Write On Wednesday: Embrace the In Between

Because the way I know myself is through the written word.  The ways in which I am able to access any understanding of what makes me tick, how I see the world around me, what I feel, what I know, is through the daily practice of grappling with the page.  The grappling itself is the point.  Ideally something comes of that grappling, eventually.  Every story, novel, essay, memoir begins with that dive, that free fall, that willingness to not know.  We begin with the barest of ideas, a flickering image, a phrase, just outside our grasp, and we begin to try to capture it by sitting with the page and seeing what emerges. Dani Shapiro, On the In Between

I haven't been able to forget Shapiro's words since I read them yesterday morning, and in fact have returned to her blog several times today to savor them once again. She's writing about the time in between completing a book and starting the next project, the time when the writer's mind is fallow. She worries during this time period, worries that her imagination has left her, that no good ideas will come. She writes "this between-books limbo is, for me, like a long, slow leaching of color from the world.  A steady decline of mood and connection to the universe until one day I wake up and hardly know who I am."

It's true for most writers (and I count myself among this number) that we do our best thinking on the page. I've recently returned to the practice of morning pages, three pages of stream-of-consciousness style journaling, a habit I had been seriously committed to for several years but one that fell by the wayside during a particularly busy time in my life and never got picked up again. Since I resumed this practice, I realized  that taking time to write those three pages is as valuable for me as eating three meals a day, or getting seven hours of sleep, or taking my morning walk. I've written through some things that were bothering me and discovered other things I didn't even realize were going on in my head.

And it's true that the act of sitting down and starting to write - something, anything - often helps me over the hump when I've procrastinated on an outside writing assignment, blog post, or review.

But where Shapiro finds the "in between" to be a soul deadening place, I wonder if it sometimes is more fertile than she - or the rest of us occasionally fallow writers - realize. I wonder if, during those times when when we're not actively writing but going about the business of life full throttle, when we're reading and conversing and driving, when we're sitting in meditation or performing sun salutations, when we're dicing onions or measuring coffee out in spoons, I wonder if we are really gestating the ideas and emotions that will work their way onto the page.

Shapiro says No. For her the real gestation happens on the page when her fingers begin to dance along the keys, the pen scrawl across the paper.

Lately I've been thinking about mindfulness, about paying closer attention to the world around me, getting my head out of the internet and television and even books and taking more time to be quietly thoughtful. I think some of that has to happen before we can even begin to put words to the page. And because for most of us daily life  (or the things that Virginia Woolf called "non being- the broken vacuum cleaner; ordering dinner; washing; cooking dinner")  tugs at us so insistently, it's easy to think that productive mindfulness could not occur in the midst of this banal state.

But with a subtle shift of perspective, I think writers have the power to elevate themselves beyond the state of mundanity, have the creativity and depth of emotion to see past the "cotton wool" of day-to-day living and find instead the moments of gold, the moments that could bring those first tiny seeds set to grow into something larger, something that will indeed sprout to life on the page. With age, I have come to appreciate the beauty and sacredness in my daily routine, in preparing and partaking of meals, in reading books and conversing with friends, in porch sitting and dog walking.

I've learned to embrace the in between, confident that something will grow from it, the words will return in their own time, when they are ready.

How about you? Do you embrace the time in-between writing (or other creative projects)? Or do you chafe against it?

The Open Hearted

We hear a lot about big gestures in this world of ours, about people who give enormous gifts of money or time, about spectacular examples of courage or devotion. It's easy to feel as if we must do something equally grandiose, something just as awe inspiring, in order to make a difference in the lives of others. But how many of us ever have the wherewithal to make that happen? Even though our hearts may be open, we have neither the way nor the means to be as magnanimous as we wish. So instead we pull back, we say we can't help, we have nothing to give.

And we are so wrong in that assumption.

There is a young man I know who heads a project in our city which helps immigrants become legal residents of the United States. Sometimes, despite the best efforts of the volunteers involved, people are denied legal status and deported back to their country of origin. He spoke of visiting several of these people in a holding center where they were awaiting deportation.

"I had never been to visit the detainee's before," he said. "I didn't know how I could help. But I went, and I spent the afternoon sitting with them and talking and holding their hands. When I left, many of them thanked me, thanked me profusely, and I felt like a fraud. I didn't think I deserved their gratitude, for after all, what had I done? What earthly use were my words when they were facing the destruction of their hopes and dreams for a better life?"

Here he stopped talking, obviously emotional, before continuing on. "One of the men told me how much it helped him to have someone listen to his story, someone to acknowledge his struggle, someone just to notice that he had been here."

Sometimes, simply taking note of someone's presence is a big gesture. Who would have thought?

We laughingly call my mother the neighborhood shrink, because for many years she has been the one her friends call to discuss all their problems. Sometimes, especially when she is in the midst of life-troubles of her own, she will say "what do they think I can to for them? I can't even help myself!"

