There is so much to be grateful for, too much. I mean, how can I consciously appreciate everything---my honey love, my momma, my sweet friends, my house, my health, my body and mind, my spirit connection with the world, my bike, my extended family, my job, my literacy, my lap-top, my students---and still have time to write and play back gammon? Leave it to me to find a way to be overwhelmed by all that I am lucky enough to have and experience. Leave it to me to turn gratitude into a burden.
Yesterday was one of those glory days: by high noon I was racing the waves up the smooth beach, so warmed by the sun that had I not been with students, I would have stripped down to my underwear and plunged in. After a ceremony around a canopy of bells and a hike over rugged sand dunes, I felt the zing of aliveness. I watched the boys doing back flips off the dunes, running wild and fearless into the ocean. I hiked back with my pants rolled above my knees, my calves and feet salted and sandy and grower tougher with each step.
As a school, we feasted on turkey and green beans, countless pies and dairy-free ice cream. We sat outside and sipped sparkling cider and felt the coastal winds start to pick up speed. After stopping by a co-worker's house for a sampling of her home-made cordials (blackberry, rose love potion, apricot), I came home to a sunset nap. Then an early evening walk to Community Market for last minute Thanksgiving essentials. I felt a sense of peace that, I realized sadly, escapes me on a daily basis.
So happy and energized, what else to do but go roller skating? Though I go ice-skating with students every year, I hadn't been roller skating since the Clinton administration. Right away I felt at home---the smell of wax and nachos, those brown-carpeted boxed seats, the tan skates with orange wheels. And, of course, the resident weirdos, like the white-haired man who ogled all the girls while gyrating/skating backwards, or the greasers who did hand stands in the middle of the rink.
Oh, the fun of it! I skated so fast I couldn't imagine braking. I skated so hard and fast I quickly needed to fold down my knee socks, hike up my long sleeves. I skated so long and hard that today I have a walnut-sized blister on the bottom of my right foot. I skated for nearly two hours, my boyfriend intermittently video-taping me rap to Vanilla Ice or bust some dance moves to "Livin' on a Prayer." Then he'd skate off to attempt twirls and single-foot stunts, sometimes crouching low to better tape the synchronized footing of an older couple.
I loved the feeling of my knotty hair flying behind me. I loved singing the lyrics to "Like a Virgin" and "Can't Touch This." I loved slowing down to hold hands. I loved that by the end of the night I'd nearly mastered the cross over on the turns. At ten o'clock we shared a handful of dispenser candy as we walked out into the cool night air. I am so very thankful that at thirty years old, as I am coming more fully into adulthood, I am still tickled by skates, skirts, skittles, giggles, corny tunes, and star-splattered knee socks.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Stuck (Or So It Feels)
This week I've felt stagnant, despite all the changes in my life (new home, new relationship contours, new class schedule, new curricula, new rain, even a slim new moon). The rain today reminds me of the constancy of change and possibility. And even though I do not feel like unpacking boxes and shelving books, do not feel like exercising my tight limbs, do not feel like it should be ink black by 5:45, I am writing villanelles inspired by Sylvia Plath. I am allowing the stillness. I wrote this little essay a few months ago, in March, but in re-reading it today, it seemed to matter more than ever. Soon enough, this time, these last months of the year, will have flown by, and I will be in a new place, maybe moving, maybe stuck. (And my brother, thank the good Lord, is now on his way to a treatment center). Here it is:
I celebrated the last few days of this rainy winter in Tahoe, frolicking in a bright snow-capped wonderland. Lucky enough to teach at a small private high school whose philosophy includes thrice yearly trips to take us beyond the classroom's limited potential for learning, I accompanied 16 students and 5 fellow staff on our annual snow trip.
The first and final days are spent traveling to and fro, setting up and breaking down camp (in this case camp is a giant 6 bedroom home with a hot-tub and a pool table). But sandwiched in between, those two blissful days of skiing are more than worth sharing a bathroom with twenty people.
This year I soar down the intermediate runs with grace. For once, I don't have to work too hard to tame my hamster-wheel mind. This sport requires graceful focus, and somehow the sticky sugar beneath my feet and the spun sugar clouds above my head and the impossible blue of lake and sky squeeze out all the anxiety of teaching, writing, (not) publishing. I am free. Not free like a bird, but free like a woman one season in to thirty, free like a girl who still thinks giggles and charades are the funnest way to spend an evening.
