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.
Monday, February 7, 2011
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.
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