"But you're a wonderful listener," I tell her, "and maybe that's all they really need, is someone to listen."

The gift of a listening ear. Not a big gesture, but an open hearted one all the same.

Free empathy, the title of Katrina Kenison's blog post today, also talks about the gift of  lovingly bearing witness to another's struggle."  She recalls the face of a man, sitting at a card table on a street corner in Santa Cruz, a handwritten sign offering "Free empathy."

There are times when I despair of making any kind of mark on the world, want to throw my hands into the air in disgust at my inability to effect change, my powerlessness to make the kind of big gestures that have lasting impact.

But Kension says "we won’t save the world with big gestures or grand schemes, but by becoming better listeners.  By asking how someone else is doing, and then taking time enough to put ourselves in their shoes, to see the world through their eyes."

By bearing witness, by taking notice - one person, one heartbreak, one small but open-hearted gesture at a time.

I think I can do that.

How about you?

A Work in Progress

My friend Beth Kephart instigated a flurry of writerly activity this morning when she "tagged" her Facebook friends to post some lines from their "work in progress." Since she was kind enough to include me among that number, here is a snippet of memoir resulting from the online class I've been taking (led by the incomparable Andi Cumbo).

Over the years, I gathered enough information from innuendo and overheard conversations to understand why I was an only child. It was a reason that I’d probably never share with any of the people who asked me outright about my singleton status, but one that made perfect sense to me.

My mother didn’t have more children because she didn’t like children, especially babies.

The story of her unexpected pregnancy was legion in our little family. She told it to me every year on my birthday. “I was so mad at that doctor when he told me I was pregnant,” she would say, as she brushed my long, wavy hair and fussed with the bow on the back of my new birthday party dress. “I came home and cried and threw things. ‘Damn that doctor!’” She laughed. “And your Granny would say, ‘Well, missy, it’s not the doctor’s fault!”

Then we would both laugh, even though I wasn’t sure what was so funny about that comment.

But rather than making me feel insecure or unwanted, my mother’s professed dismay at my impending birth always made me feel a little smug. Because my mother (and my father and my grandparents) obviously loved me so much when I arrived, and continued to love and pamper and adore me more every year, I must have been something very special in order to change those initial feelings. So the thought that my mother at one time didn’t really want me – well, that was just laughable in the face of her abiding love and affection, as well as her obvious happiness with her role.

Write On Wednesday: Baby Steps

I'm a walker, always have been. I don't know when I took my first steps or under what circumstances, but I love walking, love being able to move under my own steam without relying on anyone or anything to get me from place to place. I like meandering walks through parks or little towns or sometimes even shopping centers.

I like to set out quick and purposefully, pump my arms hard enough to set my heart racing a little bit.

With every step I'm grateful for the ability to propel my body through space.

Walking is good for my emotional well-being. It's grand for my physical health. And it's good for my writing, too, because I work things out in my head while I'm walking, undistracted by phones or tweets or Facebook status or post-it notes and to-do lists.

My little grandson is taking his first baby steps this week. There's something poignant about a child's first wobbly steps. It's such a big milestone, standing upright to walk. Until lately, he's been scuttling around crab-like on the shiny hardwood floors in their house, a cute humanoid dustmop. But now he's connected with that unique ability we humans have - to straighten our spines and let our two legs move us forward.

Every time I begin to write, I feel like Connor must feel when he's standing tall and walking. The world looks very different from this place behind my keyboard. It opens and expands before me with so many possibilities.  At first I have to focus very hard on the mechanical process, of coordinating the effort to move forward while still maintaining my balance - baby steps. But then the words begin to flow and I start to pick up steam and there is a definite sense of exhilaration. Sometimes I want to crow with childlike glee, so happy am I with the result.

Other times I stumble and fall, and there are inevitable tears.

It's those first steps that are so important. My grandson has started out on a new path, has begun to master one of the most vital skills he will ever need. Once you muster the courage to take those baby steps - on the hardwood floors of your living room or on the page - there's no stopping, no turning back.

The world opens before you, and life will never be the same.

If only there were time...

If only there were time to write all the things that wander through my head. If there were time, I would tell you how much I loved reading Katrina Kenison's book, Magical Journey. I would tell you that  her words  had reached into the questing and questioning corners of my soul and handed me answers like a soft blanket I could drape around my shoulders.

If there were time, I would tell  you how I laughed and cried over Richard Russo's memoir, Elsewhere. I would tell you that I felt such empathy for this man in his enmeshed relationship with a mother pursued by a number of demons, and that reading about this portion of his life made me love his books even more, something I had not thought possible.

If there were time, I would tell you how the words of  a young minister on Sunday helped me think about Christian service in a new way, showed me that sharing faith is not always about the grand gesture, the huge contribution, that it can be as simple as bearing witness, about not forgetting.

But alas, there is no time to tell you these things, for life in the real world calls. In a few minutes I will dress in bright colors and slip myself into the gray and fog-covered world outside my door.