And then I come home to the news that Natasha Richardson has died, tragically, in a skiing accident in Quebec. Why am I so saddened? After all, the only movie I can recall her in is The Parent Trap, a cutesy remake of the far-superior Hailey Mills version. (Her performance was certainly beautiful though). I spent the exhausted car ride home talking to co-workers about my childhood, my tyrannical father and doting mother, my meth-addicted brother who worries me so much that my hamster wheel can’t even slow down enough to let him on. It’s too much to bear. The idea that he is tempting death just like that ski jump tempted my recklessness. I came away with bruised and swollen knuckles, yes, but even more, I felt alive.
Was Natasha being reckless? Was she under the influence of some substance, challenging herself too much? Or was she just enjoying, like me, the final days of this season of dormancy before emerging into the new life of spring? And if death does just take us so unawares, might the opposite also be true?
Might life somehow, some way, continue to take my aching brother under its wing? Might life bear him upon her strong back, and eventually drop him atop a mountain of potential and purpose? Might he glimpse the impossible beauty of life as he soars down, his troubles momentarily frozen, his body free once more? Might he remember to giggle about the charades he pulled as a boy, remember that as adults, even in our thirties, we can continue to glisten with possibility, mischievous ambitions, uncertainty?
I celebrated the last few days of this rainy winter in Tahoe, frolicking in a bright snow-capped wonderland. Lucky enough to teach at a small private high school whose philosophy includes thrice yearly trips to take us beyond the classroom's limited potential for learning, I accompanied 16 students and 5 fellow staff on our annual snow trip.
The first and final days are spent traveling to and fro, setting up and breaking down camp (in this case camp is a giant 6 bedroom home with a hot-tub and a pool table). But sandwiched in between, those two blissful days of skiing are more than worth sharing a bathroom with twenty people.
This year I soar down the intermediate runs with grace. For once, I don't have to work too hard to tame my hamster-wheel mind. This sport requires graceful focus, and somehow the sticky sugar beneath my feet and the spun sugar clouds above my head and the impossible blue of lake and sky squeeze out all the anxiety of teaching, writing, (not) publishing. I am free. Not free like a bird, but free like a woman one season in to thirty, free like a girl who still thinks giggles and charades are the funnest way to spend an evening.
And then I come home to the news that Natasha Richardson has died, tragically, in a skiing accident in Quebec. Why am I so saddened? After all, the only movie I can recall her in is The Parent Trap, a cutesy remake of the far-superior Hailey Mills version. (Her performance was certainly beautiful though). I spent the exhausted car ride home talking to co-workers about my childhood, my tyrannical father and doting mother, my meth-addicted brother who worries me so much that my hamster wheel can’t even slow down enough to let him on. It’s too much to bear. The idea that he is tempting death just like that ski jump tempted my recklessness. I came away with bruised and swollen knuckles, yes, but even more, I felt alive.
Was Natasha being reckless? Was she under the influence of some substance, challenging herself too much? Or was she just enjoying, like me, the final days of this season of dormancy before emerging into the new life of spring? And if death does just take us so unawares, might the opposite also be true?
Might life somehow, some way, continue to take my aching brother under its wing? Might life bear him upon her strong back, and eventually drop him atop a mountain of potential and purpose? Might he glimpse the impossible beauty of life as he soars down, his troubles momentarily frozen, his body free once more? Might he remember to giggle about the charades he pulled as a boy, remember that as adults, even in our thirties, we can continue to glisten with possibility, mischievous ambitions, uncertainty?
Friday, November 13, 2009
Things I am grateful for, brought into sharp relief yesterday, as I suffered with a nasty queasy illness:
1. My boyfriend. He took such good care of me--- tracked down grape juice, the only thing I could imagine consuming, brought home a digital thermometer (fever was 101.5!), researched my symptoms on the internet to quell my disaster-prone fears of swine flu and rapid death.
