2008

(great fireworks picture from here.)

In 2008, I watched the life of my dreams and the life of my days move further apart.

It didn't start out that way. In a burst of enthusiasm, I joined Jamie's first Circe's Circle group. I wanted to take myself seriously, to give myself the support I needed. I created a preliminary plan for my novel-in-progress, worked through Jamie's fabulous exercises. And I waited to catch fire.

Instead, I caught a serious case of cold feet. Everything felt uncertain. Was my idea worthy of being a novel? What did I really know about my characters? Did I want to devote myself to this?

While I dithered, my MIL grew gravely ill. TEG flew off to care for her.

I still attended all of my Circe's Circle calls, doggedly, but my nascent novel was abandoned. I was still looking for something, but now I wasn't quite sure what it was. The calls were my lifeline. I bribed Madam with the choicest snacks, the best DVDs, anything to keep her quiet while I was on the phone. I used the “mute” button a lot.

The calls were my connection to that life I was still sure I wanted; the life that now seemed further and further away. I watched as the other amazing women in my group caught fire.

Meanwhile, Madam and I spent a lot of time at home, as TEG's time with his mother lengthened, and winter dragged into...more winter.

I was afraid to admit how depressed I was. I didn't want TEG to worry. And I knew that I was all Madam had.

So I learned to face each day as its own entity, with its own pleasures and tasks. I couldn't see to the end of the month, but the end of the day? Somehow, that always came and brought its blessings (at least Madam would sleep; maybe TEG would call). And there was always YouTube.

My own writing slipped further out of my grasp. I couldn't even think like that. I couldn't access those words anymore. I regressed—watched a lot of television, grew addicted to a soap opera. I gave up.

Then TEG returned...and we packed up and moved in with my in laws for the summer. No writing. No thought. Lots of time at the playground as I tried to give a fun shape to Madam's days while TEG concentrated on his mother's therapy and health.

I suppose I could have blogged about this, but weirdly, I grew increasingly self-conscious about sounding unhappy and negative here. I watched my once-robust readership dwindle (the fact that I all-but-stopped updating and reading may have had something to with it too, but I couldn't quite make the connection). I wanted to preserve this blog as a place I could come back to, when I returned to myself, to my own mind.

Unfortunately, blogging and writing, like everything else, is a habit—a habit I lost in 2008. This only added to my profound sense of having become someone else-someone I didn't like very much.

Did I mention that TEG moved into a different, far more precarious job position?

So. Kind of a wild, down year, but one where I learned some of the most important lessons of my life. About how much I love my daughter, my husband, my family. About how anything can be endured with the help of good friends, and a determination to face one sunrise and one sunset at a time. I watched Madam blossom into a confident, joyous, dramatic preschooler with a penchant for storytelling. It all fills me with a gratitude that I almost can't bear. A gratitude I can hope I can learn to express, someday.

All the same, I want 2009 to be very different. I want to come back here full time, whether anyone reads me or not. I want to make the choice to practice my writing everyday, regardless of my life situation. I know I am starting again, but hopefully this year wasn't a complete waste. My words aren't back yet—the words that make me feel like a writer...but these words are. This moment is.

I won't denigrate that again.

PS: I've been dipping my toes into blogs again, and I am buzzing with the desire to post a Mondo Beyondo list. And I will...soon. :)

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On the Road turns 50

From Fred McDarrah's, Kerouac and Friends published by Thunder's Mouth Press

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”-Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I don't remember exactly when the Beats came into my life. It feels like they've always been there, lurking in my life, whispering confusing axioms that only make sense in hindsight (and after some wine).

But I do remember the first time I read “On the Road”

In college, a close friend of mine began dating an Irish man—green eyed and poetic. I was torn between disapproval (she had a wonderful boyfriend back home) and envy (he was the type of man who had never been interested in me). One day, I was assigned to babysit him while she attending a rehearsal. We walked along the lake—I was diffident, a little shy. He knew I was an English major, so before long we were talking literature. Romantic poetry. James Joyce. He expressed surprise that I'd never read “On the Road.”

He stopped walking and gripped me by the shoulders. “It changed my life...look, I'll lend it to you. You need to read this book.”

He was true to his word. The next time he came to campus to visit my friend, he brought his slightly battered copy of “On the Road.”

I found it difficult to follow at first; Kerouac's use of language was so different from what I knew—thoughtful, precise, scholarly. No, his language was a rush, exuberant, a dare that took you careening from page to page. He wanted to bend language until it wailed like a sax, until it droned low like a railroad car. He wanted it to burn through your eyes, burn through your mind, burn to the touch.

And it did.

I became obsessed, reading Kerouac's books one after the other, then reading some of the many biographies about him and the Beat movement. I admired them immensely—they wanted to make their mark, to live so artistically as to dazzle the world into giving them a place in the exalted canon. They wanted to read everything, to learn everything, and then to distill it into a way to live life more authentically.
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There was just one problem. The more I read about them, the more I started to feel excluded by the very words which had set my aflame. See, the Beats didn't have much use for women. Oh, sure, they slept around, maybe even fell in love. But no woman could compete with the group, with the writing. The women existed to pay the bills, to do the mundane living work so that the men could make Art. These were men with discomfort about women—Kerouac's “mommy issues” were legendary; Ginsberg's mother was institutionalized while he was very young; Burroughs's “accidentally” shot his wife during a game of “William Tell.” Female characters in their fiction were either burdens on the men's vaunted freedom, or personifications of mythic sex, or reflections of the Eternal Mother. They weren't people. The exception, for me, was Mardou Fox, a character in Kerouac's The Subterraneans. Despite his attempts to view her only as the “exotic Other” (Mardou was half black), she came alive for me.

It helped that she was the only female character to willingly walk away.

To read them, to admire them, I felt as though I had to take their side, and I couldn't really do it. I knew, even as I devoured their words, studying them (I ended up writing my undergraduate thesis on Ginsberg's bardic poetry), that they would never have taken me seriously, looked at me twice. I would have been one more Square, frightened by their excesses.

And they wouldn't have been wrong. I was frightened by their excesses—their wild drinking and drugging and that ceaseless travel and their relentless mind-scraping self-absorption. No, I couldn't have been friends with them, alas. It took me many years to be able to say that without (too much) self-hatred.

I loved them, and yet I couldn't see myself in their world at all.

I still can't, but I've brought them down into mine. I don't necessarily believe in the whole myth anymore. I don't think writing entire books in a Benzedrine haze is the One True Way to genius. I don't think editing destroys the first thought. I don't admire their fear of growing up, of responsibility. But...they wrote anyway, in spite of their fears and their drugs and their many insecurities. They were messes, not always mythic. But they wrote through it all.

And years later, I still hear their voices whenever my life grows too stifling, too conformist. They remind me that there is more to me than my motherhood, than my dailiness. They whisper awake that bit of wanderlust that flows through my veins like mercury. And I still long to follow.

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Wanted: One Muse

From The Faery Gallery

It appears that my inlaws made off with my muse—perhaps luring her away with promises of a lovely sari. She’s always been a bit vain, that one.

Or maybe she’s off in a corner, sulking after being all-but-ignored this week. I didn’t think it would happen. I allow myself to dream the same dream whenever relatives come by—that I’ll have time to myself, time to write without the fire at my back of knowing that, at any moment, Madam might need me.

It never works out that way.

My inlaws are nice enough people—stereotypically Indian in their love of elaborate meals (seriously, I sent TEG a text message at 10am one of the first mornings saying simply “three dishes made already”) and loathing of the snowy weather. They prowled around my too-small apartment, alternately playing with Madam and bemoaning the cold. Thank goodness I had the foresight to hook up Zee TV, thus allowing them to follow all of their favorite (albeit cheesy) Indian soap operas without a break in the action.

They are also stereotypically Indian in their deep grained distrust of a need of “privacy.” If I were to ease myself into another room for a moment, say, to sneak a quick peek at my manuscript, inevitably a relative would troop in, asking if “everything was fine? Are you hungry?”

So. Not so much with the writing at all this week. It always amazes me how quickly it can all be snuffed out, how fragile and tentative this new writing-self of mine is. One week can feel like I’m teetering on the brink of that old void of wordlessness where I lived for so long.

I hate that.

My imagination is an old jalopy, rusting by the side of the road. Fly droppings caking on the blistering paint. I try to kick start it, using my favorite methods. Beloved comfort reading, blogs, Sunday Scribblings.

