outside my window as I listened to these two women chat and giggle and read and revel in the joy of being together. I felt included, drawn into their circle of friendship.
It was perhaps a year later when I learned that one of the women on the radio was Leeanne, a new friend I made through my involvement with the Compassionate Communication Network of the Palouse. When I met her it was like being reunited with an old friend. Later I told her about how her voice on the radio months earlier had eased my loneliness.
Leeanne called me last night, bubbling over with enthusiasm, as she so often is. She had a proposition. She wants me to do a radio show with her. Something to help spread the message of nonviolent communication. We scheduled a time to get together to discuss ideas. My mind immediately started entertaining daydreams of a relationship advice show with a comedic format.
That is what the creative life is all about: Recognizing those moments of synchronicity that spark our imaginations and offer opportunities for creative self-expression; Allowing our minds to open to the possibilities; Removing the boundaries that normally keep us fenced in; Entertaining dreams and offering ourselves up to them. Creativity is a way of being in the world.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Day 55
A few months ago I started working on a memoir. It is focused on my relationship with my transgender daughter. I completed a few pieces, she read them and gave me her blessing to continue. Since then I have been writing everyday - three handwritten pages.
Recently, as I looked at the compiled pages, I started to feel overwhelmed. Clearly, transcribing and editing all those pages would be time-consuming and difficult. A writer friend suggested that I focus first on transferring the material from the page to the computer. She suggested that I avoid any major edits or rewrites until I am finished with the entire memoir.
I sat down at the computer yesterday with every intention of following her advice. I read the first line. It just wasn't right. I tweaked a few words to improve the flow. By the middle of the first paragraph, I began to find holes in the narrative. Surely it wouldn't hurt to fill in the blanks. By the end of the second paragraph I was rearranging words, adding clarifying statements and sharpening descriptions. I was in full editor mode.
I rationalized my behavior. The transcript was totally unacceptable in its original form. Transcribing it without major edits was like moving a box of junk from an old residence to a new one. Yes, we've all done it, but its inefficient, illogical. Doesn't it make more sense to sort through the box and throw out the garbage before you move?
Then I realized the problem with my logic. When I read what I have written I can't tell the jewels from the junk. I am too attached. I was beginning to see the wisdom of my friend's advice. I need to leave my writing as it is until I have time to separate from it. Once I am a little more detached I can sort through the words and make rational decisions about which which ones stay and which ones go.
Recently, as I looked at the compiled pages, I started to feel overwhelmed. Clearly, transcribing and editing all those pages would be time-consuming and difficult. A writer friend suggested that I focus first on transferring the material from the page to the computer. She suggested that I avoid any major edits or rewrites until I am finished with the entire memoir.
I sat down at the computer yesterday with every intention of following her advice. I read the first line. It just wasn't right. I tweaked a few words to improve the flow. By the middle of the first paragraph, I began to find holes in the narrative. Surely it wouldn't hurt to fill in the blanks. By the end of the second paragraph I was rearranging words, adding clarifying statements and sharpening descriptions. I was in full editor mode.
I rationalized my behavior. The transcript was totally unacceptable in its original form. Transcribing it without major edits was like moving a box of junk from an old residence to a new one. Yes, we've all done it, but its inefficient, illogical. Doesn't it make more sense to sort through the box and throw out the garbage before you move?
Then I realized the problem with my logic. When I read what I have written I can't tell the jewels from the junk. I am too attached. I was beginning to see the wisdom of my friend's advice. I need to leave my writing as it is until I have time to separate from it. Once I am a little more detached I can sort through the words and make rational decisions about which which ones stay and which ones go.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Day 54
Sometimes I think that life is just one big classroom. I have been enrolled in a self-study course called Self-Care 101 for about 6 years now. It all started when I lost my job. Losing a job is always painful, but I attached all kinds of other meaning to it that compounded my pain. I was hurt that those above me on the hierarchy (the parents) did not take care of me (the child). The lesson, for me, was that I have to learn to take care of myself.
Around the time I lost my job I put on a lot of weight and I developed debilitating allergies. For years, I have been seeking help to deal with these issues. I have been to therapists and doctors, I even went to a medical intuitive who sold me expensive supplements that did absolutely nothing to relieve my symptoms. In spite of all of the medical intervention I am still fat and full of mucus. I have known for a long time that the real issue is my addiction to sugar.
I think that giving up the sugar is my big test. I need to pass this test to graduate from the course in self-care. I need these credits to move on to the next course. Maybe the next course will be Success 101 or Freedom 105 or Fun 110. I won't know until I pass Self-Care 101.
Around the time I lost my job I put on a lot of weight and I developed debilitating allergies. For years, I have been seeking help to deal with these issues. I have been to therapists and doctors, I even went to a medical intuitive who sold me expensive supplements that did absolutely nothing to relieve my symptoms. In spite of all of the medical intervention I am still fat and full of mucus. I have known for a long time that the real issue is my addiction to sugar.
I think that giving up the sugar is my big test. I need to pass this test to graduate from the course in self-care. I need these credits to move on to the next course. Maybe the next course will be Success 101 or Freedom 105 or Fun 110. I won't know until I pass Self-Care 101.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Day 53
I enjoy Facebook in the way an anthropologist might enjoy studying the artifacts of a lost culture. Even as she participates, she is detached, an observer looking for clues that shed light on the habits and values of the people.
This morning I read an exchange between two people, one of whom I know: a friend and colleague from graduate school. The other person was an apparent family friend, praising her for her academic accomplishments and her intellectual prowess. My friend responded by saying that her mother and grandmother instilled in her a love of knowledge and that her accomplishments were an effort to do right by them.
The statement struck me as inauthentic. It was a sound bite, a rhetorical move, a discursive tent pole propping up a larger narrative. It reminded me of the story of George Washington and the cherry tree. Little George could not tell a lie. Yet the story itself was a lie, concocted in service to a narrative, a narrative intended to bestow a honor upon a man and his nation.
I have always had this longing for something authentic. Even as I write these words I'm not sure what they mean. As a writer, if I decide to write about a pond, I can choose to peer at the surface and report only on my reflection or I can plunge my arm into the frigid water and feel around in the icy depths. I suppose that's what it means to me to be authentic; it means feeling around in the dark and telling the truth about the murky undertow.
Like my friend I just completed an advanced degree. It wasn't for me a quest for knowledge. It was a hiding place, a safe retreat from the world. I used to tell myself that I started college with a noble purpose: to support my family. But now, when I allow myself to go back, to slip inside the skin of the girl I was at 21, I realize that I wasn't running toward a life of scholarship, I was running away from my life as a wife and a mother. I had already failed at home, but school was a place where I could succeed, where I could be a winner; a place where I could put my shame aside for a few hours at a time.
I do not possess many gifts as a writer. I have never demonstrated the poetic sensibilities of Toni Morrison or Kim Barnes, nor am I a master storyteller with a genius imagination, like Steven King. My only gift is this longing for authenticity; this desire to tell the truth. For most of my life I have carried it like a burden. I am learning to treasure it now.
This morning I read an exchange between two people, one of whom I know: a friend and colleague from graduate school. The other person was an apparent family friend, praising her for her academic accomplishments and her intellectual prowess. My friend responded by saying that her mother and grandmother instilled in her a love of knowledge and that her accomplishments were an effort to do right by them.
The statement struck me as inauthentic. It was a sound bite, a rhetorical move, a discursive tent pole propping up a larger narrative. It reminded me of the story of George Washington and the cherry tree. Little George could not tell a lie. Yet the story itself was a lie, concocted in service to a narrative, a narrative intended to bestow a honor upon a man and his nation.
I have always had this longing for something authentic. Even as I write these words I'm not sure what they mean. As a writer, if I decide to write about a pond, I can choose to peer at the surface and report only on my reflection or I can plunge my arm into the frigid water and feel around in the icy depths. I suppose that's what it means to me to be authentic; it means feeling around in the dark and telling the truth about the murky undertow.
Like my friend I just completed an advanced degree. It wasn't for me a quest for knowledge. It was a hiding place, a safe retreat from the world. I used to tell myself that I started college with a noble purpose: to support my family. But now, when I allow myself to go back, to slip inside the skin of the girl I was at 21, I realize that I wasn't running toward a life of scholarship, I was running away from my life as a wife and a mother. I had already failed at home, but school was a place where I could succeed, where I could be a winner; a place where I could put my shame aside for a few hours at a time.