2. My job. I showed up at school feeling like a pile of poop, "taught" three classes (to the junior high: "take out your journal and write about something for ten minutes"), got loads of sympathy and hugs from my teenaged students, left after lunch. Granted, being a teacher is often hard thankless work, but being a teacher at Nonesuch is sweet like candy corn. I teach what I want, in a quiet country setting, and when I'm sick, my Advanced Comp class dutifully writes in-class essays on Lysistrata while I lay my head on my arms. They are extra quiet and obedient.
3. My home. As I lay on the couch in bone-aching misery, too weak to lift my head off the pillow for a sip of liquid, all I could do was watch the orange and yellow sycamore leaves sway gently in the breeze as sunlight poured in through the huge living room windows.
2. My job. I showed up at school feeling like a pile of poop, "taught" three classes (to the junior high: "take out your journal and write about something for ten minutes"), got loads of sympathy and hugs from my teenaged students, left after lunch. Granted, being a teacher is often hard thankless work, but being a teacher at Nonesuch is sweet like candy corn. I teach what I want, in a quiet country setting, and when I'm sick, my Advanced Comp class dutifully writes in-class essays on Lysistrata while I lay my head on my arms. They are extra quiet and obedient.
3. My home. As I lay on the couch in bone-aching misery, too weak to lift my head off the pillow for a sip of liquid, all I could do was watch the orange and yellow sycamore leaves sway gently in the breeze as sunlight poured in through the huge living room windows.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Our House
All we want is a house. A stand-alone house with some garden space in a quiet place. That's it. Sure, there are the dreamy ideals: hardwood floors, closet space, front porch, an office, a garage, a laundry room, a kitchen with counter space to spare. But nothing fancy, nothing extravagant, just a little house to make home.
Simple, right? I mean, isn't that what we hard-working Americans are supposedly entitled to? Isn't that the dream that we're supposed to wake up to? But instead I feel like I've been traveling through Dante's nine realms of hell, a nightmare that I can't shake.
Quiet? Just go to the Press Democrat web-site and click on the map of available places: 9 out of 10 pop up along the thick red coils of highway snaking through town.
Un-shared walls? Like fishing for trout in a mall fountain. Apartments, duplexes, triplexes, quadplexes abound. But an actual house? Sure, as long as you don't mind the windows rattling from the semis that fly by on highway 101.
Garden space? Better you look for affordable produce at Whole Foods.
Closet space? When the property owners are dividing giant Victorians into five apartments, squeezing bodies into square inches the way cattle are herded into pens, the casualties are brutal: no closets, window-less bathrooms, claustrophobic lofts that masquerade as bedrooms.
But then there are the factors that you don't anticipate, like crazy, insensitive landlords. A strapping old house that seems just right. Baited, all ready to bite when the landlords (a groovy couple who installed solar panels on the roof) give us the snag: we use one of the two bedrooms for our office, which we inhabit pretty much 24/7. Ouch.
Or the sweet elderly accented couple who courted us like an eager sixteen year old boy desperate for another date. They couldn't meet us fast enough, were tickled by our travel tales, wanted the application ASAP. Never mentioned anyone else who was interested. Until the phone call that shattered the dream: we decided to give it to an older couple. But the good news? We really like you, will keep you on file. Gee, thanks.
Another wide-grinning landlady probed us for flaws: you seem too perfect, there must be a catch. There was. Her manic tongue held us captive for half an hour after we realized that the dingy carpet and concrete "yard" were not for us.
We were getting desperate. Weeks of searching to no avail. Day of the Dead, a Monday afternoon, a trip to the grocery store, prayer candles on sale. That evening, as the flame flickered and the internet flashed page after page of ads, we came across one that looked good. Next day we met the landlord, a sweet gentle soul who loves to garden and camp. Next day we got the call: it’s ours.
If the past three weeks resembled the fiery depths, this feels like floating, like roaming timeless through the Elysian Fields. Our new house, which we get to move into in a week, is perfect. It stands alone. Raised beds all ready for gardening. Tucked away in a quiet neighborhood full of American-dreamers. Built in the 1930s, it bears the regal simplicity of the old Victorian, with wide open rooms, tall windows, hardwood floors, built-in cabinetry, a front porch for watching the world spin by. And though there is no laundry room or garage, though we are paying a little more than we wanted to, there is no beating the feeling that, like the Jefferson’s, we are moving on up.