Nothing.

So back to the comfort reading I go. Did you all know there is an annotated version of Anne of Green Gables? If you are a fan (and you MUST be. No, really.) go check it out.

Finding the Anne books was like seeing myself in print for the first time. Not the workaday, commonplace self. None of the surface details match—I don’t have red hair (although I’ve always longed for it), I’m not an orphan (thank heavens). But…Anne reflected something essential in me—celebrated all those parts of me which usually met with an eyeroll from my more Marilla-like parents—the nonstop talking (and the allusions to books I’d never read and words I’d never heard spoken), the naming of things all around me.

I always found Anne’s rapturous pleasure in the beauty all around her inspirational. I knew just how she felt. Sure, she spoke of Lombardies and birch paths and Lakes of Shining Waters instead of faces streaming past on a busy city street, music trailing behind cars like a perpetual parade. She didn’t see the houses clustered on top of each other the way I did, the jagged skyline jutting into the sky, those buildings and their shadows surrounding me like benevolent mountains.

But it was beautiful to me, probably because it was all I knew. I don’t think you have to teach children to love their surroundings, to see them as beautiful. I think, alas, that too often people learn to be ashamed of them as adults.

While in college, I mentioned to a friend how much I loved the energy of Harvard Square, because it echoed something of the place where I’d grown up. She replied, disdainfully, that she thought Harvard Square was a slum.

Anne looked at her small town of Avonlea and saw beauty. I looked at my big so-called slum and saw the same.

Something I need to remember today, when it’s my mind that is the slum, sullen and unwilling to give me the soul food I need.

And so I sit, and wait for Myrtle, my muse, to return, perhaps draped in clouds of red sari glory and brimming with stories to tell.

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A cup of coffee

From www.douweegbertscoffeesystems.com

I know most of my writing is fueled by gratitude...as a way of communing with all of those people whose words have made me leap out of my own head a little—who have brought me to another shore with the shock of recognition.

I feel very alone right now, but then I read something like The Mother Knot and I know myself again, outside of myself, created and narrated through someone else’s words.

The book itself, solid and smooth in my hand, pages gently flapping in the breeze—the book is a testament to the possibilities of my nascent dreams. The book was also stolen from hours of intermittent infant sleep, one ear trained on the half opened door that seemed to breathe with the charge inside. The fingers flew over the typewriter, racing each one of those breaths until the inevitable wail of wakefulness brought an end to creation for that one day. I’m sure it dragged on, pulled out and pushed into corners of the closet, out of the baby’s toddling reach. I’m sure it was patted, growing heavy with symbolism, carrying the author’s entire sense of self in its disheveled papers.

But she finished it, and she published it, the book that curled around granted minutes and chanted nursery rhymes, and came together through the author’s stubborn determination to write herself into existence even as everyone around her waited for her to surrender, one lone drop into the sea of motherhood. And she finished it, and she published it, and thirty years later, I take it as a hand pulling me forward into the life I know I can create, the self I know I can express.

And so I write, and add my humble "thank you" to the Fates that placed a pearl of encouragement in my path.
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It might be insanity, it might be some serious windmill tilting, but I have decided to attempt National Novel Writing Month this year. I love the grand celebration of it all, and the sheer force of all of those novels being born at the same time has already managed to pull one (very, very, very rough and unformed) first baby draft out of me.

Last time, I chose to finish the story in the allotted words, something that lead to some very skimpy scenes and plotlines, and since then I’ve discovered it’s easier to take things out then go back later and add them. So...I probably won’t be finishing my story in the 50K, but I hope to have a strong foundation for continuing.

Any pointers on developing and outlining a long form plot? I have a very vague idea of my character’s history and various conflicts right now, but I’m having trouble coming up with scenes. Any authors that you can recommend that do this especially well?

Anyone else doing this?
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From freewillastrology:

"When East Timor gained its independence from Indonesia after a long, bloody struggle, the United Nations temporarily took control of the new nation, inundating it with aid and support. But the international agency's work was short-lived, lasting just three years, and ultimately became known as Quickfixville. The errors resulting from its hurried efforts have been hard to undo. Don't make a similar gaffe in the coming weeks, Gemini. It's not enough merely to have good intentions. Be deliberate and thorough as you undertake your corrective actions."

I’ve lived in Quickfixville for most of my life. I adore beginning new projects, the more comprehensive, the better. Perhaps that’s why I enjoyed my pregnancy so much—so much ritual, so much preparation! And I could still get some sleep.

I love looking at my bulging bookshelves, love pulling down my psychology books and my writing books and my creativity books. I have a sizable collection. And yet...even when I do the exercises, for the most part, I fail to follow through and take the necessary actions that will bring about ACTUAL change. Why is that? Am I in love with the idea of change, but not the change itself? Am I just lazy? Is long term change just not sexy enough for me, and I give up because it’s all just taking too damn long?
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This was a somewhat disjointed post—today my desire just to write anything at all was not wed with anything resembling a deep thought.

I send you all delicious coffee (or tea, if you prefer).

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Pray, with a little eat and love

I have to stop.

This week’s Sunday Scribbling really brought something home for me. I am an inveterate researcher...I simply LOVE to read and learn and research forever and forever, amen. And I’ve learned so many wonderful things, from books and the internet and all of you.

So why is it so difficult for me to finally shuck off my insecurities and my doubts and just try to BE who I want to be? I don’t even seem to have the vocabulary to describe it...when pressed, I mutter vague mealy mouthed phrases about "being a writer" or "being more creative." But those words don’t seem to capture the force of my desires, the strength of my dream to change. So why can’t I even put words to it? Am I so fearful that even the idea of formulating the exact combination of the elements that would make up my ideal life makes me quake? Or is it that it all feels silly, somehow, adolescent?

And so I become convinced that if someone else hits upon the perfect combination of words and deeds and philosophy and action, then I’ll be able to step into their blueprint and create from there.

I have to admit, some people come very, very close.

All this by way of saying that I finally finished Eat, Pray, Love and I really enjoyed it. Whenever I found her words obscured by my own haze of envy, I stopped to ask myself, "what exactly do I envy here? Do I envy her power of expression? (yes) Do I envy her freedom? (yes)" But I realized that above all, I envied her honesty—she undertook a fearless examination of what her life was, and decided that it needed to change. And that’s possible for any of us, even those who are not well-heeled magazine writers whose craft is justly well-praised and remunerated. It took a lot of courage for her to say, "No, I want more," to circumstances that many of us would see and say, "We-ell, this isn’t quite so bad."

What struck me most about the book was the "Pray" section, set in India—for those of you (there have to be some) who have not read the book, Gilbert spends four months essentially meditating in an ashram. This seemed like an incredible luxury to me, this time to sit and think and ponder.

Then I really thought about it, and realized I would last about five minutes in that kind of environment. What would I think about, if left to my own devices, devoid of entertainment and books and blogs? How could I survive just sitting?

I’ve never been able to meditate; as soon as I start trying, my mind goes insane, rattling off a million thoughts a minute, all seeming to pull me in different directions which are anywhere but the place I sit. I’ve always rationalized this by saying that there are many different ways to enlightenment, and clearly my way would involve lots and lots of books.

Well, since moving here, I’ve been reading lots and lots of books, devouring one right after the other. And frankly, I’ve enjoyed it. But this frantic pace has left me almost enervated, like someone who has drunk a whole lot of coffee and then followed it with a few pots of tea (um, not that I would know anything about that). I don’t feel like I’m digesting anything, just accumulating a lot of knowledge I barely understand that never seems to go deeper into my bones and my life. It feels a lot like the futile clicking I used to do before I started a blog, bouncing from one website to another growing frustrated. I was looking for something, but I couldn’t even articulate what.

I think what I am looking for, most of all, is possibilities. One of the things I love about this wonderful blogging community is the variety of experiences and lifestyles and ideas that you all discuss and live out. I love seeing how many different ways there are to make a life.

But that formula, that exact way of life that will fit me perfectly, seems to elude me. I can’t find it online, or in a book, or hanging in a store.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Stubbornly, I keep waiting for the answers to come from outside of me. I keep stockpiling knowledge without action, information that is barely understood, because I don’t stop to think about it. I fancy myself a thinker, but in reality, I suppose I am a consumer of other people’s thoughts. And while this keeps me entertained and allows me to feel like I’m always learning, in reality, I can barely remember most of it.