I do not possess many gifts as a writer. I have never demonstrated the poetic sensibilities of Toni Morrison or Kim Barnes, nor am I a master storyteller with a genius imagination, like Steven King. My only gift is this longing for authenticity; this desire to tell the truth. For most of my life I have carried it like a burden. I am learning to treasure it now.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Day 52
Bill and I had this conversation yesterday about how to have more productive fights. It was actually a kind of post-mortem of a fight we had last week. This is dangerous business: like detonating a bomb. It's been lying there dormant for over a week, but, POW, it could explode at any moment if we cut the wrong wire or push the wrong button.
We recognized our pattern: Bill was in pain, he expressed his pain as anger, I heard accusations and blame, I was in pain, I expressed my pain as anger...and we were off, on a course to hell. In hindsight, it is easy to see what I could have done differently. When the pain first came up for me, I could have attended to it, given myself the empathy I needed, then I would have been in a better position to give Bill the empathy he needed. As it turned out I wasn't able to attend to Bill's needs or my own.
I find a similar pattern in my writing. I write about something from my past that touches a nerve. Suddenly I am flooded with feelings from the past, unresolved pain washes over me. The pain stands between me and the page. I have to attend to it before I am ready to go on. I have to give myself the empathy I need now, the empathy I needed then, the empathy I didn't even know I required.
This morning I was writing about a time when I had to take the steps to have someone I loved committed to a psychiatric facility. I was suddenly engulfed in shame, surrounded by a cloud of vaporise gas. When it happened I didn't have the time or energy or understanding to attend to those feelings. Now I do. I can put down my pen and let the tears flow. It is a chance to relive the past, treat the wounds and move on.
We recognized our pattern: Bill was in pain, he expressed his pain as anger, I heard accusations and blame, I was in pain, I expressed my pain as anger...and we were off, on a course to hell. In hindsight, it is easy to see what I could have done differently. When the pain first came up for me, I could have attended to it, given myself the empathy I needed, then I would have been in a better position to give Bill the empathy he needed. As it turned out I wasn't able to attend to Bill's needs or my own.
I find a similar pattern in my writing. I write about something from my past that touches a nerve. Suddenly I am flooded with feelings from the past, unresolved pain washes over me. The pain stands between me and the page. I have to attend to it before I am ready to go on. I have to give myself the empathy I need now, the empathy I needed then, the empathy I didn't even know I required.
This morning I was writing about a time when I had to take the steps to have someone I loved committed to a psychiatric facility. I was suddenly engulfed in shame, surrounded by a cloud of vaporise gas. When it happened I didn't have the time or energy or understanding to attend to those feelings. Now I do. I can put down my pen and let the tears flow. It is a chance to relive the past, treat the wounds and move on.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Day 51
Reading a memoir by Kim Barnes this morning I was stopped by this statement that I had to read twice and then again out loud to Bill:
Even now it scares me to understand how easily a soul may pass from one dimension of itself into another, as though the boundaries separating what we are and what we might become, given an infinite set of motivations and conditions, are little more than the line between waking and sleeping, between story, memory, dream.
The words are so beautiful. I want to say them over and over, feel them on my tongue, roll them around in my mind. They stir my soul in an uncommon way by speaking to the little deaths, the transitions, the rebirths that characterize every life. These words make me think about the way that my own story is punctuated; the imaginary breaks that separate one event from another.
Writing my own life history has caused to me consider how quickly a life can change. The pivotal moments stand out in stark contrast to the months or years of static contentment or resigned suffering. Looking back changes my perception about the future. I am certain that life can and does change in an instant. There are those events that cause us to define everything else as "before" and "after". We never see them coming. It is frightening and the only retreat is the present moment.
Even now it scares me to understand how easily a soul may pass from one dimension of itself into another, as though the boundaries separating what we are and what we might become, given an infinite set of motivations and conditions, are little more than the line between waking and sleeping, between story, memory, dream.
The words are so beautiful. I want to say them over and over, feel them on my tongue, roll them around in my mind. They stir my soul in an uncommon way by speaking to the little deaths, the transitions, the rebirths that characterize every life. These words make me think about the way that my own story is punctuated; the imaginary breaks that separate one event from another.
Writing my own life history has caused to me consider how quickly a life can change. The pivotal moments stand out in stark contrast to the months or years of static contentment or resigned suffering. Looking back changes my perception about the future. I am certain that life can and does change in an instant. There are those events that cause us to define everything else as "before" and "after". We never see them coming. It is frightening and the only retreat is the present moment.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Day 50
Kat posted this message on Facebook on Wednesday: "So, just got back from the courthouse. All the paperwork is done, and I'll have my name change finalized this next Tuesday! Huzzah!"
I looked up Huzzah in the Urban Dictionary: The crazy English version of hurray; Used to express joy, encouragement, and triumph; Used primarily, it seems, in the middle ages. Even without the huzzah, I was pretty sure that the news from Kat was good.
She told me months ago that she intended to change her name. The one I assigned her at birth no longer fits. I suspect it never did. In the last year she has redefined herself in so many ways: the way she dresses, the way she expresses herself, the friends she associates with, the place she calls home, the school she goes to.
At Evergreen, she is part of the "queer" community: young people who refuse to be defined by conventional notions of gender and sex. I admire their boldness and envy their sense of unity. They are a community of resistance.
Yesterday morning I reread her Facebook post. I was imagining her trip to the courthouse. She was no doubt accompanied by a ragtag band of nonconformists, there to support her because she is one of them. Even with their support, it must have taken real courage to hand over the paperwork and stand in her truth in front of a judge and all the world.
I was thinking about Kat and her courage when I went to get my hair cut and colored yesterday afternoon. As the hairdresser draped me in a cape, I declared, "I want to do something different, something bold."
"Oh," she said, looking surprised, "What were you thinking? Black? Red? How about an asymmetrical bob?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that." I was backpedaling now, looking for an exit. "How about blonder highlights and a few more layers?"
I looked up Huzzah in the Urban Dictionary: The crazy English version of hurray; Used to express joy, encouragement, and triumph; Used primarily, it seems, in the middle ages. Even without the huzzah, I was pretty sure that the news from Kat was good.
She told me months ago that she intended to change her name. The one I assigned her at birth no longer fits. I suspect it never did. In the last year she has redefined herself in so many ways: the way she dresses, the way she expresses herself, the friends she associates with, the place she calls home, the school she goes to.
At Evergreen, she is part of the "queer" community: young people who refuse to be defined by conventional notions of gender and sex. I admire their boldness and envy their sense of unity. They are a community of resistance.
Yesterday morning I reread her Facebook post. I was imagining her trip to the courthouse. She was no doubt accompanied by a ragtag band of nonconformists, there to support her because she is one of them. Even with their support, it must have taken real courage to hand over the paperwork and stand in her truth in front of a judge and all the world.
I was thinking about Kat and her courage when I went to get my hair cut and colored yesterday afternoon. As the hairdresser draped me in a cape, I declared, "I want to do something different, something bold."
"Oh," she said, looking surprised, "What were you thinking? Black? Red? How about an asymmetrical bob?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that." I was backpedaling now, looking for an exit. "How about blonder highlights and a few more layers?"
Friday, February 18, 2011
Day 49
I have been talking with a friend about co-facilitating a writing workshop. The theme of the workshop was my idea and I was excited about it. At the same time, I see it as a distraction from my writing. I am starting to see a lot of things this way.
I made commitments to a number of projects a few months ago, just after graduating, when I felt a desperate need to answer the question: What now? I defined myself as a graduate student/doctoral candidate for five years. The dissertation consumed so much of my time and energy and focus for the last two years. A vacuum was created by its completion.
I was like a drug addict just out of rehab. I needed to fill the hours; to create a new vision for my life. I imagined myself as a mediator, or the director of an agency devoted to conflict resolution. I got a few plate spinning in that direction. I decided that I wanted to coordinate a community forum on bullying. Oh, good, there's another plate balancing precariously in the air. Yesterday when my friend asked if I wanted to co-facilitate this writing workshop that I had suggested earlier, I recognized it for what it was: just another plate to spin. These spinning plates all serve to distract me from the writing.
I don't fully understand it, but I know that I need to write. I am afraid of that calling: it seems so primal and unrestrained. With all of these plates spinning there is little time to attend to it. My fears are abated. But always there is this tension between the fear and the calling. I am being pulled in opposite directions. Another option is to tend to the fears. What is it about fully devoting myself to the writing that so frightens me?