That we, too, finally, have a piece of the pie.
Simple, right? I mean, isn't that what we hard-working Americans are supposedly entitled to? Isn't that the dream that we're supposed to wake up to? But instead I feel like I've been traveling through Dante's nine realms of hell, a nightmare that I can't shake.
Quiet? Just go to the Press Democrat web-site and click on the map of available places: 9 out of 10 pop up along the thick red coils of highway snaking through town.
Un-shared walls? Like fishing for trout in a mall fountain. Apartments, duplexes, triplexes, quadplexes abound. But an actual house? Sure, as long as you don't mind the windows rattling from the semis that fly by on highway 101.
Garden space? Better you look for affordable produce at Whole Foods.
Closet space? When the property owners are dividing giant Victorians into five apartments, squeezing bodies into square inches the way cattle are herded into pens, the casualties are brutal: no closets, window-less bathrooms, claustrophobic lofts that masquerade as bedrooms.
But then there are the factors that you don't anticipate, like crazy, insensitive landlords. A strapping old house that seems just right. Baited, all ready to bite when the landlords (a groovy couple who installed solar panels on the roof) give us the snag: we use one of the two bedrooms for our office, which we inhabit pretty much 24/7. Ouch.
Or the sweet elderly accented couple who courted us like an eager sixteen year old boy desperate for another date. They couldn't meet us fast enough, were tickled by our travel tales, wanted the application ASAP. Never mentioned anyone else who was interested. Until the phone call that shattered the dream: we decided to give it to an older couple. But the good news? We really like you, will keep you on file. Gee, thanks.
Another wide-grinning landlady probed us for flaws: you seem too perfect, there must be a catch. There was. Her manic tongue held us captive for half an hour after we realized that the dingy carpet and concrete "yard" were not for us.
We were getting desperate. Weeks of searching to no avail. Day of the Dead, a Monday afternoon, a trip to the grocery store, prayer candles on sale. That evening, as the flame flickered and the internet flashed page after page of ads, we came across one that looked good. Next day we met the landlord, a sweet gentle soul who loves to garden and camp. Next day we got the call: it’s ours.
If the past three weeks resembled the fiery depths, this feels like floating, like roaming timeless through the Elysian Fields. Our new house, which we get to move into in a week, is perfect. It stands alone. Raised beds all ready for gardening. Tucked away in a quiet neighborhood full of American-dreamers. Built in the 1930s, it bears the regal simplicity of the old Victorian, with wide open rooms, tall windows, hardwood floors, built-in cabinetry, a front porch for watching the world spin by. And though there is no laundry room or garage, though we are paying a little more than we wanted to, there is no beating the feeling that, like the Jefferson’s, we are moving on up.
That we, too, finally, have a piece of the pie.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Happy Halloween
So, what's the best thing about teaching at a small, private school nestled in the Redwoods? Other than the fact that I have complete academic freedom and get to fly on the rope swing during my free periods, I get to celebrate Halloween---that most joyous of kid's holidays---like a kid. Each year I dress as one of the students; this year I chose Nate, a fifteen year old punk rocking mischief-maker. The kids loved seeing me, their 30 year old English teacher, dressed in his skinny plaid pants and Misfits t-shirt. We dunked apples into hot caramel, carved punkins, made cookies, and, the crown jewel of the day, had a poetry contest out on the sun-splashed deck. Here is my entry, co-written with my boyfriend, who also happens to teach with me:
Welcome to Nonesuch
Just take a look around, and you'll quickly see,
whatever you're afraid of you shouldn't be
Yes, there are freaks and geeks galore
but I can assure you you'll never be bored
No, that's not big-foot, it's just Victor you see
his padlock is missing so his feet roam free
Oh him--- that's just Nate, he might look mean,
but he only really rages against the Christine
And no that's not the love child of Hugh Hefner and Michael Jackson,
it's Elijah, in a bathrobe, and he'll strip if you ask him
And this little blonde one is smart as a whip
but don't be surprised if Gabe gives you some lip
When it comes to the right word Jora's never stuck
so if you need a verb or an adjective how about FUCK
And Cami's got lots of poetry inside her
but don't be surprised if she kisses a spider
And--no Mindless Self Indulgence there
just a wise cracking Cody who keeps sprouting hair
And don't be fooled by her soft spoken style
Maya's grades show who goes the extra mile
And just because you can't see her eyes doesn't mean she's not there
there's much more to Shara than her bangs and curly hair
And that being over there, on the couch, please don't scream,
it's not a giant multi-limbed monster here to haunt your dreams,
It's just our resident cuddle puddle,
See--there's Luna's new shoes and Amber's jet black hair--
and, wait, is that Brogan poking out of there?