So I’ve decided to take a radical (for me) step. One day a week from now on, I will not read any books, or websites, or newspapers, or watch any television. Instead, I’ll use the time to actually think, to get to know how my mind would work if I stopped entertaining it or "educating" it for a few minutes. Can I finally learn to meditate?

I mentioned in an earlier post that most of the decisions in my life can be made simpler if I answer the question, "Does this make me like myself more or less?" This is true, but it’s made me realize that I’m still essentially just reacting to circumstances—seeing life as a binary proposition. Maybe I don’t like my choices anymore. Maybe I want to create more for myself.

Now, I have no idea how to go about this, yet. But I’ve decided that, just maybe, the answer doesn’t lie in more research, more information, more books, more blogs.

Maybe the answer just lies, undiscovered, somewhere in me.

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Fall brings energy without direction

Pretty picture from my alma mater.

Well, I had a brilliant post all written up, but Madam chose to shut my machine down and alas, the post explaining the meaning of life has been lost to the ether of hyperspace.

All right, I suppose it probably wasn’t that brilliant, but I really wanted to post something before I left for the East Coast tomorrow. My MIL had a bit of a cardiac scare, so we’re going to make sure she’s fine and hearty.

It’s definitely beginning to feel like Fall here, and my mind is full of plans and lists and self-made curricula—I’m an eternal scholar, after all. I want to read the world—I catch myself staring at people as they walk by, imagining dark mysteries and passionate doomed love affairs and valiant heroic quests for them. My shelves are overflowing with books I am dying to read, and I am racing to devour them before the library claims them. I want to eat the world, put it in my mouth with both hands. And I am officially the last blogger to get her hands on Eat, Pray, Love—what can I say? There are a slew of people in Minneapolis with a library card looking for enlightenment.

Fall brings with it another mania—I want to talk, want to write, want to communicate something (but what?) desperately. Words crowd behind my eyelids, push past my lips, unspool like ribbons down my chin. But it’s an urge to babble without necessarily having anything deep to say. So I walk in a cloud of language without meaning. I suppose as the leaves change, my thinking will become more disciplined, and this relentless pressure will find some sort of a focus. I hope so, anyway.

The latest victim of my logorrhea was Jessie, who by the way is much more charming, wise, and cool than she comes across in her blog (which is a feat, since her blog is also charming, wise, and cool). And, she has fantastic hair. I managed to bribe Madam with a stream of Cherrios and fruit and water and yoghurt, and she was generous with her good behavior while Jessie and I had coffee and chatted. It was wonderful to talk to someone who was over three feet tall and could talk back. I was practically at the point of buttonholing strangers to talk about "cabbages and kings."

Alas, so many words, and yet the poetry muse has refused to visit to me. Unlike prose, which can be wooed with a moment or two of silence and reflection, poetry seems to come almost as a visitation. I suppose I should be grateful she comes at all...I never wrote poetry until I started blogging. But it’s certainly making me a bad Poetry Thursday participant.

However, the List-making Muse is happy to take her place, so here is a completely impromptu list of things I’d like to try in the next two weeks or so.

1) Read Eat, Pray, Love
2) Actually PULL OUT my novel and face it
3) Plot out a story with Beansprout
4) Get back on track with my mirror mediation

Even though I’ve been remiss with my mirror meditations of late, I still feel the effects—a sense that most dilemmas in my life can be solved by a simple question—does this make me like myself more or less? A sense of wooing myself—a realization that I actually do like myself most of the time, especially when I’m not viewing myself through the eyes of society, or TEG, or my family. And a feeling that maybe my values are worthy, even if they are not affirmed by mainstream society. And knowing that I don’t mind that, after all.

I hope I can find enough time nibbles (and imaginative prowess) to write something for Sunday Scribblings on my travels. If not, hopefully I’ll get to feast at your tables.

Have a wonderful weekend.

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Morose

Am I just going around and around in circles? Am I running away from something? I know that when I start to fantasize about winning the lottery or receiving a call from a publishing friend out of the blue, telling me that she or he reads my blog and wants to publish me...it means that I'm ignoring reality again. Why am I looking for the easy way out, and wanting the quick fix solution?

Because I feel like while other people are striding heroically across the earth, I am on a treadmill of boredom and endless repetition…the kind where you have the same set of emotions so frequently you stop exploring them…you just label them and move on. Anger, frustration, bitterness…it’s all really just BOREDOM. I’ve always been addicted to novelty…I’ll admit it. I am forever waiting for signs and miracles and star alignment and daisies dropped in my path from the universe. And lately, either it’s not happening or I just don’t have eyes to see it. I sit on a plateau…in my mothering and in my writing life and in my marriage. Nothing is terrible and nothing is working, either.

I don’t want to blame being a mother (although, Lord, the tantrums are really wearing me down to a shrill little nub of a person)—even before Madam was born, I would fall into this passive rut, expecting some external thrill to shock back into wakefulness and life. But back then, I could jumpstart something, by taking a "mental health" day from work and reassessing my priorities, or traveling, or taking a class—just something that reminded me that I COULD take some action and move forward, however incrementally.

None of those options are possible anymore, for various reasons. I suppose it’s good that I can’t gloss over it anymore, this need to flit from distraction to distraction. But…I miss the sense of possibility I used to feel. I miss the fun, the excitement of having something to look forward to.

When I was in India, the women in TEG’s family would tell me that even though they stayed home with their children (none of the women in his family work outside the home, even though that trend is changing now), there were always so many things going on, family marriages to attend and help plan, religious festivals, birthdays, anniversaries, visits and vacations and dinners and parties to plan. They live in a sort of sacred festival time. I’m sure they also have their days when the children are screaming, when the work of doing and undoing becomes too much to bear. But on those hard days, they can call each other, go have tea, share the burden.

I suppose those are two sides of the same coin—the desire to add some variety and fun and purpose to my day, and the loneliness of not really knowing anyone really well here yet.

Wise Pixie once mentioned to me that I was free to choose another story, one that would fulfill me, instead of forever seeing myself with nose to the glass, outside in the rain while the celebrations went on inside. Unable to go inside, unable to be a part of it all. It’s interesting how much I have arranged my life, however unconsciously, to fit the confines of that story. I love the fact that I’ve been able to live out my gypsy dreams, moving with TEG from place to place. But I never dreamed of day when there would be only silence between us. Sure, I was always lonely whenever we moved—it’s not easy for me to make friends. But I always had him. I don’t feel that way anymore.

Blogging helps to fill those empty places, but I still feel at a remove—I don’t have the time or the ideas to post everyday, to comment as much as I would like, so I know that I’m still very much on the periphery of things. And that’s frustrating too—I started this blog to begin a daily writing practice, but I don’t post often enough for it to feel substantial. I mentioned once that I wanted to use this blog to gain momentum as I inch towards my writing dreams, but it can feel like the same hamster wheel—the same emotions, the same thoughts, the same words, no growth, just promises I break to myself and ideas that never lead to something more. Honestly, I see you all moving forward, doing the hard work of transformation, and I wonder why I can try the same things—the mirror meditation, Sunday Scribblings, journaling--and not get anywhere with them. But then I ask myself...where do I want to go? Am I putting in as much effort as my blog sisters? Or is this something else I try and then mysteriously give up before I can see any results in my life?

When I was in labor with Madam, I pushed as hard as I could, ineffectually, trying to move into the pain and through the other side, but I always stopped just before the push became productive. I had prepared so much for this moment, learned all sorts of mindfulness techniques and breathing exercises to surrender to the moment and allow my body to work instinctively. And yet...I was afraid of the pain, and that fear moved us back and forth, back and forth, but always in place. I tried so hard, knowing that her life was literally at stake. I tried with everything in me. So why couldn't I do it?

I couldn’t build on momentum. And I still can’t.

Ugh, I didn’t mean to sound as whiny as I just did. It’s just been a hard day in these parts.

Hope things are better with all of you.

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Untitled

Drained. There will be no fancy words tonight, but I still feel the need to check in here, to try and follow some of the threads dangling inside my mind tonight.

Madam is hurtling towards toddlerhood, and her normally sunny personality is being eclipsed by what feel like endless tantrums, complete with arching back and red faced screams and kicking my hands away. I find myself having entire arguments with TEG in my head, and innocent questions like "what's for dinner?" sound accusatory.