I heard a story on the radio a few months ago about Zora Neale Hurston author of Their Eyes Were Watching God. A well educated woman who continued to write throughout her life, she died alone and in poverty. It was only after her death that she was recognized as one of the greatest African American writers of the twentieth century.
Zora Neale Hurston worked as a maid before she was admitted to the St Lucie County Welfare Home where she died and was buried in an unmarked grave. I think about her a lot. I wonder: Was she content? Did she have regrets? Did the writing bring her joy? And I ask myself: Am I willing to take the chance?
I made commitments to a number of projects a few months ago, just after graduating, when I felt a desperate need to answer the question: What now? I defined myself as a graduate student/doctoral candidate for five years. The dissertation consumed so much of my time and energy and focus for the last two years. A vacuum was created by its completion.
I was like a drug addict just out of rehab. I needed to fill the hours; to create a new vision for my life. I imagined myself as a mediator, or the director of an agency devoted to conflict resolution. I got a few plate spinning in that direction. I decided that I wanted to coordinate a community forum on bullying. Oh, good, there's another plate balancing precariously in the air. Yesterday when my friend asked if I wanted to co-facilitate this writing workshop that I had suggested earlier, I recognized it for what it was: just another plate to spin. These spinning plates all serve to distract me from the writing.
I don't fully understand it, but I know that I need to write. I am afraid of that calling: it seems so primal and unrestrained. With all of these plates spinning there is little time to attend to it. My fears are abated. But always there is this tension between the fear and the calling. I am being pulled in opposite directions. Another option is to tend to the fears. What is it about fully devoting myself to the writing that so frightens me?
I heard a story on the radio a few months ago about Zora Neale Hurston author of Their Eyes Were Watching God. A well educated woman who continued to write throughout her life, she died alone and in poverty. It was only after her death that she was recognized as one of the greatest African American writers of the twentieth century.
Zora Neale Hurston worked as a maid before she was admitted to the St Lucie County Welfare Home where she died and was buried in an unmarked grave. I think about her a lot. I wonder: Was she content? Did she have regrets? Did the writing bring her joy? And I ask myself: Am I willing to take the chance?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Day 48
I was grading papers yesterday when I decided to take a break. I turned on Oprah and saw her speaking with Iyanla Vanzant. It as this amazingly candid and raw discussion, like peaking through the curtains at a private moment between the two of them. They were rehashing events from a time eleven years ago when Iyanla was being mentored by Oprah. Ultimately, the relationship ended with Oprah feeling betrayed and Iyanla feeling rejected. I could relate to them both.
I was especially intrigued by one line uttered by Oprah in the course of the conversation. She said that she learned a long time ago that if someone doesn't want her, she is not going to allow herself to want them. Wow, where do I sign up for that course? I have been trying to learn that lesson for most of the last 46 years.
I have this image in my mind, a borrowed memory conveyed to me by my mom. I am a little girl, a baby really, no more than two or three years old. My arms are upstretched, toward my father who towers above me. I am pleading for him to hold me. He doesn't. He is too busy watching the rollar derby on the television, drinking his beer, eating a Spam sandwich he made for himself alone.
I went through the next 40 years with my arms upstretched, pleading: please see me, please hear me, please love me. My arms were upstretched to teachers as I waited for their approval in the form of gold stars and big fat red A's. My arms were upstretched to the boys who would whisper I love you in exchange for a piece of flesh. My arms were upstretched to the blood sisters for whom I would do anything as long as they promised to never leave. My arms were upstretched at job interviews and employee evaluations where the boss held my self-worth hostage for a ransom of absolute compliance.
That is why I find it so astonishing now to hear a woman utter these words: If someone doesn't want me, I am not going to allow myself to want them. I want to speak these words myself, with conviction and heart. I am on my way, but I am not there yet. I still find my arms rising up as if by rote at the first sign of indifference or rejection. I am trying to learn to feel the fear and move through it without reacting in this way that has become so familiar.
The writing is where my heart is right now. I don't want to sacrifice it to this need to belong, to be accepted, to be loved and yet I see that danger. The writing can become just another way of holding my arms up, another plea for affection and understanding. Somehow I think that it can and should be more than that. I long to write not from a place of desperation, but from a place of grace.
I was especially intrigued by one line uttered by Oprah in the course of the conversation. She said that she learned a long time ago that if someone doesn't want her, she is not going to allow herself to want them. Wow, where do I sign up for that course? I have been trying to learn that lesson for most of the last 46 years.
I have this image in my mind, a borrowed memory conveyed to me by my mom. I am a little girl, a baby really, no more than two or three years old. My arms are upstretched, toward my father who towers above me. I am pleading for him to hold me. He doesn't. He is too busy watching the rollar derby on the television, drinking his beer, eating a Spam sandwich he made for himself alone.
I went through the next 40 years with my arms upstretched, pleading: please see me, please hear me, please love me. My arms were upstretched to teachers as I waited for their approval in the form of gold stars and big fat red A's. My arms were upstretched to the boys who would whisper I love you in exchange for a piece of flesh. My arms were upstretched to the blood sisters for whom I would do anything as long as they promised to never leave. My arms were upstretched at job interviews and employee evaluations where the boss held my self-worth hostage for a ransom of absolute compliance.
That is why I find it so astonishing now to hear a woman utter these words: If someone doesn't want me, I am not going to allow myself to want them. I want to speak these words myself, with conviction and heart. I am on my way, but I am not there yet. I still find my arms rising up as if by rote at the first sign of indifference or rejection. I am trying to learn to feel the fear and move through it without reacting in this way that has become so familiar.
The writing is where my heart is right now. I don't want to sacrifice it to this need to belong, to be accepted, to be loved and yet I see that danger. The writing can become just another way of holding my arms up, another plea for affection and understanding. Somehow I think that it can and should be more than that. I long to write not from a place of desperation, but from a place of grace.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Day 47
I just started working with graduate students a few months ago and they are already teaching me so much. I am a mentor to students engaged in the dissertation process: a process of research and writing. I sometimes receive messages from frantic students
Yesterday, I received five urgent pleas from the same student. She is trying to figure out how to organize her lit review. She was drowning in data. I could see her flailing around in ideas, her panic pulling her under. My instinct was to reach for her immediately, but I knew that I could be pulled under as well. Instead, I waited on the shore until I found the life ring.
I was putting peanut butter on my toast this morning when the answer came to me. I heard it clear as a bell. Her problem is not how to organize the lit review. Her problem is one of focus. She is not focused because she had not yet clearly articulated the research questions. The research questions drive the whole project. If they are not sufficiently developed, the project cannot move forward.
She has already written a prospectus; the research questions are embedded there. But she doesn't see them. She is lost among the trees. My job is to help her take a step back so that she can get a full view of the forest. I sometimes have the same problem with my own writing. I need to pull back and get an aerial.
If you are lost in the woods, you must avoid the urge to panic. That's what they taught us in Girl Scouts and it's good advice for writers, as well. They also taught us to stay put and wait to be found. Pull up a log, build a fire and listen. That's what I try to do. Maybe if I'm lucky I have a radio with me. Playing on the radio is the Beatles song, Let It Be:
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Yeah, there will be an answer let it be
Yesterday, I received five urgent pleas from the same student. She is trying to figure out how to organize her lit review. She was drowning in data. I could see her flailing around in ideas, her panic pulling her under. My instinct was to reach for her immediately, but I knew that I could be pulled under as well. Instead, I waited on the shore until I found the life ring.
I was putting peanut butter on my toast this morning when the answer came to me. I heard it clear as a bell. Her problem is not how to organize the lit review. Her problem is one of focus. She is not focused because she had not yet clearly articulated the research questions. The research questions drive the whole project. If they are not sufficiently developed, the project cannot move forward.
She has already written a prospectus; the research questions are embedded there. But she doesn't see them. She is lost among the trees. My job is to help her take a step back so that she can get a full view of the forest. I sometimes have the same problem with my own writing. I need to pull back and get an aerial.
If you are lost in the woods, you must avoid the urge to panic. That's what they taught us in Girl Scouts and it's good advice for writers, as well. They also taught us to stay put and wait to be found. Pull up a log, build a fire and listen. That's what I try to do. Maybe if I'm lucky I have a radio with me. Playing on the radio is the Beatles song, Let It Be:
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Yeah, there will be an answer let it be
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Day 46
It has been 46 days since I started this quest for a more creative life. Since the beginning, my mind has been crowded with religious imagery. The pictures in my head are like postcards from the past that mark my spiritual journey.