be careful--- get too close and you may fall into the lair
And that one over there who seems to fear none
he used to be Aaron but now he's Kiernan
And when you need some puffy paint or some positivity
follow the sound of the didgeridoo to Mike B's wisdom tree
One Rowan good, two Rowans better
hope you have time to listen forever
And you've met the one who keeps the Barr raised
being a bad-ass is her latest craze
And sometimes two visions will suddenly appear
it's just Angel and Andrea who aren't always here
And no, it's not Barney's daughter on the loose
Wynn has purple hair, purple skirts, even purple boots
So you just talked to Skyler and he showed you the way
but please be patient he has much more to say
A lot of girls think that Nico's caliente
but then he went to Earthdance and became excremente
If you haven't heard her speak yet give her a chance
there's a lot more to Madeline than her sweet subtle glance
Marisa just might kiss ya if you're cute enough and sweet
especially if you don't got no shoes upon your feet
If you hear the sounds of guitar strings cracklin'
its probably just the newest single released by our Jaclyn
And here's our newest student whose come to Nonesuch School
we sure hope that Lucas isn't too cool for rules
You've probably noticed all the sweetness he's bequeathin'
cause there aint no reason to not be loving Ethan
And if our school appears to be somewhat of a mess
as these sloppily written lines surely attest
Don’t blame Nonesuch School:
blame Michael and blame Jess!
Welcome to Nonesuch
Just take a look around, and you'll quickly see,
whatever you're afraid of you shouldn't be
Yes, there are freaks and geeks galore
but I can assure you you'll never be bored
No, that's not big-foot, it's just Victor you see
his padlock is missing so his feet roam free
Oh him--- that's just Nate, he might look mean,
but he only really rages against the Christine
And no that's not the love child of Hugh Hefner and Michael Jackson,
it's Elijah, in a bathrobe, and he'll strip if you ask him
And this little blonde one is smart as a whip
but don't be surprised if Gabe gives you some lip
When it comes to the right word Jora's never stuck
so if you need a verb or an adjective how about FUCK
And Cami's got lots of poetry inside her
but don't be surprised if she kisses a spider
And--no Mindless Self Indulgence there
just a wise cracking Cody who keeps sprouting hair
And don't be fooled by her soft spoken style
Maya's grades show who goes the extra mile
And just because you can't see her eyes doesn't mean she's not there
there's much more to Shara than her bangs and curly hair
And that being over there, on the couch, please don't scream,
it's not a giant multi-limbed monster here to haunt your dreams,
It's just our resident cuddle puddle,
See--there's Luna's new shoes and Amber's jet black hair--
and, wait, is that Brogan poking out of there?
be careful--- get too close and you may fall into the lair
And that one over there who seems to fear none
he used to be Aaron but now he's Kiernan
And when you need some puffy paint or some positivity
follow the sound of the didgeridoo to Mike B's wisdom tree
One Rowan good, two Rowans better
hope you have time to listen forever
And you've met the one who keeps the Barr raised
being a bad-ass is her latest craze
And sometimes two visions will suddenly appear
it's just Angel and Andrea who aren't always here
And no, it's not Barney's daughter on the loose
Wynn has purple hair, purple skirts, even purple boots
So you just talked to Skyler and he showed you the way
but please be patient he has much more to say
A lot of girls think that Nico's caliente
but then he went to Earthdance and became excremente
If you haven't heard her speak yet give her a chance
there's a lot more to Madeline than her sweet subtle glance
Marisa just might kiss ya if you're cute enough and sweet
especially if you don't got no shoes upon your feet
If you hear the sounds of guitar strings cracklin'
its probably just the newest single released by our Jaclyn
And here's our newest student whose come to Nonesuch School
we sure hope that Lucas isn't too cool for rules
You've probably noticed all the sweetness he's bequeathin'
cause there aint no reason to not be loving Ethan
And if our school appears to be somewhat of a mess
as these sloppily written lines surely attest
Don’t blame Nonesuch School:
blame Michael and blame Jess!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Smashing the Printer
Had had enough of this printer. All it caused me was grief.