My apartment is still a chaos of boxes, and I despair of ever being able to find a place for everything. It always amazes me how completely motherhood has changed my life—TEG and I have moved 6 times in 7 years, and we’ve always been able to unpack and settle in within a matter of days. But trying to find pockets of time when Madam is happily occupied, and TEG is not on the phone, and I can dredge up the energy—well, this is not always possible. So there is a maze of half unpacked boxes and things that don’t seem to fit anywhere.

Let’s not even talk about trying to, you know, decorate the place.

And did I mention that my in-laws are coming to visit this week?

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Several bloggers I admire have been writing about the Law of Attraction and learning how to manifest their desires in the world. This is something that fascinates me, in part because it sounds so simple. Use your emotions as a guide to try and observe your thoughts, then try to find thoughts that bring about happier emotions.

So why can’t I do it? I try to envision myself achieving my heart’s desires (writing and publishing a book, having more time to write, finding a way to make money, healing my fractious relationship), try to imagine how wonderful it would feel, try to imagine that it would all be possible. My thoughts are textbook examples of positive thinking.

And yet...I know I am lying to myself. Or rather, I know I don’t really believe it’s possible. I am beginning to realize that manifestation doesn’t so much have to do with the emotions caused by my self-consciously "happy" thinking, but rather with the deeper BELIEFS that directly contradict these thoughts. Beliefs about how utterly impossible all of my desires are, and how I don’t much deserve them, to boot. Beliefs that seem utterly resistant to all of my attempts to understand them, change them, listen to them, argue with them.

How do you all, wise readers, uproot these stubborn belief systems?

One thing I read about manifestation has given me pause. Basically, you can’t leap from low-grade depression or apathy to ABSOLUTE BLISS in one swoop. You need to go up the feeling scale gradually—from fear to depression to anger to frustration and so on until you reach the heights of love, appreciation, confidence, and bliss. It’s certainly not as exciting to think about slogging through all of that misery than it is to think that you’ll just FIX your mind and then abundance and bliss will shower blessings on you. And I do this with so many aspects of my life—I want to make every change at once, so that I can step fully into a completely new self, new life, new future. But this induces a fear that I’ll change so suddenly and irrevocably as to destroy the historical threads that tie me to my family, to my husband. And so I think a whole lot, but don’t make the leap into action.

This is a convenient excuse—to project myself so far into my dream future that it becomes a nightmare, and saves me from risking at all. It’s not enough to start writing, I must also get a tattoo (actually, I do want one...how much does it hurt?), have lovers (all artistic wannabe bohemians do, don’t they?), leave my family, change my name, denounce my history.

So...it might be time to make one little change—and who knows? That might be the way to shave down the glacier of my resistant belief system.

********************************************

I have a secret to confess here. I have a tiny bit of a phobia—driving. And if I am honest, it has affected the quality of my life for a while now. Once winter starts here in earnest, I’ll have to find a way to continue my daily outings with Madam—that way sanity lives. And that will probably have to include driving.

I have no idea why I am terrified of this—I drove in California (albeit reluctantly), but this is so much more of a city.

I have tried positive talk, "just doing it," associating it with pleasant rewards. Nothing has worked very well. I need some advice on other motivational techniques. This is something that serves to keep me feeling so dependant and, well, childlike (clearly the theme of the month here), and I am so tired of it but I can’t seem to overcome this fear by myself.

So channel your inner Freud, inner Jung, inner Dr. Phil and share your psychological wisdom with me; I could use it.

Sorry for the drab meanderings tonight; it’s late and I have miles to go before I sleep. So let me send you off into a post that is like a clarion call for me today, written by someone who is clearly able to manifest, and drive, and who is getting a lot more sleep.

Or am I just making excuses again?

Continue reading...

Inapproprate Inspirations

image © 1939 MGM

Do you remember the dreaded college application essay? You needed to preen your knowledge with batted eyelashes, while seeming serious and scholarly. Oh, and fun. Because they wanted a well-rounded student as well, but preferably one who was also obsessed with something sufficiently esoteric and earnest.

My high school English class devoted a great deal of time to teaching us how to navigate the rocky shoals of this essay. We were the high achievers, and as such were expected to make a superior showing in the college sweepstakes, scaling Ivy walls and hugging our Seven Sisters.

One ubiquitous question that year was the old standard, "What book has affected your life most profoundly, and why?" This was not a difficult question for me to answer.

When I was nine years old, our class had a library period on Thursdays. We would troop down the hall to the tiny school library and select new books for the week. The library’s collection was intended to serve the whole population of the school, so it contained everything from board books for the wobbly kindergarteners to Beverly Cleary romance novels for the 8th graders on the verge of being teenagers. However, we were all supposed to remain on our own grade level. But I made friends with the librarian and was occasionally allowed to smuggle out a romance novel camouflaged by Little Women.

I’ll admit that I had a bit of a swelled head during this time because I could read more quickly than my classmates. In frustration, a group of them demanded that I read the thickest book in the library. I followed the pointed fingers.

Gone with the Wind.

Well, it was too late to back down now, so I agreed, secretly hoping the librarian would deny me the chance to check it out and allow me to save face.

No such luck. She merely winked at me and sent me on my way.

I got home, settled down with a bowl of cereal, and began to read.

It took about a page for me to become completely engrossed. I spent the next four days in a dream, snatching paragraphs of the book whenever I could, reading in the closet, in the bathroom, on line walking back to class. I wasn’t only reading...I was living that book, gripped by the epic canvas and larger than life emotions, immersed in a world convulsed by war, by love, by hate, by passion. Finally I had found a book that matched my own dim vision of what I wanted from life--to feel and rage and love with my whole being. I fell in love with the antagonistic relationship that brewed between Scarlett and Rhett (I fell in love with Rhett, period. I tell TEG that I grew interested in him because he was "cynical and arrogant" just like Rhett). And I admired Scarlett immensely--seeing her flaws but forgiving them because she was so real--she wanted things, she chased them down. She was a dynamo. Scarlett made things happen.

When I finished the book, I put it down and went to the store for my mother in a haze. I felt bereft...all I wanted was to READ IT AGAIN. And so I did. After I was told to allow some of the other students to read it and stop checking it out every single week, I scrounged together my allowance and purchased my own copy, which I promptly read until it was in tatters. Then I bought it again, and my parents grew alarmed at my obsession. They hid the book from me. I moped and cried and carried on until they gave it back.

Thus, of course, I chose Gone With the Wind as the book that had changed my life...the book that had shaped my vision of men and women (for good and for ill), the book that ignited all of my nine year old passions for literature.

I was proud of that essay; I basked in the rare sensation that comes when you express EXACTLY what you were trying to say.

My English teacher handed it back. She had only written one comment.

"Inappropriate book choice?”

At first, I was puzzled. I had told the truth, after all. Then angry, "Obviously it was a good essay if that’s the only comment! And what does she mean by ‘inappropriate’?"

But before long, my inner Good Student piped up. She reminded me that Gone with the Wind doesn’t enjoy the literary reputation of, say, the Bible. Or Ulysses. I was flooded with embarrassment. The book which had changed my life wasn’t a Classic, wasn’t even considered a very good book. What did that say about me?

It turns out, my teacher was right, in a way. In college, I learned just how much I didn’t know about literature, how much I hadn’t read. I learned that my untrained enthusiasms were suspect and possibly indicative of a feeble intellect.

Sadly, that trend continued even while I was working at Big Publishing Houses. I tried to catch up, tried to cram classics I should have read as a child into my weekends, tried to sound smart.

But my rebellious enthusiasm betrayed me every time. I remember a colleague mocking my love for SARK’s work...even though we published her! She wasn’t Intellectual enough, and by extension, neither was I.

This has been my secret shame for too long--what I viewed as my propensity to enjoy "low art”--romance novels, soap operas, America’s Next Top Model. But what if you find unexpected inspiration in these scorned places? Love of a soap opera couple a few years ago lead me to show my writing to strangers for the first time--I wrote fan fiction celebrating them. Romance novels were the candy that got me through the hard, lonely slog of college literary criticism. America’s Next Top Model provides a humorous and visually appealing treat on a hard day. Aren’t these valuable gifts as well? A truly dreadful movie, Clash of the Titans, led me to Greek and Roman mythology. Should I have scorned that treasure because it came from an "inappropriate source”?