Today the image is of my 24 year old self, kneeling beside my bed, my hands clasped in prayer, pleading with God for an answer. I was failing at my job: my first job out of college, the job that was supposed to prove that college wasn't a waste of time and money, the job I needed to support my family, the job that I needed to prove my self worth. I wasn't connecting with my clients and I challenged my boss so often she threatened to fire me.
I can see myself so clearly: tears streaming down my face, desperation in my voice as I whispered: "Please God help me." It was in this moment when I was resigned, when I had all but given up, that I was given an answer so complete and perfect that I was certain it was divinely inspired.
I saw myself in a new job, working with a different set of clients, creating programs that would shine a positive light on my boss and our agency. The next day I went into my boss's office and shut the door. I told her about the job I envisioned for myself. I was used to encountering resistance from her, but on this day her eyes smiled and she nodded and I knew that we were going to make this vision a reality.
On that day, over 20 years ago, I felt touched by the hand of The Creator. Looking back I can see that I invited this intervention by putting my ego aside. I was completely defeated and absolutely certain that I did not have the answers. Usually the ego stands like a big totem obscuring my view of the divine. But on this day the totem was reduced to a pile of wood shavings. I was completely open. When the idea came to me, I trusted it. How often do I turn away from inspiration because it comes clothed as the absurd, like Harvey's Rabbit? Finally, I did something that I have seldom had the courage to do since. I shared my vision with someone else. I put it out there in the world and made it real. I suppose I was aided in part by the naivety of youth.
I sometimes think that I stumbled on a magic formula that night in my bedroom as I bowed my head in prayer, a recipe for transforming inspiration: one part humility, two parts faith, mixed with a dash of audacity.
Today the image is of my 24 year old self, kneeling beside my bed, my hands clasped in prayer, pleading with God for an answer. I was failing at my job: my first job out of college, the job that was supposed to prove that college wasn't a waste of time and money, the job I needed to support my family, the job that I needed to prove my self worth. I wasn't connecting with my clients and I challenged my boss so often she threatened to fire me.
I can see myself so clearly: tears streaming down my face, desperation in my voice as I whispered: "Please God help me." It was in this moment when I was resigned, when I had all but given up, that I was given an answer so complete and perfect that I was certain it was divinely inspired.
I saw myself in a new job, working with a different set of clients, creating programs that would shine a positive light on my boss and our agency. The next day I went into my boss's office and shut the door. I told her about the job I envisioned for myself. I was used to encountering resistance from her, but on this day her eyes smiled and she nodded and I knew that we were going to make this vision a reality.
On that day, over 20 years ago, I felt touched by the hand of The Creator. Looking back I can see that I invited this intervention by putting my ego aside. I was completely defeated and absolutely certain that I did not have the answers. Usually the ego stands like a big totem obscuring my view of the divine. But on this day the totem was reduced to a pile of wood shavings. I was completely open. When the idea came to me, I trusted it. How often do I turn away from inspiration because it comes clothed as the absurd, like Harvey's Rabbit? Finally, I did something that I have seldom had the courage to do since. I shared my vision with someone else. I put it out there in the world and made it real. I suppose I was aided in part by the naivety of youth.
I sometimes think that I stumbled on a magic formula that night in my bedroom as I bowed my head in prayer, a recipe for transforming inspiration: one part humility, two parts faith, mixed with a dash of audacity.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Day 45
I grew in a city that some people refer to as the "buckle of the bible belt." Church buses prowled my neighborhood on Sunday mornings looking for young converts. The old school bus I rode to the Baptist church was painted white. On the side in red script were the words: Jesus Loves the Little Children.
I loved the charismatic preacher who mounted the podium each week. He was kind and funny, but also stern and sincere. His pretty wife and two children sat in the front row. He would smile down at them before he began to speak. I imagined what it would be like to be his daughter.
He said that we were all children of God and I believed him. Of course there are times, he said, when the devil leads us astray. These were my favorite sermons. He would get red in the face as he told us stories about the men and women of the bible who had fallen from grace. Backsliders. That's what he called them. I loved the sound of that word.
It's the word that came to mind this morning as I was thinking about the journey I began on January 1. I made a commitment to the creative life. It is February 14th and I am already a backslider. I suppose it is the sin of sloth that I am most guilty of. I am avoiding the work. My accurately, I have allowed other activities to come between me and the work I feel called to do.
The writing has taken a backseat to other "obligations." Instead of treating the writing as something sacred, it gets relegated to a place on my to-do list between grocery shopping and email. Writing requires time and space and a mind that is expansive and free. My mind has been cluttered and frantic, crowded by the encroaching needs and demands of others.
I saw a documentary a few days ago about Charles Schultz. He was described by many as private, isolated, stoic. It was as if he was encased in a bubble where he lived with his beloved Peanuts characters. He retreated from the world to live there with them. Perhaps that is what the creative life requires.
I loved the charismatic preacher who mounted the podium each week. He was kind and funny, but also stern and sincere. His pretty wife and two children sat in the front row. He would smile down at them before he began to speak. I imagined what it would be like to be his daughter.
He said that we were all children of God and I believed him. Of course there are times, he said, when the devil leads us astray. These were my favorite sermons. He would get red in the face as he told us stories about the men and women of the bible who had fallen from grace. Backsliders. That's what he called them. I loved the sound of that word.
It's the word that came to mind this morning as I was thinking about the journey I began on January 1. I made a commitment to the creative life. It is February 14th and I am already a backslider. I suppose it is the sin of sloth that I am most guilty of. I am avoiding the work. My accurately, I have allowed other activities to come between me and the work I feel called to do.
The writing has taken a backseat to other "obligations." Instead of treating the writing as something sacred, it gets relegated to a place on my to-do list between grocery shopping and email. Writing requires time and space and a mind that is expansive and free. My mind has been cluttered and frantic, crowded by the encroaching needs and demands of others.
I saw a documentary a few days ago about Charles Schultz. He was described by many as private, isolated, stoic. It was as if he was encased in a bubble where he lived with his beloved Peanuts characters. He retreated from the world to live there with them. Perhaps that is what the creative life requires.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Day 44
A few years ago I went to a nonviolent communication workshop. Kathleen, the facilitator, volunteered in a prison project, teaching the men there nonviolent communication. She talked about what it was like to work with child molesters and murderers.
Through her work she had come to see that these men were not monsters. They didn't set out to hurt anyone. They were in need of human connection and empathy just like the rest of us. She talked about the way that most had been victimized themselves at some point in their lives. And then she said the thing I will never forget. She said, "Some of them never feel fully understood until that moment when they look into the eyes of their victim."
She answered a question that had plagued me since childhood: Why do we hurt each other? And she answered it in a way that maintained a basic belief that I had clung to since childhood, the belief that human beings are basically good. I never believed evil to be a sufficient explanation for the pain and suffering in the world.
The stories I love best are stories about pain and suffering and the redemptive power of empathy, understanding and love. Wally Lamb writes them. Tracy Chapman sings them. We all live them. These are the stories I most want to tell.
Through her work she had come to see that these men were not monsters. They didn't set out to hurt anyone. They were in need of human connection and empathy just like the rest of us. She talked about the way that most had been victimized themselves at some point in their lives. And then she said the thing I will never forget. She said, "Some of them never feel fully understood until that moment when they look into the eyes of their victim."
She answered a question that had plagued me since childhood: Why do we hurt each other? And she answered it in a way that maintained a basic belief that I had clung to since childhood, the belief that human beings are basically good. I never believed evil to be a sufficient explanation for the pain and suffering in the world.
The stories I love best are stories about pain and suffering and the redemptive power of empathy, understanding and love. Wally Lamb writes them. Tracy Chapman sings them. We all live them. These are the stories I most want to tell.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Day 43
"I can't write fiction. I'm not a creative writer. I can't just create stories out of thin air" It was a year or more ago when I heard myself saying these words to a writer friend. Even as I was speaking, I recognized the absurdity of my statement. It was founded on an assumption that a clear and distinct line exists between memory and fantasy, fact and fiction.