I'd stay up late working on an essay assignment for my advanced composition class, go to bed wrapped in the warm satisfaction of creative accomplishment. Wake up happy that all I had to do was print the puppy out.
But unless the printer happened to turn on properly, sans blinking green light, and I fed the paper into the receptacle at exactly the right moment, listening intently to its internal workings like a new mother listens to her baby's breathing, and unless the stars were so aligned that God and all his angels were on my side, something would go wrong. It would eat the paper too early, choke on it and spit it out.
I'd try to stay calm but after three or four failed attempts, I'd lose it. I'd cry, scream, curse Best Buy to rot in the filthy flames of hell, and, after I knew the fight was lost, I'd usually try once more, this time with a calm sweet prayer. Dear God. Just please be with me. The printer would bleep and hoot and choke and seethe and I would flee the house in a hot tear-stained rage.
Until the warm June night that I walked the hated appliance over to the steps of the museum downtown. My boyfriend (bless his soul for the idea) monitored pedestrian activity while I readied my aim. When he gave me the all clear, I hurled the ugly plastic beast down onto the concrete. External hardware and little plastic gadgets popped off. Feverishly, I retrieved it, threw it again. And then again. Each time, more noise, more plastic debris, more satisfaction. The eighth toss yielded the total destruction of the motherboard, her shiny metallic innards finally succumbing to the cold raw concrete. My ponytail falling out, my face a-flush, I galloped to the garbage can and tossed the many-splintered printer inside.
This story came to mind this week, as I waded through ankle-deep stress. Car troubles. Late paycheck. Loud neighbor and too-small duplex. Stubborn tick heads, restless sleep, painful mouth ulcers. Even the minutia seemed big: my tangled hair, papers to grade, Monday morning rain, squeaky bike brakes.
Life was just like that printer, a one-eyed monster mocking me, a piece of machinery that no longer runs well. But understanding my problem has yielded a solution. It's time to shakes things up, make some drastic changes, toss life's struggles from the balcony of my mind and watch them crack open. Time to smash the printer, again, and see what's inside.
I'd stay up late working on an essay assignment for my advanced composition class, go to bed wrapped in the warm satisfaction of creative accomplishment. Wake up happy that all I had to do was print the puppy out.
But unless the printer happened to turn on properly, sans blinking green light, and I fed the paper into the receptacle at exactly the right moment, listening intently to its internal workings like a new mother listens to her baby's breathing, and unless the stars were so aligned that God and all his angels were on my side, something would go wrong. It would eat the paper too early, choke on it and spit it out.
I'd try to stay calm but after three or four failed attempts, I'd lose it. I'd cry, scream, curse Best Buy to rot in the filthy flames of hell, and, after I knew the fight was lost, I'd usually try once more, this time with a calm sweet prayer. Dear God. Just please be with me. The printer would bleep and hoot and choke and seethe and I would flee the house in a hot tear-stained rage.
Until the warm June night that I walked the hated appliance over to the steps of the museum downtown. My boyfriend (bless his soul for the idea) monitored pedestrian activity while I readied my aim. When he gave me the all clear, I hurled the ugly plastic beast down onto the concrete. External hardware and little plastic gadgets popped off. Feverishly, I retrieved it, threw it again. And then again. Each time, more noise, more plastic debris, more satisfaction. The eighth toss yielded the total destruction of the motherboard, her shiny metallic innards finally succumbing to the cold raw concrete. My ponytail falling out, my face a-flush, I galloped to the garbage can and tossed the many-splintered printer inside.