I’m learning that inspiration is a trickster, able to call to us in a million disparate voices...the voices of our whole soul, not only of our intellect. There is value in the odd, the crooked, the pulpy. Gone with the Wind led me to a life of passionate adoration of the written word, which yes, has contained many classics, as well as many romances, chick lit novels, and self-help books.

And it helped me win a bet with a bunch of other nine year olds.

Confess to me...what are your most secret, most cherished, inappropriate inspirations?

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Two manuscripts

Two manuscripts await me. Both are first drafts, one a novel (my first and only) and one a screenplay (my second of two). I wrote them both during an annus mirabilis while living in Chicago and working at Cool but Aimless job. The whole time I worked on them, I glowed with purpose. No longer did I spend my hours fruitlessly going online for inspiration--instead, I wrote, and dreamed, and plotted, and read.

And then I finished, and followed everyone’s advice. I put them away.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to pick them up again.

They both need a lot of work. In spite of my experience in publishing (or maybe because of it), I’m a lousy editor, and a worse rewriter. I’m usually so grateful that I found ANY words, ANY story that I can’t conceive of throwing them out and starting again. Every time I write anything, I dread that there won’t be a next time.

I know that every fledging writer should write many bad manuscripts while learning her craft. I should be able to chalk up those two stories to experience, a sacrifice to the Amateur Writer gods, and begin to work on my next stories.

I think I left too much of myself behind, though.

My novel’s main character came to me as a disembodied voice--one with a familiar rhythm. It was the street smart, swaggering sing-song that typified my mother and her friends, and the women in my neighborhood. So I listened to her tell me a bit about her weariness with living, and about the great regret that darkened her life. And I realized in the writing that as she grew into her story, the boundaries were blurring, and several elements of my own life were seeping in. I learned that at her core she felt inferior...like an outsider in her family, in her clan, and in her skin. Her path was to see that she had created something beautiful with her life because of, not in spite of, her wrong turns. I wanted to show the nobility and secret tenderness in an ordinary woman’s life.

She haunts me, in no small part because I’d like so badly to give her what I’ve never quite felt...that feeling of belonging in my own life, instead of feeling like a fraud. Perhaps I lack the skills to imagine what that might look like.

She represents the road not taken--she made an impulsive mistake to avoid being in a situation where she felt like she would never measure up. I followed the path, dutifully, and feel like I never measured up.

My other heroine is almost the polar opposite of the first. All she wants is to feel like a part of something greater than herself, so she creates a history for herself that gives her life meaning and connects her to that dream. Unfortunately, she doesn’t really belong there, so she’s excluded and mocked. It doesn’t derail her, though, so strongly does she believe in herself...until she finds evidence that suggests that the foundational truth of her life is a lie. Her struggle then becomes to find a way to consciously choose her identity.

I’ve never been able to do that either. I would never have been able to keep the faith in the face of so much opposition. I can barely keep the faith in the face of applause and support.

Rilke said that its important to live the questions themselves, and these are mine--"Why do I feel like a Wrong in a world that is Right?" and "How can I have the courage to invent myself and the life I want to lead?" It’s easy for me to intellectualize this, to seek insights and explanations. I’m good at that part. The harder part is LIVING the questions--taking action that pushes back at these created boundaries.

"Write what you know," they say. I’m trying. I’m trying to KNOW how to sit with those lowdown, shameful feelings and questions...trying to KNOW how to live with and in spite of them.

Otherwise, my writing will remain in a drawer, forgotten by everyone except me.

Continue reading...

The givens

Edward Munch, Despair

Writing, like everything else, is a habit. It’s very easy for me to drift away from it, rationalizing that I’m "thinking" or "taking a break". Sometimes that’s even the truth. A lot of little things have pulled me away from the computer these days--Madam is teething, TEG is on a business trip. But those aren’t the reasons I’ve stayed away. The truth is...I didn't want to read about everyone working, dreaming, crafting art and a life, when I just felt like there were no solutions for me.

It comes on my slowly, my depressions, creeping in like a slow fog--the atmosphere around me fades, clouding me until all I can see are my own thoughts. The circle of my life tightens and tightens as I try to keep up, until I am just spinning until everything blurs, but I’m not progressing anywhere. I try to keep up a cheerful front, for TEG’s sake, for Madam’s sake, but it becomes harder and harder to drag my slumping form into anything approaching joy.

First it was the disappearance of my Big Thoughts--the ones I like to think about, chew on, heft back and forth in my mind even as I change yet another diaper, or take another endless midnight stroll to nowhere. The thoughts that keep me excited about facing a new day. "Well, no one can stay on a creative high all the time. Maybe this is all about settling down and getting down to the work." But I couldn’t see the work. I couldn’t see anything but this blackness spreading like a stain.

Then, the walls of my routine started to feel barbed and close. What is there to look forward to, after all, but more of the same? I imagine every mother out there with a young baby can relate--it’s wonderful, beautiful, to be so entwined with another human life. But, Lord, it can also be BORING.

Meanwhile, the loneliness just sits on my chest, heavy, wet. TEG has always been my best friend as well as my husband, but he’s short tempered too, busy, always busy. Our conversations are curt laundry lists, or tip sheets about the Madam. We pass each other in the hallway, work in shifts. I feel like we’re comrades in our parenthood mission, but little else. And I’m so very guilty about that, guilty about thinking it. You all seem to have such wonderful relationships--I used to be like you, too. I don’t understand--we both love the Madam, so why does that love feel like it’s separating us?

I know these are all serious problems, but somehow they felt like symptoms of something more fundamental. I still needed to face Medusa, and cut her off head.

After TEG left for his business trip, I took Madam out for one of our walks, to try and keep her entertained while I cleared my muddy head. I’m far from the world’s best problem solver (that cosmic snort you just heard was from TEG at my delicious understatement), but I’m usually very self-aware. I might not know how to solve the problem, but at least I have a passing acquaintance with it.

And then I remembered something TEG said, something about how it "was a given" that I wouldn’t do something or the other.

Why was it a given? What else was a given in my life--something I just took as a truth and never questioned, never really even looked at? Maybe these things made sense when I was eight, or eighteen, but maybe some of them were outdated,a groove worn into my brain from a dance long ago?

When I came home, I made a quick list of the givens in my life--and it came to over seven pages. I’m being governed by so many rules and regulations--all unexamined, all looming powerfully in my mind. It is a given that I should be able to handle Madam all alone most of the day. It is a given that my writing shouldn’t matter because it doesn’t make us any money. It is a given that I can’t drive on the highway with Madam, because she’ll cry. It’s a given that I should protect people from Madam’s precarious moods; I should be prepared to stay at home a lot, in case she cries. It is a given that I shouldn’t spend money on "frivolous" things, because I don’t earn anything. It is a given that someone who doesn’t earn any money matters less than someone who does.

My givens keep me from having any fun (because it’s a given that parents should stop needing fun), from really enjoying motherhood (because it’s a given that all mothers do is sacrifice themselves), and from taking the time to take care of myself (because it’s a given that I shouldn’t need to do it…other mothers manage without bothering anybody, I should just suck it up). They rule me. It’s a given that all of my writing won’t change anything, after all, because I don’t know HOW to change. I don’t know how to act in the face of this judge and jury inside of me.

Do you all have your own list of "givens"? How do you live with them, or get rid of them? How do you keep feeling BIG when everything in your mind tells you to stay small?

I’ve read so many of your upbeat optimistic posts today, and they helped, but it’s that old feeling--of living behind a thick plane of glass, mouth pressed greedily against it, trying to really taste and understand and BELIEVE what you are saying.

But I can’t, not yet. The walls are still too high.

Continue reading...

Pity, party of one

I wish I could say that I spent the last weekend in a welter of creative activity or a dreamy musing lull, or basking in the fine glow of epiphany.

I do wish I could say that, but I can’t.

Because, actually, I spent the last weekend taking a hit of the self-pity pipe, and I’m still feeling the hangover.

Like many (most?) people, I have a secret vice, one that poisons my days and clouds over the moon of my nights. I am addicted to comparing myself to other people, and then berating myself when, inevitability, I don’t measure up.

