Speed Lines

We must always look at things from the point of view of eternity,the college theologians used to insist, from which, I imagine, we would all appear to have speed lines trailing behind us as we rush along the road of the world, as we rush down the long tunnel of time - the biker of course, drunk on the wind, but also the man reading by a fire, Speed lines coming off his shoulders and his book, and the woman standing on a beach studying the curve of horizon, even the child asleep on a summer night speed lines flying from the posters of her bed, from the white tips of her pillowcases, and from the edges of her perfectly motionless body.

~excerpt from Velocity, by Billy Collins

I'm a speed demon - I love to drive fast, windows down, sun roof open, wind whipping my face and blowing my hair. I love riding my bike fast, working my way to the crest of a hill, the split second at the top before letting go, and then the flying down, almost airborne, keeping my balance only by the grace of God. Sometimes, in airplanes, I get this ridiculous urge to open the window, and feel the rush of movement at 550 miles per hour. But I'm also a control freak - I like - no, I need - to be in control of the speed, to be pushing forward into it the acceleration, not at the mercy of it. When I look in the mirror these days, I can almost see the speed lines streaming behind me. And it scares me. Perhaps that's why I feel such an urgency about everything, why I find myself pushing and rushing to accomplish so much every day. I'm just trying to stay ahead of my speed lines. But that's a losing battle, isn't it? Eternity will catch up, and "the time will arrive to stop for good." Until then, I'll keep pedaling as fast as I can.

Sunday Scribbling-Right and Left

"Turn right here! No, turn left, right here! " "Oh, gosh, we missed it."

This conversation happens fairly frequently when I'm driving somewhere with my friend, Pat, who directed the high school choirs that I've been accompanying for the past 14 years. I consider her a teacher extraordinaire, as well as one of my dearest friends, even if she isn't very good at directions.

Our partnership works for many reasons, and most likely because we complement each other's strengths and weaknesses.

Pat is the epitome of a right brained personality.

And me? You guessed it.

Once we ran into a former student at a restaurant. He introduced us to his friends by saying, "This is Ms. H, my music teacher, and this is Mrs. Rowan - she's Ms. H's left brain."

Yes, that was me, scurrying around behind her picking up the purse, the keys, the music she left behind. That was me, organizing the schedule, sending the registration forms for festival in on time, double checking the calendar to make sure there wasn't a concert she had forgotten to tell me about.

That was also me, listening to the choir sing beautifully, or watching a perfectly crafted musical or theatrical production she directed, and understanding that a mind so full of creative ideas simply didn't have room to store mundane things like keeping track of keys, or schedules - or directions!

Nevertheless, being the other half of someones brain gets tiring after a while. I took a "sabbatical" from my left brained duties, and went to work in a nice, quiet office where my organizational skills came to good use.

But I missed being around all that creative energy of hers, the way she sees rainbows in every rainy day, the way she seems to bring out the best in even the most troubled kid. She encourages my left brain to lean a little more to the right, prompting me to take a few of the creative risks that have enriched my life, and keeping me in balance with myself and the world. And have I inspired her left brain to work a little more efficiently? Yesterday, she told me about a recent shopping expedition to a local mall, where she was wandering through the parking lot headed toward her car when her eye was caught by a distant rainbow. Marveling at the unexpected beauty of this treat, she stowed her packages in the car and drove off, eyes still on the multi colored drama in the afternoon sky. She left her purse on the ground in the parking lot. Luckily, some other nice, left brained person found it, searched out her ID, and called her home. They met at a nearby coffee shop later on that day, where she retrieved her purse completely intact. I guess it all balances out in the end. here are more opposing views on left and right

Stepping Up

After seven days of novel writing, I've developed a routine of sorts - wake early, do morning pages to "prime the pump," and then settle in to write for an hour or so. I've been trying to stay about 500 words ahead of my allotted 1667 words per day - so far, so good. As I mentioned last week, this year I've been more "up front" about participating in this project ~ which definitely provides additional incentive to complete it~and has also forced me to reflect on my motivation for spending all this time and effort on something that's (1) not required; (2) not going to earn any money; and (3) not "perfect."

One simple answer is, "because I can." In the past couple of years, I've found all these words lurking inside my head, I've met characters who beg to be brought to life on the page, characters whose stories wish to be told. I've discovered that word play affords me the kind of satisfaction others might get from running marathons, or woodworking, or gardening, or any other life enriching activity.

The satisfaction is in the doing; the reward is in the completion.

The other motivator is a little more complicated, but the words of a recent country song say it well...

When you get the choice,

To sit it out or dance,

I hope you dance.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that life is all about trying new experiences, about overcoming our fears of failure, fears of being not good enough, fears of looking foolish. Happiness comes when we allow ourselves to climb to the mountaintop and stop being afraid to fly, when we step out onto the floor and move into the dance.

Writing is one of the ways I dance.

And so, I find myself in a good place (so far) with this November novelizing.

May the dance continue.

Change of Seasons

Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. — Anton Chekhov Take nine minutes (you have to use all nine, you can’t go over), and create a text picture, using your best “show don’t tell” skills. Any format (fiction, essay, verse) is acceptable; and it’s expected that your writing will be raw, so don’t stress about editing. We knew it was too good to last, those October days bestowed on us like a blessing, each one more radiant that its predecessor. Every morning, wakened by fierce rays of sunshine pouring through our bedroom curtains, we opened our eyes in surprise. Another beautiful day, we'd think, marveling once again at our good fortune. The earth itself seemed as nonplussed as we were, and trees arrayed themselves in their gaudiest finery, shameless in flaunting their scarlets and golds, until sometimes we averted our eyes, embarrassed by such naked splendor. But today, in one flip of the calendar page, it's gone. Charcoal colored clouds, angry as a mob of belligerent teenagers, rumble across the sky, quickly surrounding the sun as it tries valiantly to muscle its way through. An aggressive wind whips dry golden leaves into a frenzy. They whirl anxiously around my feet, skittering goblins across the pavement. We root through the closet, searching for long forgotten mittens and warm coats, sighing at the endless repetition of nature that has brought us to this place once again. Winter. this post prompted by Cafe Writing

Encyclopedia of Me Monday: L is for...

"You are such a lucky girl..." People have been telling me that my entire life. Lucky to be so smart, pretty, healthy. Lucky to have such wonderful parents, husband, child. Lucky to have cute dogs. Lucky to have (two) nice houses. Lucky to have a good job. Lucky. I don't dispute my good fortune. But occasionally I do feel anxious that it's all going to catch up with me, my luck will run out, and disasters will begin raining down on my head. I'm acquainted with people like that, their lives plagued by one misfortune after another, as if the proverbial black cloud has taken up permanent residence over their head. Why is that? They're basically good people, who don't "deserve" the bad things that happen to them anymore than I "deserve" all the good things that have happened to me. "You make your own luck in this world," my dad used to say. And I guess many of the good things in my life can be attributed (at least to a degree) to my own efforts. Hard work, clean living, and all that. But still, there are plenty of people in the world who work hard, respect others, take care of themselves and their families, and seem to have the worst luck in the world. I guess it's just one of life's unexplainables. I guess I'm just lucky.