Of course, there is no such line. Yesterday I was listening to a discussion on the radio about the revolution in Egypt. One commentary said that power used to come out of the barrel of a gun, but in the information age, power is embedded in the narrative. She/he/they who control the narrative, hold the power. The narrative is not fact nor fiction; it is neither and it is both. I turn on the television and I see the master narrative being played out: the people of Egypt are ushering in a new era of democracy in the Middle East.
When I apply this same lens to my own life it is easy to see that there are stories that I repeat over and over again. I use these stories to frame my experience. My life is like a screenplay. Sometimes I play the victim, other times the rescuing hero. Be careful if you wander through my movie set, you will likely get cast in a role of my choosing. If you do something that displeases me, I may imagine you as the villain.
I have been weaving stories for as long as I can remember. I take the artifacts and natural occurrences and circumstances I am dealt and give them meaning through my personal mythology which is shaped by the larger master narratives that are the very fabric of culture. The campfires have been replaced by television sets and our communication is no longer face to face, still we are not so different from our ancestors. We are all essentially storytellers.
Of course, there is no such line. Yesterday I was listening to a discussion on the radio about the revolution in Egypt. One commentary said that power used to come out of the barrel of a gun, but in the information age, power is embedded in the narrative. She/he/they who control the narrative, hold the power. The narrative is not fact nor fiction; it is neither and it is both. I turn on the television and I see the master narrative being played out: the people of Egypt are ushering in a new era of democracy in the Middle East.
When I apply this same lens to my own life it is easy to see that there are stories that I repeat over and over again. I use these stories to frame my experience. My life is like a screenplay. Sometimes I play the victim, other times the rescuing hero. Be careful if you wander through my movie set, you will likely get cast in a role of my choosing. If you do something that displeases me, I may imagine you as the villain.
I have been weaving stories for as long as I can remember. I take the artifacts and natural occurrences and circumstances I am dealt and give them meaning through my personal mythology which is shaped by the larger master narratives that are the very fabric of culture. The campfires have been replaced by television sets and our communication is no longer face to face, still we are not so different from our ancestors. We are all essentially storytellers.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Day 42
Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry...That was the monologue playing in my head this morning when I woke up. I immediately started budgeting the hours ahead of me: two hours this afternoon to get my hair cut and colored, two hours this morning for grading, thirty minutes to respond to email.
I act as if the hours have already been paid to me: like a check, already cashed, the bills stowed away in my wallet. Time is such a valuable commodity. Doled out to us in such small quantities, it is impossible to hide it away in a cookie jar or store it under a mattress. We only have one precious moment at a time and then it is gone. We are left with only the residue of memory.
Yesterday was one of those rare days when I spent the moments wisely. There were the moments spent at the computer writing. I allowed the images to emerge from the fog and patiently searched for the right words. Later, I squinted at the sun as I walked downtown to Bucer's. While I drank my tea and ignored the books I brought along to read, I overheard a conversation about perspective and drawing and dinosaurs between a young man and a little boy. I met Bill at the co-op and ate a handmade peanut butter cup, allowing the rich, creamy chocolate to melt in my mouth. At home a few hours later we held hands while we watched comedies on television. I nodded off to sleep to the sound of Tina Fey.
I didn't win the lottery or buy a new car or get a book published or lose 10 pounds. But it was a good day. It was a good day because I paid attention. I hope I can do the same today, but it is hard to pay attention when that voice keeps shouting: Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry...
I act as if the hours have already been paid to me: like a check, already cashed, the bills stowed away in my wallet. Time is such a valuable commodity. Doled out to us in such small quantities, it is impossible to hide it away in a cookie jar or store it under a mattress. We only have one precious moment at a time and then it is gone. We are left with only the residue of memory.
Yesterday was one of those rare days when I spent the moments wisely. There were the moments spent at the computer writing. I allowed the images to emerge from the fog and patiently searched for the right words. Later, I squinted at the sun as I walked downtown to Bucer's. While I drank my tea and ignored the books I brought along to read, I overheard a conversation about perspective and drawing and dinosaurs between a young man and a little boy. I met Bill at the co-op and ate a handmade peanut butter cup, allowing the rich, creamy chocolate to melt in my mouth. At home a few hours later we held hands while we watched comedies on television. I nodded off to sleep to the sound of Tina Fey.
I didn't win the lottery or buy a new car or get a book published or lose 10 pounds. But it was a good day. It was a good day because I paid attention. I hope I can do the same today, but it is hard to pay attention when that voice keeps shouting: Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry, Hurry...
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Day 41
I grew up in a small city peppered with college campuses. I never walked on the well-manicured lawns or entered the old stone buildings, but I admired them through the smudged passenger-side window of my mom's 1971 Ford Pinto. I remember rolling down my window to hear the sound of the bells in the clock tower at Evangel College. In that moment I knew God and I imagined that he lived here among the bespectacled monks with their tweed jackets and leather satchels.
I was a sophomore in high school the first time I visited a college campus. I was attending a debate tournament at Evergreen State College. There were no old buildings or clock towers on this campus. Nestled among the evergreens of the surrounding forest, it was a verdant sanctuary. I sat outside the theatre where the tournament was held and watched a motley group of students sitting under a tree. I couldn't make out what they were saying but I could hear the melody of their laughter. I could sense their communion and my own longing to be included.
I didn't take a direct route to college. Instead I detoured into motherhood and skidded off into public assistance. Eventually I found myself at Columbia Basin College and later a branch campus of Eastern Washington University. Both were factories, intent on producing skilled workers to feed the industrial machine. It wasn't until I went to graduate school that I once again experienced the sense of reverence that I had associated with college when I was younger.
I went to a small state school in Missouri. The heart of the campus was a huge courtyard, surrounded on every side by grey stone structures, including a clock tower that chimed on the hour. I remember sitting in the courtyard one autumn day. The air was crisp and leaves were falling all around me. I was surprised by the tears that sprang to my eyes. They were tears of gratitude. I was as near to heaven as I could ever remember being.
Yesterday I visited the campus of the University of Idaho. When the library didn't have the books I was looking for, the librarian directed me to the women's center. It was housed in the Memorial Gymnasium, one of the oldest buildings on campus: A five story brick, Tudor style structure with a Gothic tower. When I walked through the heavy oak doors, I wanted to reach down and touch the inlaid stone in the entryway and run my hands over the banisters worn soft by the touch of a million hands.
Instead I went to the tiny library tucked amid a maze of small offices. I found my books and brought them to the desk of a student worker. She efficiently stamped the books without commenting on the authors or their works. On my way out I encountered two young women sitting on the crumbling steps outside the building. They were talking feminist theory. I imagined myself sitting down with them. I would show them the bell hooks book I had just checked out. It would be a kind of meditation.
I was a sophomore in high school the first time I visited a college campus. I was attending a debate tournament at Evergreen State College. There were no old buildings or clock towers on this campus. Nestled among the evergreens of the surrounding forest, it was a verdant sanctuary. I sat outside the theatre where the tournament was held and watched a motley group of students sitting under a tree. I couldn't make out what they were saying but I could hear the melody of their laughter. I could sense their communion and my own longing to be included.
I didn't take a direct route to college. Instead I detoured into motherhood and skidded off into public assistance. Eventually I found myself at Columbia Basin College and later a branch campus of Eastern Washington University. Both were factories, intent on producing skilled workers to feed the industrial machine. It wasn't until I went to graduate school that I once again experienced the sense of reverence that I had associated with college when I was younger.
I went to a small state school in Missouri. The heart of the campus was a huge courtyard, surrounded on every side by grey stone structures, including a clock tower that chimed on the hour. I remember sitting in the courtyard one autumn day. The air was crisp and leaves were falling all around me. I was surprised by the tears that sprang to my eyes. They were tears of gratitude. I was as near to heaven as I could ever remember being.
Yesterday I visited the campus of the University of Idaho. When the library didn't have the books I was looking for, the librarian directed me to the women's center. It was housed in the Memorial Gymnasium, one of the oldest buildings on campus: A five story brick, Tudor style structure with a Gothic tower. When I walked through the heavy oak doors, I wanted to reach down and touch the inlaid stone in the entryway and run my hands over the banisters worn soft by the touch of a million hands.