I suppose if I dig deeply enough, I could find the roots of this behavior in (where else?) childhood. Emigrating to another country shifts the sands of who you thought you were, what you thought you wanted, so my parents compensated by wholeheartedly embracing the mores of their new country. And that meant constantly monitoring the behavior and gains of the neighbors in order to orient ourselves, figure out where we stand (but only in relationship to them), figure out what we lack (but only compared to what others have and value). Contentment meant that you weren’t trying hard enough…surely, if you looked with a critical enough eye, you could find something that was not right, something that needed fixing, or effort, or an apology. That was American ambition, in my mami’s eyes. Making sure you were never satisfied, never stagnant, never done yearning and reaching. Satisfaction was the refuge of the lazy.

For years I took this as unexamined gospel about how to live. Every party could have been good, had it not been for the underspiced food, or lack of dance music. Every holiday could have been celebrated, if only Tio Pedro hadn’t been late with the whisky, and the sun would have come out, and we’d had a bigger crowd and…

I’m sure you get the idea.

As a child, this never affected me all that much, to be honest. Perhaps I was protected by a child’s incurable optimism and sense of wonder, perhaps I assumed that dealing with the unfortunate downside of every desire was an adult’s job. I noticed the fleeting sourness beneath their smiles, but I didn’t really compare them to anything or anyone back then. I just luxuriated in my enjoyment.

I do remember feeling a certain dread about becoming an adult, however. Adults never seemed to be wholeheartedly glad about ANYTHING.

Of course, we model what we see, and before long, I was a master of this insidious little habit. As Shakespeare said, “desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope.” Nothing was ever quite good enough…someone’s work was always better, cleaner, more inspired, more imaginative, and that instantly detracted from my own. I learned to view my own life, my own thoughts, as a narrow festering swamp of mediocrity, while everyone else was reflected in glistening healing waters. It didn’t matter how happy I had been with my efforts initially. Once I saw the work of others, I knew that mine was all utter, unrelenting, useless crap and idiocy. Forget learning from others. Forget allowing the creativity of others inspire my own dreams. Clink, clink—the chains of failure and feeling like a fraud are on my wrists again. My inner judge leads me away again.

This is not at all conducive to living a creative life, or to the person I long to become. When I compare myself to others, the multiplicity and playfulness of life becomes grimly focused on one thing, What the Other Person Did. There are to be no other possibilities, no variations on that theme. Any chance of play, of imagination, gets goosestepped into that tiny prison cell. So now I have the opportunity, nay, the DUTY, to berate myself for being the smallest, most mundane person who ever walked the earth. Oh, how I wish I were exaggerating. But I can go from cheerful striding to the fetal position of self-pity in the time it takes to, well, see and absorb anything I wish I had done myself—a beautiful poem, a fluid bit of brilliant wordplay, a breathlessly exciting film or piece of music, a graceful work of art. No appreciation, no love for the form, just the doomed dullness of knowing (in that thudding way we acknowledge all of our most loathed traits) that I could NEVER do anything like that. So what’s the point of me, anyway?

I’m so tired of this cycle, unrelenting pity parties of one, of the ceaseless drone of my faults, like the whine of a fly in my ear. I want to throw back my head in gratitude to the sun, throw open in my arms in love with the productions of time, bow my head grateful that I have a body that can revel, a mind that can think, and a soul that can be excited by beauty and art and dreams. But instead, I compare and contrast, judge myself mercilessly, and fall listlessly into the arms of helplessness. I’ll never be any good, why bother being ANYTHING?

So I pouted my way through the weekend—tumbling into an icy Snowball that froze through all that I ever was, am, and will be.

As usual, Madam wouldn’t let me live that way for long. She demanded my immediate attention to the serious matters of play, of singing, of laughter. I defy anyone to remain depressed after 500 renditions of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider." And walking with her in the dark reminded me of a half-forgotten quote; It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness. All weekend, I’ve been cursing the darkness—the lack—of celebration, of friendship, of joy, of writing. I’ve been parched, sawdust stinging my tongue. Pressing my nose to the overflowing glass of everyone else’s warm glowing abundance. Feeling frozen and helpless.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way. I can continue to light my tiny candles—on my blog, creating small celebrations to mark the importance of everyday, learning from those further along on the Art Path, taking responsibility for filling my empty well. I can be a small church (not a great cathedral) and really pay attention to the great ebb and flow and throb of humanity’s heart, and my own.

Fine words (I think, I haven’t compared them to anyone else’s yet.) But I’m still not sure how to avoid the trap of self pity and envy in the future? How does everyone else deal with this?

Time to stop wallowing. Now I need a shower.

Continue reading...

Writing into the dark

I pace with Madam in the dark, again, my eyes never quite adjusting, so everything is in an undifferentiated void. She’s squirming, unwilling to be led to sleep. Obstinate. I try the wiggle/walk that worked for the last nap, alas, it’s lost its charm and she only wails harder. So now it’s time to scan my mind for any possible combination that may have worked once or maybe never worked...but every night is different. Sway and sing. Pat and rock. Low voice. Hush. Warm breath in her ear. Why won’t something work all the time? I bring all of me to every bedtime; try not to get too attached to any method that seems easy. It will probably fail before long, and then succeed again, and then fail. She grows bored, frustrated. I try to stay with a method long enough to see any results, despite my inclination to switch and switch and switch...trying for instant results. But Madam does not budge, does not rest.

How to keep my exhausted mind from whirling, hallucinating? I am distracted--crash into shelving, spin into walls, bump my head. I need to call on all of my memories of where the rough spots are--still nursing bruises--but these will heal and leave their knowledge behind. She’s still awake. I keep walking. Crash again, jostling her from a tentative sleep. And the whole process begins again. Never the same twice.

Resentfully, I long to be anywhere but here, to lay her down awake. To leave my task incomplete. But she needs to sleep. I have to go on.

I feel the scratchy rug under my calloused feet, the cool hiss of the air snaking through the crevices in the doorframe. I need to know this small area thoroughly, to walk past the boredom, to be able to think my thoughts without losing my hard won footing. I am purposeful in the dark, walking neither too fast nor too slow, finally losing myself to the motions, trusting them to lead me where I need to go. Back and forth, seemingly arriving nowhere ever, but tuned into a different process. Time slows, pulled into rhythm with every breath.

Shallow breathing grows deep.
She is asleep.
I am awake.

*********************************************
This is what I need to remember every time I sit down to write.

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And

My parents like to quote an old Spanish admonition, "No te ahoges en un vaso de agua." It means, "Don’t drown yourself in a glass of water." They usually shake their heads sadly in my direction when they say this. TEG calls it "the snowball effect" which instantly makes me imagine a Barbie doll dressed as a skier, tumbling down a hill gathering enough snow to become a larger and larger ball.

I just think that the word "and" has not always been kind to me.

It’s so easy to get swept up in the litany of "and", creating a haphazard pile of things to do as scary as my laundry baskets (I apologize for the fixation on laundry of late, but the piles are growing exponentially everyday. I think they are breeding in the night.) It’s not just household tasks either...there’s also the running commentary in the back of my mind, you know the one... "I need to be a good wife, AND a good mother AND an excellent laundress AND be kind of children and animals and the elderly AND shouldn’t I call home AND what about my writing AND did I make a mistake not going to graduate school AND..."

Before I know it, I’m splayed face down in the snow of my self-created avalanche while my mind gleefully exhausts itself hopping from fear to worry to doubt, landing just enough to disturb but not long enough to resolve anything and possibly remove it from the pile. Each "and" is a knife aimed at carving up my already-scattered attention, leaving me with a hollow sense of incompleteness.

"And" and my thoughts combined are like a forty-three car pile up on the LA freeway.

I can try another way.

When I was in college, I took a class on the poetry of John Milton. There were whispers from former students that this class included an infamous assignment--to write a paper on "Milton’s use of ‘and’ in Paradise Lost". I suspected this was just a joke to scare the first years. But...there it was on the syllabus the professor handed out on the first day of class.

I started to panic. How would I pull together an entire paper on Milton’s use of "and"? I’d have to drop the class or fail, and then I’d probably have to change majors and I didn’t want to do anything but English and...well, you get the idea. (Lesson #1 I should have learned then but didn’t: Try not to panic before you have any of the facts.)

When the time came to do the assignment, I pulled out my Milton tome and doggedly tried to examine what, if anything, was so special about "Milton’s use of ‘and’"--tried to keep an open mind.