This story came to mind this week, as I waded through ankle-deep stress. Car troubles. Late paycheck. Loud neighbor and too-small duplex. Stubborn tick heads, restless sleep, painful mouth ulcers. Even the minutia seemed big: my tangled hair, papers to grade, Monday morning rain, squeaky bike brakes.
Life was just like that printer, a one-eyed monster mocking me, a piece of machinery that no longer runs well. But understanding my problem has yielded a solution. It's time to shakes things up, make some drastic changes, toss life's struggles from the balcony of my mind and watch them crack open. Time to smash the printer, again, and see what's inside.
Friday, October 16, 2009
I want to do Nothing
For once in my thirty years, I want to truly learn how to be unproductive, idle, lazy, contemplative. Why? Because it is essential to my spirit. And it is my spirit that inspires me to write. And it is becoming ever more clear to me that writing is life, that creative expression is why I am here.
I grew up like too many Americans do: with that most awful nasty concept---duty---pumped into my veins like a bad drug. And now it's beyond addiction, it's as though the need to produce and accomplish is wired into my body on a cellular level. If I don't do enough every day, I start to feel anxious, nervous, dare I even admit it, worthless.
The irony is that I absolutely love nearly all that I fill up my days with: I love teaching, love crafting an exciting new writing prompt, love planning a history lecture on Turkey's revolution, love reading, love riding my bike, love exercising my limbs, love cooking, love going to the library, love spilling my guts to my therapist, love learning new songs on the piano, love noodling around on my lap-top, love courting ideas onto the page, love taking a long hot shower at the end of the day. The problem is that my sense of duty often smothers the inherent fun out of these things, turns them into shoulds and musts and have-tos, until my poor spirit keels over with nervous dread. The problem is that I hold impossible expectations for myself, raising the bar so damn high that I fail to even notice the sky.
It's time to relax. In fact, at this very moment, I am supposed to be at a benefit, wearing a fancy dress and an enthusiastic smile. And up until two hours ago I was going to drag myself there, despite my fatigue and guts urging me otherwise. But thanks to that nurturing impulse that beats louder by the day (and thanks to my sweet love who encourages me to chill), I stayed home, curled up on the couch, and read fifty pages of Brenda Ueland's "If You Want to Write."
And like magic, like double sixes to win the back gammon game, like a fat yellow moon, like a warm California night, like a forgotten melody from childhood, she spoke right to me, across years and miles and impossibilities, she had this to say to me:
"Do not feel, any more, guilty about idleness and solitude."
"For what we write today slipped into our souls some other day when we were alone and doing nothing."
Amen.
I grew up like too many Americans do: with that most awful nasty concept---duty---pumped into my veins like a bad drug. And now it's beyond addiction, it's as though the need to produce and accomplish is wired into my body on a cellular level. If I don't do enough every day, I start to feel anxious, nervous, dare I even admit it, worthless.
The irony is that I absolutely love nearly all that I fill up my days with: I love teaching, love crafting an exciting new writing prompt, love planning a history lecture on Turkey's revolution, love reading, love riding my bike, love exercising my limbs, love cooking, love going to the library, love spilling my guts to my therapist, love learning new songs on the piano, love noodling around on my lap-top, love courting ideas onto the page, love taking a long hot shower at the end of the day. The problem is that my sense of duty often smothers the inherent fun out of these things, turns them into shoulds and musts and have-tos, until my poor spirit keels over with nervous dread. The problem is that I hold impossible expectations for myself, raising the bar so damn high that I fail to even notice the sky.
It's time to relax. In fact, at this very moment, I am supposed to be at a benefit, wearing a fancy dress and an enthusiastic smile. And up until two hours ago I was going to drag myself there, despite my fatigue and guts urging me otherwise. But thanks to that nurturing impulse that beats louder by the day (and thanks to my sweet love who encourages me to chill), I stayed home, curled up on the couch, and read fifty pages of Brenda Ueland's "If You Want to Write."
And like magic, like double sixes to win the back gammon game, like a fat yellow moon, like a warm California night, like a forgotten melody from childhood, she spoke right to me, across years and miles and impossibilities, she had this to say to me:
"Do not feel, any more, guilty about idleness and solitude."
"For what we write today slipped into our souls some other day when we were alone and doing nothing."
Amen.
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