Instead I went to the tiny library tucked amid a maze of small offices. I found my books and brought them to the desk of a student worker. She efficiently stamped the books without commenting on the authors or their works. On my way out I encountered two young women sitting on the crumbling steps outside the building. They were talking feminist theory. I imagined myself sitting down with them. I would show them the bell hooks book I had just checked out. It would be a kind of meditation.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Day 40
I usually spend a lot of time at home. Some days I don't leave the house. My only interactions are with Bill and people in cyberspace. Lately I have been socializing a little more. As a result, I am increasingly aware of the rules that govern my behavior in the outside world. Here is a small sampling:
1. Don't talk too much.
2. Don't talk too loud.
3. Don't say things that will make other people uncomfortable.
4. Always be charming and funny.
5. Listen to other people and respond appropriately (even if your appendix has just ruptured and you are hemorrhaging internally -simply smile and nod).
Now, people who know me know that I do not always follow these rules. What they may not know is that I mercilessly berate myself for my failure to do so. I fear that other people will not like me, that they will reject me because I am loud and obnoxious and selfish and rude.
Still there is something in me that rebels. Lately I have been listening to that rebel who says, "Fuck the rules! Make your own damn rules!" I have to be careful to avoid simply reacting to the rules and pushing back in anger. Instead, I want to consciously question every boundary that the world has imposed on me. I want to learn to listen to and trust my intuition and to express my true self, the self that is connected to The Creative Force.
1. Don't talk too much.
2. Don't talk too loud.
3. Don't say things that will make other people uncomfortable.
4. Always be charming and funny.
5. Listen to other people and respond appropriately (even if your appendix has just ruptured and you are hemorrhaging internally -simply smile and nod).
Now, people who know me know that I do not always follow these rules. What they may not know is that I mercilessly berate myself for my failure to do so. I fear that other people will not like me, that they will reject me because I am loud and obnoxious and selfish and rude.
Still there is something in me that rebels. Lately I have been listening to that rebel who says, "Fuck the rules! Make your own damn rules!" I have to be careful to avoid simply reacting to the rules and pushing back in anger. Instead, I want to consciously question every boundary that the world has imposed on me. I want to learn to listen to and trust my intuition and to express my true self, the self that is connected to The Creative Force.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Day 39
I went to the University of Idaho campus last night to see the Reverend Jesse Jackson speak to a crowd of over 4,500. We were packed to the rafters in the Kibbie Dome. I met friends from graduate school before hand for dinner. They smiled at my naivety when I told them that I was going to see Reverend Jackson, in part, because I wanted to reconnect with that moment over 2 years ago when it was announced that Barack Obama would be the next president.
Like most people I was moved by the reactions of the crowd that gathered in Chicago to hear the president-elect speak. But it was the tear-stained face of Jesse Jackson that brought tears to my own eyes. Written across his face was the story of struggle and success, success that required such unimaginable sacrifice. I was sure that no one could understand that sacrifice better than this man who was there that day in Memphis when Dr. King was struck down on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel.
I was not yet four years old on that day in 1968, yet I have always felt so connected to that time and place. I was born in 1964, the same year that the Civil Rights Act was signed into law and President Johnson launched the "War on Poverty." No one at home or at school ever talked to me about civil rights. But I grew up with a keen eye for injustice and a love of democracy: the brand of democracy that says that all people are created equal.
At some point, as I got older, I came to see these notions of justice and democracy as simple and naive, too unsophisticated for an educated woman like myself. And yet, just pecking these words out on the keyboard brings tears to my eyes again. I used to see myself as a freedom fighter but somewhere along the way I gave up the fight. Dr. Jackson's words last night poked at the embers of a fire I thought to be extinguished.
The question now is: what to do with this passion? The muse in me says write...
Like most people I was moved by the reactions of the crowd that gathered in Chicago to hear the president-elect speak. But it was the tear-stained face of Jesse Jackson that brought tears to my own eyes. Written across his face was the story of struggle and success, success that required such unimaginable sacrifice. I was sure that no one could understand that sacrifice better than this man who was there that day in Memphis when Dr. King was struck down on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel.
I was not yet four years old on that day in 1968, yet I have always felt so connected to that time and place. I was born in 1964, the same year that the Civil Rights Act was signed into law and President Johnson launched the "War on Poverty." No one at home or at school ever talked to me about civil rights. But I grew up with a keen eye for injustice and a love of democracy: the brand of democracy that says that all people are created equal.
At some point, as I got older, I came to see these notions of justice and democracy as simple and naive, too unsophisticated for an educated woman like myself. And yet, just pecking these words out on the keyboard brings tears to my eyes again. I used to see myself as a freedom fighter but somewhere along the way I gave up the fight. Dr. Jackson's words last night poked at the embers of a fire I thought to be extinguished.
The question now is: what to do with this passion? The muse in me says write...
Monday, February 7, 2011
Day 38
I had this idea this morning for a book. It is usually the title that comes to me first. This morning's title was The Privileged Poor. The book I imagine is about growing up poor, in a family of women, fully aware of the impact of sexism and class stratification because I was living it, but also aware of the white privilege that separated me from my black classmates and neighbors.
Immediately, I began to critique the idea. Surely it has already been done by someone more competent than myself. Would anyone really be interested in a book like this? Would I be willing to commit months of my life to a project that will be a long shot for publication? I imagine my book in the clearance bin at Barnes and Noble and tell myself that this is the best case scenario.
I decide to test the idea out on Bill, who still looks a little groggy as he sips his coffee with the morning paper open in front of him. Although my enthusiasm for the idea is waning, I am still excited to share it. In my mind it is still beautiful: it is fully formed, like a globe of shimmering light. But when I reach for it, when I attempt to grasp it, it pops like a soap bubble. It is gone.
I have new ideas for writing projects almost everyday. Each one is like a soap bubble: beautiful and ephemeral. I can't seem to hold onto them for more than a few moments. Perhaps I need to reimagine them, not as soap bubble but as globes of blown glass: still fragile, still beautiful, still capable of capturing and reflecting light but with a solid exterior. It is up to me to store them in a safe place, protect them from the outside world, attend to them on a regular basis and, most importantly, appreciate them. They are products of imagination and imagination is the invisible cord that ties us to The Creative Force.
Immediately, I began to critique the idea. Surely it has already been done by someone more competent than myself. Would anyone really be interested in a book like this? Would I be willing to commit months of my life to a project that will be a long shot for publication? I imagine my book in the clearance bin at Barnes and Noble and tell myself that this is the best case scenario.
I decide to test the idea out on Bill, who still looks a little groggy as he sips his coffee with the morning paper open in front of him. Although my enthusiasm for the idea is waning, I am still excited to share it. In my mind it is still beautiful: it is fully formed, like a globe of shimmering light. But when I reach for it, when I attempt to grasp it, it pops like a soap bubble. It is gone.
I have new ideas for writing projects almost everyday. Each one is like a soap bubble: beautiful and ephemeral. I can't seem to hold onto them for more than a few moments. Perhaps I need to reimagine them, not as soap bubble but as globes of blown glass: still fragile, still beautiful, still capable of capturing and reflecting light but with a solid exterior. It is up to me to store them in a safe place, protect them from the outside world, attend to them on a regular basis and, most importantly, appreciate them. They are products of imagination and imagination is the invisible cord that ties us to The Creative Force.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Day 37
About 20 years ago I went to a workshop where we did a self-awareness exercise: nothing original; in fact, it was a little cliche. We were asked to visualize our perfect day and then write about it. The facilitator then asked a question that appeared to be only tangentially related to the exercise: What would you do if you only had 1 year to live?
My responses were written on two pieces of 8 x 10 bond paper: one peach, the other purple. I carried these pieces of paper across the country with me when I moved from Missouri to Washington. There were additional moves from Pasco to Richland to Walla Walla to Kennewick and then back to Pasco and back to Richland and back to Pasco and finally to Moscow, Idaho: the place I finally settled down, the place I call home. These two pieces of paper remained safely stowed away among my important papers each time the boxes were packed and moved and unloaded. I always knew they were there, although I never took them out to look at again, until today.
On the purple sheet, I described my home as " a quiet, private place" where, upon waking up in the morning, "I spend time thinking about how the day will unfold." I am engaged in "thinking, discussing, creating and writing" throughout the day, but also "take time to nurture myself." I spend time with "people I feel connected to" and end the day by giving "thanks before I go to sleep."
When I wrote this 20 years ago it seemed an unattainable dream. I was the parent of a young child, trapped in an empty marriage. I worked full time in a job that was fulfilling but all- consuming. There was no privacy or self-nurturing for me. There was no time to think or discuss or create or write. There appeared to be so many obstacles between me and my dream.