I read slowly, with dawning delight. Milton’s "and" was no pileup of endless clauses. No, this was a deliberate invocation of graceful order, one "and" unfolding into another "and" in joyous profusion. A celebration of the glories of all of God’s creations. (Lesson #2 I should have learned: Professors tend to have a reason for their assignments.)

I haven’t thought about that class or that paper in years, until today. I’ve been wavering between the "either/or" of a divided self, struggling to compromise between my roles as wife, mother, daughter, wannabe writer. I wonder if I’ve set myself up in a situation where it is impossible to commit fully to any of them. I wonder if part of the reason I am so hesitant to start anything is this persistent fear of getting interrupted. Won’t it be worst to have a little taste of something only to have to stop? How can I make any progress towards anything?

TEG attended a Catholic high school in Bombay which took as its motto, "I choose all." Abundance, instead of scarcity. Gathering up all of scattered parts of my life and weaving them into wholeness. Life doesn’t always have to be like school, thoughts lost as the bell rings, moving efficiently into the next class. Ideas and selves can bleed from one area of life to another. In fact, it’s probably all much more interesting that way.

Like Milton, I can choose to use "And" as a translucent connection between all of the shifting, shimmering layers of me, learning that all of the many breaks and interruptions of my life can be a part of a dazzling abundance. Flow.

I choose all.

****************************************************************
And alas, no progress on the totem/talisman (thanks Rachel!) front today, as our walk was cut short by a sleep deprived Madam. Just thinking about it brings up all sorts of interesting questions though. What does creativity look like to me? What types of images inspire me?

I’m curious to see what emerges.

Continue reading...

After enlightenment, the laundry

I have, as TEG is too fond of reminding me, an unfortunate tendency to make Grand Pronouncements that yield little fruit and no follow through. I know that he is right, alas (though I wish he would stop reminding me all the time), but I feel that this time is different. Maybe all of those other times were just dress rehearsals for this one, or perhaps I had been waiting for the Universe to make things concrete for me. I don’t ask for much...perhaps a few cloud bursts, angels we can hear on high, or at least a rainbow or two. But, in keeping with the tenor of my new attitude, I figure the only one who should be blaring trumpets around here is me.

The question is, as always, how? The Buddhists say, “Before Nirvana, chop wood and carry water. After Nirvana, chop wood and carry water." Intellectually, I know that’s excellent advice (well, in my case it would be “craft writing, carry baby") but emotionally I have yet to make it stick. I’ve never been good at making my epiphanies concrete in the workaday world, so all of my lovely castles in the air tend to stay there. How would I be able to live out my new ideals in the face of cooking, diapers, bills, and mounds and mounds of laundry?

I pondered this question while strolling with Madam this afternoon, and then I hit on it. I would make a totem--a way to commit to my creativity and make it a partner on my journey. It seemed like the perfect way to start. And I’ve been so inspired by all of your gorgeous collages and art that I suppose that’s where the seed drifted in. Surprised by my childlike glee at my plan, I decided to stop at Michael’s on my way back from Starbucks Park. Now, one thing you should know about me, I Don’t Do visual art. Not for lack of desire. In college I took a photography class and was told my photos were too “verbal" and “literal", not paying enough attention to the pure visuals. I guess I like my photos to tell too much of a story. But, I reasoned, this totem would just be for me, and everything you all make looks so delicious, it would be fun to try.

A word about Madam lately. If anyone reading this thinks that babies are docile and cute until they become intransigent toddlers...well, Madam must be advanced in that regard. Gone is the baby who sat peacefully in her swing, chewing on her fists while I wrote out my morning pages. No, now she looks askance at my notebooks and shares me only grudgingly with the computer. It appears she sees them as rivals for my attention (and I suppose they are...sometimes inspiration strikes while she’s awake). It’s a bit like living with the world’s tiniest teenager. If she could walk, she would be stomping off to her room in tears and slamming the door at all sorts of moments. But she was peaceful enough, leaning back to watch the tree branches wave in the breeze, feeling the sun kiss her face. I thought I could chance it.

For some reason, I chose to leave Starbucks Park from a different direction--and passed an intriguing little shop. Now, I live in the suburbs, where almost every store is a chain and branded to within an inch of its life. This odd little store was an anomaly--individual, and clearly someone’s labor of love.

Madam and I entered the empty store, and I lit up to see all sorts of handmade objects and lovely, unusual jewelry. I thought, Surely I’ll be able to find a totem here...or at least something to use in the making of it!

The store clerk smiled warmly at us, the only customers in the store, and wandered over to coo and smile over Madam. Usually Madam is wonderful with strangers, but her Inner Teenager emerged and her little face crumbled as she let out the kind of wails that peel back my fingernails. I shot an apologetic glance at the clerk and wheeled us out of there pronto.

Madam continued to wail and I knew there would be no Michael’s for me this day. Maybe tomorrow.

Perhaps she wants to remain the only creativity totem in my life.

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Postscript

So of course as soon I wrote my great big manifesto below, I started feeling embarrassed--thinking "Why would anyone read through ALL THAT babble?" and "Why am I sharing something that means so very much to me? What if they laugh? Should I edit it down? It's probably too long..."

Clearly I have a L O N G way to go...

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Permission

While I was working at Cool but Aimless job, they hired a new assistant to work in my department. I was asked to train him, explain the office rules, etc. As we started talking, something about this guy immediately rubbed me the wrong way. Perhaps it was his penchant for bragging, perhaps it was the way he cocked his head to the side and smiled at me condescendingly whenever I explained something he thought he already knew. When I took him to lunch, he asked me about other positions open around campus (yes, Cool but Aimless Job was at a university...heaven!). Curious, I thought. Didn’t they mention to him that we’re not allowed to look for another position for the first six months? I asked him if he’d been told, and he said, "Oh, yeah...but I’m not going to let that stop me. After all...it’s better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission.”

Ooh, how I hated that phrase (he would repeat it often during the short time he worked in our department). I told myself that it was because I despise cheerfully amoral bland business speak, and I do.

But it wasn’t just that.

I’ve always had an issue with needing permission, with obedience, with following the rules. From the time I was a little girl, I was searching the Universe for Signs...signs that I was on the right track, that I wasn’t doing it wrong, that I would thus be spared the embarrassment of everyone seeing me try and fail. For a long time, I got my Signs in the form of praise from my teachers--I was a very good student, and so obviously loved school that my teachers responded to my enthusiasm with effusive applause. Is there anything more wonderful than working through a task and then being acknowledged for it, having it read to the class, singled out? Not when you’re seven (and probably not when you’re seventy seven either). I learned that if you did things correctly, you got a gold star...and there was only one way to be right--to have someone else tell you that it was right.

Oh, sure, I’d get the occasional reprimand at home--for being "too emotional”, "too absent minded” and for having my "head always stuck between the pages of a book.” But, back then, intuitively I knew that this was the way I wanted and needed to be.

The problem was, I stopped knowing how to find pleasure in my work without a chorus of approval. How would I know it was any good unless someone told me? How would I know I should continue without a Sign?

As I got older, unfortunately, the Signs became fewer and farther between...or maybe I just became less adept at seeing them. I wanted so much to be discovered, rescued, to be anointed by Someone in the Know...an artistic mentor, a patron, a cheerleader. I suppose everyone wants this...but I needed it. So I searched...and found a lot of ambivalence. There was the college writing teacher who told me flat out, "I can’t tell you whether or not you have any talent at this.” (Which was probably true, but at the time I was devastated). There was the summer honors program I applied for and didn’t get into (I took that Sign into, oh, last week or so). There was the occasional, "You know...you’re not bad at this.” But I never managed to take those as Signs. No, a sign was now a warning from the universe, to make sure I ceased being troublesome, and settle down like a good girl.

But I still needed someone to tell me what to do...anything to avoid embarrassment (I am one of those people who needs to change the channel during Three’s Company, so strongly do I feel that gut twisting cringing before people get laughed at). I learned to divide the world into "Me” and "Not Me”...and of course "Not Me” was absolutely everything I wanted to be. I got it into my head that if something was natural, the world would sing and dance for you. Trumpets would blare from on high, and it would never feel like work, never feel awkward, would always feel effortless, instinctual.

You can imagine how often this happened.

So I stuffed my unruly desires away, staring with envy at the people who seemed entitled to everything--the people I went to school with who were brilliant and creative and never, ever struggled. People like John Updike, Joan Didion, Anne Rice, Joseph Campbell, Oprah, people I went to school with, people who were bohemian--a much longer list than this one. Basically anyone who was, you know...Not Me. You may have one of these lists too...you may even be on mine.