That must be why the facilitators asked us to do the next part of the exercise: we were asked to list three things that we would want to accomplish if we only had a short time to live. On the peach piece of paper, I listed mine in the following order: 1) make sure that my child is cared for, 2) have an intimate, loving relationship, and 3) write.
I am grateful that I had more than 1 year to live because it took me 20 to mark the first two items off my list. I finally feel that my daughter is on her own path. Granted, it is not an easy path to maneuver, but I am beginning to trust that she will find her way to a life that is hers to claim. My tenure as a parent is nearly complete and our relationship is becoming more reciprocal. At some point the roles will be reversed: I will be the one who needs to be taken care of. But for now we can relate to each other as equals.
Bill and I have been together for nearly 15 years. There were a couple of years of being crazy drunk in love and then the inevitable disillusionment with each other and with the decisions we made together. Finally, we have settled into a richer, deeper kind of love, the kind that comes from shared battle scars and tending to each other's wounds. Without him I'm not sure I would have realized my dream.
I am living the dream I wrote about 20 years ago. And now it is time to write...
My responses were written on two pieces of 8 x 10 bond paper: one peach, the other purple. I carried these pieces of paper across the country with me when I moved from Missouri to Washington. There were additional moves from Pasco to Richland to Walla Walla to Kennewick and then back to Pasco and back to Richland and back to Pasco and finally to Moscow, Idaho: the place I finally settled down, the place I call home. These two pieces of paper remained safely stowed away among my important papers each time the boxes were packed and moved and unloaded. I always knew they were there, although I never took them out to look at again, until today.
On the purple sheet, I described my home as " a quiet, private place" where, upon waking up in the morning, "I spend time thinking about how the day will unfold." I am engaged in "thinking, discussing, creating and writing" throughout the day, but also "take time to nurture myself." I spend time with "people I feel connected to" and end the day by giving "thanks before I go to sleep."
When I wrote this 20 years ago it seemed an unattainable dream. I was the parent of a young child, trapped in an empty marriage. I worked full time in a job that was fulfilling but all- consuming. There was no privacy or self-nurturing for me. There was no time to think or discuss or create or write. There appeared to be so many obstacles between me and my dream.
That must be why the facilitators asked us to do the next part of the exercise: we were asked to list three things that we would want to accomplish if we only had a short time to live. On the peach piece of paper, I listed mine in the following order: 1) make sure that my child is cared for, 2) have an intimate, loving relationship, and 3) write.
I am grateful that I had more than 1 year to live because it took me 20 to mark the first two items off my list. I finally feel that my daughter is on her own path. Granted, it is not an easy path to maneuver, but I am beginning to trust that she will find her way to a life that is hers to claim. My tenure as a parent is nearly complete and our relationship is becoming more reciprocal. At some point the roles will be reversed: I will be the one who needs to be taken care of. But for now we can relate to each other as equals.
Bill and I have been together for nearly 15 years. There were a couple of years of being crazy drunk in love and then the inevitable disillusionment with each other and with the decisions we made together. Finally, we have settled into a richer, deeper kind of love, the kind that comes from shared battle scars and tending to each other's wounds. Without him I'm not sure I would have realized my dream.
I am living the dream I wrote about 20 years ago. And now it is time to write...
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Day 36
I was working as a manager a few years ago when a conflict arouse between an employee in my department and the human resources office. I decided to advocate for the employee. Soon after, my department was eliminated and the employees that I had come to care about lost their jobs. I believe that this happened as a direct result of my actions.
This was not the first time that my actions brought harm to other people and I suspect that it will not be the last. It's the kind of thing that keeps me up at night. I try to follow the Buddhist precept that teaches us to "do no harm." However, I have no way of predicting when and if my actions will bring harm to other people. It is a dilemma that all responsible people must face.
I worry that the things I write might cause other people pain or suffering. The only way I can ensure that they never do is to write nothing. If I do that, I am causing myself pain and suffering.
I think that we have to accept that our actions will sometimes bring pain and suffering to others. We are not Gods; it is not our place to know what is best for those around us. What we can do is to be clear about our intentions.
What I know for sure is this: I must write with the intention of speaking my truth and must never us my words as weapons.
This was not the first time that my actions brought harm to other people and I suspect that it will not be the last. It's the kind of thing that keeps me up at night. I try to follow the Buddhist precept that teaches us to "do no harm." However, I have no way of predicting when and if my actions will bring harm to other people. It is a dilemma that all responsible people must face.
I worry that the things I write might cause other people pain or suffering. The only way I can ensure that they never do is to write nothing. If I do that, I am causing myself pain and suffering.
I think that we have to accept that our actions will sometimes bring pain and suffering to others. We are not Gods; it is not our place to know what is best for those around us. What we can do is to be clear about our intentions.
What I know for sure is this: I must write with the intention of speaking my truth and must never us my words as weapons.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Day 35
A few days ago I wrote about money, or more accurately, my lack of money. I talked about my struggle to come to terms with my decision to pursue a creative life, with little to no promise of financial gain. I said: "I am willing to pay the price for freedom but the real question is this: Is it necessary?"
This question prompted a response from a couple of my friends. With an estimated readership of less than ten, a response from two readers represents a pretty big market share. It made me wonder: What is it about this question that other people find intriguing?
I suppose that the whole notion of freedom is worth pondering. I never really believed that bullshit about freedom we were fed in school. It was hard to reconcile the notion of 'life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness' with what I saw playing out at home. My mom would come home from her job in a factory, her hands bleeding, her eyes clouded by exhaustion. There was little energy left for personal pursuits of any kind.
I guess I was lucky to learn early on that freedom is all about how we spend our time. In his book, The Holy Barbarians, Lawrence Lipton points out that it is only the very rich and the very poor who have the luxury of time to pursue literature and art and music and reality television (OK, I added that last one). The middle class is screwed, so maybe we should all celebrate, instead of fretting, over its demise.
Freedom does exact a price. It may mean living in a mobile home instead of one of those mini-mansions that became so popular before the housing bubble burst. It may mean driving an old car and wearing second-hand clothes. It may mean being denied the right to participate in the Medical Industrial Complex. All tough choices in a culture that tells us that 'the good life' is furnished with all of these things.
Yes, given the choice, I would rather be rich. Some of my students tell me that anyone who works hard and follows the rules can get rich in this country. While I question this simple notion of meritocracy, I am willing to concede that anyone who is reasonably intelligent and willing to do anything for money can and will get ahead. But this brings me back to the question of freedom.
It is a lucky few who possess both wealth and freedom. Maybe if the stars align in just the right way, it will happen to me. I'm not betting on it. Instead, I'll get up everyday in my mobile home and put on my second-hand clothes and drive my old car to the coffee shop where I can read and write and enjoy the company of people I love.
This question prompted a response from a couple of my friends. With an estimated readership of less than ten, a response from two readers represents a pretty big market share. It made me wonder: What is it about this question that other people find intriguing?
I suppose that the whole notion of freedom is worth pondering. I never really believed that bullshit about freedom we were fed in school. It was hard to reconcile the notion of 'life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness' with what I saw playing out at home. My mom would come home from her job in a factory, her hands bleeding, her eyes clouded by exhaustion. There was little energy left for personal pursuits of any kind.
I guess I was lucky to learn early on that freedom is all about how we spend our time. In his book, The Holy Barbarians, Lawrence Lipton points out that it is only the very rich and the very poor who have the luxury of time to pursue literature and art and music and reality television (OK, I added that last one). The middle class is screwed, so maybe we should all celebrate, instead of fretting, over its demise.
Freedom does exact a price. It may mean living in a mobile home instead of one of those mini-mansions that became so popular before the housing bubble burst. It may mean driving an old car and wearing second-hand clothes. It may mean being denied the right to participate in the Medical Industrial Complex. All tough choices in a culture that tells us that 'the good life' is furnished with all of these things.
Yes, given the choice, I would rather be rich. Some of my students tell me that anyone who works hard and follows the rules can get rich in this country. While I question this simple notion of meritocracy, I am willing to concede that anyone who is reasonably intelligent and willing to do anything for money can and will get ahead. But this brings me back to the question of freedom.
It is a lucky few who possess both wealth and freedom. Maybe if the stars align in just the right way, it will happen to me. I'm not betting on it. Instead, I'll get up everyday in my mobile home and put on my second-hand clothes and drive my old car to the coffee shop where I can read and write and enjoy the company of people I love.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Day 34
Yesterday was a hectic day. I was bombarded with messages and phone calls from students in my new online classes. Most are new to the online classroom; they have returned to school after years as customer service representative and cable television installers. For many, college is brass ring. They don't want to let it slip through their fingers. They are excited and nervous and inquisitive and impatient and they look to me for answers. I try to respond with understanding and logic but sometimes feel like I am caught in an avalanche of questions.
I spent several hours soothing the concerns of anxious students before I met a friend for tea at the Bucer's. We talked about truth and honesty and shame and honor and friendship and betrayal and love and men and women. We talked about the struggle to balance self-care with the demands and needs of others. As my tea grew tepid and the sun set, we talked about memories and plans for the future.
On the way home I stopped at Walgreen's. A pretty, young pharmacist helped me decipher the differences between the various remedies for sinus congestion and steered me toward the generic Sudafed. After signing a declaration that I did not intend to manufacture methamphetamines, I left with her warning that the drug may have a stimulating affect and is best administered in the morning.
I came home and popped a pill, made myself some soup and settled down in front of the television with Bill. Just as I was getting comfortable, the phone rang. It was Kat. She had exciting news from Evergreen. She is moving into a new apartment with friends from the LGBT community. She was excited about a one act play she is writing for a class. Listening to her speak is like watching a flower open through time lapse photography.
We ended the call when her phone battery went dead. I recounted our conversation to Bill just before Law and Order. It was an episode about a 12 year old girl who claimed she was raped by a wealthy arms merchant. He claimed that it was all a set up, an attempt to extort money. I fell asleep in the middle of this tangled web of accusations and lies.
I woke with a startle at 2:30 in the morning. My mind was filled with images from a dream. I was in a carnival fun house, cautiously making my way through, certain of the danger lurking around every corner. A hysterical, laughing clown startled me from out of the darkness. A moment later, I rounded a corner and found myself in a room of mirrors. I could not escape my own image, each mirror revealed a different distorted view.
As I emerged from my hypnagogic state I soon realized that I was not alone. All of the people with whom I had spent the day were there with me in bed: the students, my friend, Kat. They were all holding up mirrors. Each was reflecting back to me a different facet of myself.
I spent several hours soothing the concerns of anxious students before I met a friend for tea at the Bucer's. We talked about truth and honesty and shame and honor and friendship and betrayal and love and men and women. We talked about the struggle to balance self-care with the demands and needs of others. As my tea grew tepid and the sun set, we talked about memories and plans for the future.
On the way home I stopped at Walgreen's. A pretty, young pharmacist helped me decipher the differences between the various remedies for sinus congestion and steered me toward the generic Sudafed. After signing a declaration that I did not intend to manufacture methamphetamines, I left with her warning that the drug may have a stimulating affect and is best administered in the morning.
I came home and popped a pill, made myself some soup and settled down in front of the television with Bill. Just as I was getting comfortable, the phone rang. It was Kat. She had exciting news from Evergreen. She is moving into a new apartment with friends from the LGBT community. She was excited about a one act play she is writing for a class. Listening to her speak is like watching a flower open through time lapse photography.
We ended the call when her phone battery went dead. I recounted our conversation to Bill just before Law and Order. It was an episode about a 12 year old girl who claimed she was raped by a wealthy arms merchant. He claimed that it was all a set up, an attempt to extort money. I fell asleep in the middle of this tangled web of accusations and lies.
I woke with a startle at 2:30 in the morning. My mind was filled with images from a dream. I was in a carnival fun house, cautiously making my way through, certain of the danger lurking around every corner. A hysterical, laughing clown startled me from out of the darkness. A moment later, I rounded a corner and found myself in a room of mirrors. I could not escape my own image, each mirror revealed a different distorted view.
As I emerged from my hypnagogic state I soon realized that I was not alone. All of the people with whom I had spent the day were there with me in bed: the students, my friend, Kat. They were all holding up mirrors. Each was reflecting back to me a different facet of myself.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Day 33
Last week I got my W-2 form from the online school I teach for. I was shocked when I saw the actual number there in black and white. There, in the box marked "Gross Earnings," was a number roughly equivalent to the number of licks it takes to get the the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop. I'm embarrassed to print the actual number, but let's just say it would take three times my yearly earnings to support a prisoner in the lap of luxury that is the state pen.
Yesterday, we were sitting at the co-op eating salad and dessert when Bill asked if I was comfortable with our vows of poverty. It was ironic, because in that moment it was hard to imagine a richer life. I told him that I was. In many ways our life is the Bohemian dream: no alarm clocks, plenty of time for reading, imagination, relationship. We are fat and happy...and poor.
Still there are those moments when a demon rises up in me and says: You earned how much? The number on the tax form turns into a measure of my worth as a human being, or at the very least an assessment of my competence as a professional. I used to earn 4 times as much money and I considered myself successful. But at what price?
Last night I was reminded of the sacrifices that the professional life entails for me. I went to a meeting as a representative of an organization I belong to. In this room full of "professionals" I felt like an impostor. I hear this is common among people who come from working class backgrounds. I had one of those out of body moments when I could see myself talking (nervously), making jokes (awkwardly), laughing (too loudly). I was performing, trying to assume the role of Miss America. Instead, I looked like a sad clown.
On some level I am convinced that if I show up as myself and live an authentic life, that life is destined to be one of poverty. I am willing to pay the price for freedom, but the real question is this: Is it necessary?
Yesterday, we were sitting at the co-op eating salad and dessert when Bill asked if I was comfortable with our vows of poverty. It was ironic, because in that moment it was hard to imagine a richer life. I told him that I was. In many ways our life is the Bohemian dream: no alarm clocks, plenty of time for reading, imagination, relationship. We are fat and happy...and poor.
Still there are those moments when a demon rises up in me and says: You earned how much? The number on the tax form turns into a measure of my worth as a human being, or at the very least an assessment of my competence as a professional. I used to earn 4 times as much money and I considered myself successful. But at what price?
Last night I was reminded of the sacrifices that the professional life entails for me. I went to a meeting as a representative of an organization I belong to. In this room full of "professionals" I felt like an impostor. I hear this is common among people who come from working class backgrounds. I had one of those out of body moments when I could see myself talking (nervously), making jokes (awkwardly), laughing (too loudly). I was performing, trying to assume the role of Miss America. Instead, I looked like a sad clown.
On some level I am convinced that if I show up as myself and live an authentic life, that life is destined to be one of poverty. I am willing to pay the price for freedom, but the real question is this: Is it necessary?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Day 32
At the beginning of 2011 I made a commitment to live creatively. I have a pretty simple definition of the creative life. Living creatively means following what is most alive for me at any given moment. I have to pay attention to the energy in my body, to the random thoughts that tug at my soul, to the creative impulses that spark imagination. I have to pay attention.
It is hard because, at times, there are so many people and projects vying for my attention. There are my students, including the one today who was panicked over chapter 1 of her dissertation. There is the folder of papers that need to be graded with facts that need to be checked and corrections that need to be made, like the paper I graded today that bore the claim that Jim Crow was the guy who enforced segregation. There is my partner who enjoys spending time with me at the co-op: me with my tea, him with his coffee, both of us enjoying the pair of folk singing sisters performing on a makeshift stage in the corner of the dining area. There is the meeting tonight of the committee to plan a community forum on bullying; I agreed to chair before I realized that it would be akin to herding cats.
As I look at the list of things I've done and intend to do today I suddenly realize that these things aren't distractions from the creative life. They are the raw materials from which I can create. The creative life isn't always about writing or painting or dancing or singing. It is about making something beautiful from the junk that life sends our way.
It is hard because, at times, there are so many people and projects vying for my attention. There are my students, including the one today who was panicked over chapter 1 of her dissertation. There is the folder of papers that need to be graded with facts that need to be checked and corrections that need to be made, like the paper I graded today that bore the claim that Jim Crow was the guy who enforced segregation. There is my partner who enjoys spending time with me at the co-op: me with my tea, him with his coffee, both of us enjoying the pair of folk singing sisters performing on a makeshift stage in the corner of the dining area. There is the meeting tonight of the committee to plan a community forum on bullying; I agreed to chair before I realized that it would be akin to herding cats.
As I look at the list of things I've done and intend to do today I suddenly realize that these things aren't distractions from the creative life. They are the raw materials from which I can create. The creative life isn't always about writing or painting or dancing or singing. It is about making something beautiful from the junk that life sends our way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)