And I continued this trend through my time at Big Publishing House--surrounded by confident, self assured people who had apparently read everything, seen every movie, traveled everywhere, and gone to every museum, art house, library--I withered, shrunk away, waited to be sent home with my low brow, television-watching, uneducated self. Never mind that I had gone to school with many of these types. Never mind that I had been hired over so many others. Obviously, there had been some mistake--this was HARD, grueling, in fact. Embarrassing when I had an opinion in an editorial meeting which was met with...silence and what seemed to be barely restrained sighs of disapproval. Definitely not natural. Definitely Not Me.

And the Entitled Ones continued doing exactly as they pleased...dancing, arguing, passionately reading, discovering, creating. And I watched them...trying in vain to see what made them special--what was I missing? I read many, many self help books for clues, for instructions, but what I was really looking for was a trumpet blare, "yes you Monica...you should be an artist...it is your DESTINY!” I so wanted to have a destiny, like all of my favorite characters in my books. I wanted to DO SOMETHING with all of these vague longings, with this freeflowing passion that I was scared to act upon.

But of course, none of the authors in these books knew my name. So I took the opposite tack...read until something didn’t match up with me. That usually happened a lot faster--probably because I was looking to have my opinions confirmed. After all...like everyone in my family said, people just can't change. If something is meant to be, it just happens. (And what a destructive belief THAT was!). So I tried to resign myself to my fate--I wasn’t meant to be an artist; that was for the Entitled Ones. I wasn’t meant to live a dream, follow my bliss, discover and hone a talent. Nope, not me.

Meanwhile, a pressure built and grew inside of me, one I tried to ignore until it crystallized into a single diamond question.

Why not?

At first I took the question literally, searching still more books to try and find everything that was wrong. At various times, I've felt I was the wrong gender, or the wrong age, or the wrong ethnicity, or the wrong social class, or fell on the wrong side of the Bell Curve. But...I still didn’t feel like I had found the answer to my insistent question. Why couldn’t I do the things I wanted to do, take the risks I wanted to take, just go ahead and get sloppy get naked fall in love?

And this weekend it just hit me. The only difference between them and me is that, well, they DID it. That was it. They were entitled to do it because they CHOSE to be, or maybe they just didn’t know any other way to be. They chose not to edit themselves, to freely imitate others they admired, to look foolish, to fail, to fall and fall again. Dimly, in memory, I saw that these people were occasionally laughed at, seen as excessively theatrical or moody or just too, too. But in their imperfections, I found them perfect. They concentrated on the object of their desires, instead of whether they should have thought of it themselves, or whether people would laugh or be scornful or cross the street when they walked by.

They give themselves permission.

And I’m starting to...thanks in large part to all of the wonderful artists I see online, struggling, dreaming, choosing, pondering, stumbling, but always, always creating.

So...it still feels awkward, and occasionally grueling, and not at all meant to be. There aren't any trumpets (yet). I’m probably still too intense, too emotional, too idealistic, too lazy, too undisciplined, too flowery with my language, too uneducated, too dumb.

But I’m still going to do it. I’ve decided to give myself a Sign. I’ve decided to give myself permission.

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Fear

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. –Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I fear I have a lot more to fear than fear itself.

I fear how much I want to speak out, and be seen.

I fear that no one will want to listen, or see.

I fear that you wouldn’t like me, if you knew me.

I fear that I wouldn’t like me, if I knew me.

I fear that Madam is the only baby in the world that doesn’t need to sleep.

I fear that this will cause a backlog of headaches, which will finally cause my head to explode and spew gore all over our generic apartment white walls.

This place could use some color.

I fear that with sleep deprivation, a sense of humor is the first thing to go.

I fear that one morning I'll wake up and find TEG merged with his computer.

I fear that it wouldn't make much of a difference in my life.

I fear that makes me a bad wife/mom/role model.

I fear that I do look fat in those new pants, and everyone is just too kind to tell me.

I fear that I prefer not to know.

I fear that I am over the hill or possibly under the hill.

I fear that I missed the hill entirely.

I fear that I will never find my great, good place.

I fear that this is as good as it gets.

I fear that I’ve used up my life allotment of words, rendering me mute at 32.

I fear that I've wasted them all.

I fear that I am only trying to impress you.

I fear that I will fail.

I fear that I am inappropriate.

OK, no I don’t.

I fear that I’m exactly as smart as I think I am.

That one is not good either way.

I fear that I don’t have what it takes.

I fear that I don’t know what “it” is.

Perhaps I should get President Clinton to explain it to me.

I fear I might as well face it, I’m addicted to love.

I fear how much I need to open myself up.

I fear that it will never be the "right time."

I fear that it is already too late.

I fear that all I will do is fear.

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Bohemia? Viva le Revolution?

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked...Alan Ginsberg, Howl

Since having Madam, I’ve developed some crafty ways to satisfy the needs I once indulged in abundance pre-baby. One of my favorites is to browse Amazon.com to read excerpts of books that look interesting; in much the same way I used to peruse new books for hours at a bookstore. Add a cup of good Italian coffee (now brewed at home instead of at a cool coffeeshop) and it almost resembles that luxurious meander.

Today I ended up reading a few pages of a book called “American Scream: Alan Ginsberg’s Howl and the Rise of the Beat Generation.” Handing Madam a new toy to ensure her cooperation (read: buy her silence), I took a sip of my steaming coffee and eagerly began to read. I’ve always been fascinated by the Beats, Hippies, Romantics, Transcendentalists, Punks, Salon-ers..basically any form of Bohemia and counter culture. These people who made a life out of their arts and passions and questioning of authorities--these were my idols and the models I am still striving to find a way to emulate. But what is bohemia, really? Is it how you dress, what you make, where you live, an essential quality found in a certain type of person? There is a desperation to the questions, because bohemia is a long-bubbling obsession of mine, something that I've always seen sideways, to the left of me, to the right of me, north of me, south of me, but never where I am. I sat with these questions and kept reading.

One sentence caught my eye. “In the midst of unprecedented prosperity, American culture turned increasingly commercial, and writers turned increasingly to conformity.” Couldn’t the same be said about the way our society (and by “our” I mean Western, which is where I live and what I know best) is developing? And yet, the time period the author is discussing, the Fifties, also had a powerful cadre of artists, writers, and intellectuals questioning this new movement towards upholding and enforcing the status quo. The Beat Generation, and the hippie movement after them, was born out of a frustration with the hollow pleasures that a society devoted to “getting and spending” could provide. They wanted to issue a challenge to society--to shake it out of its small minded adherence to tradition-for-tradition’s sake and offer an authentic alternative. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, and often there were more questions than answers. But the desire was there--and the mainstream read and wrote and thought and talked about it even when they didn’t really agree or understand. Where is that willingness to question today? Has it be totally absorbed into the commercial culture? Is rebellion, a quest for a more authentic life merely another selling point?

I know my old industry, publishing, is part of the problem. Publishers used to see themselves as guardians of a long intellectual tradition, and while they always published fluff and fun and popular books, they saw those as secondary to the more serious, thoughtful works that would endure and redound to the publishing house’s credit. Now, unfortunately, publishing must kowtow to the monetary bottom line, and “give the people what they want” or more accurately, what will sell more, quicker, and be consumed and tossed away just as fast.

I look at the internet, at the phenomenon of blogging itself, and I see people who are searching for a way to communicate and find community in away that doesn’t involve buying allegiance to a group. But...is the delicious abundance of generous creativity, inspiration, and thought growing online leading to something that will have a lasting change on society, or is it simply too much information inundating an already overwhelmed and exhausted culture? One thing that is very different from the Fifties, of course, is that there is no real “mainstream” culture anymore. Instead, we all drift into our own mini-mainstreams based on increasingly narrow interests--and make sure that all of our books, movies, CDs, and conversations feed back into this same loop. But what about large scale change? Is this still even possible...or desirable? Is the narrowcasting of our lives a triumph for us...or for marketers?

Basically, where are my bohemian dreamers today? Are they all online? (I’ve seen glimpses, thank goodness, but I’m greedy and need more.) Have the best minds of our generation become passive, complacent, and docile? Or are they working in isolation, waiting out this latest turn in Western culture in the underground, until they’ve got the numbers for a revolution?

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