Friday At Last

An odd week, really, and I'm glad to see Friday at last.  A week of some changes around the homestead - the new landscaping is in, all squeaky clean, neat and fresh, these hopeful little trees and shrubs settling into their new home.  If they're anything like their predecessors, they'll be there for a long, long time.  This house seems to retain life for a long while, doesn't it?  My in-laws built it back in 1952, Jim has spent his whole, entire life here, and I've now lived here longer than I've ever lived anywhere else.  I have some photographs (do any of you remember those square black and white snapshots with the scalloped edges, circa 1950?) of the original shrubbery, looking just as tiny and vulnerable as these new plantings do today.  I wonder - who will be here 50 years from now to see how they turn out?

Another big change in the neighborhood - the dirt road my mom's house faces is being paved at last!  Finally, after 35 years of mud and dust and rutted snow - a nice, smooth blacktop surface.  Her road is part of the last section of a major paving project in the township that will end with all unpaved surfaces being paved.  This is such a welcome  improvement that for once, I won't begrudge paying my tax bill in September (well, maybe just a little.)

I've been watching a lot of television this week.  In addition to Dan In Real Life, I also watched How To Make An American Quilt (don't know how I missed this one, but it's a keeper!) and The Nanny Diaries (very poignant and sweet).  Both were adaptations from novels I had read, and both were very well done, I might venture to say I enjoyed them more than their respective books.

Also happening this week was a visit to a new doctor, prompted by menopausal "issues."  I was very impressed with her approach and her manner.  She was warm, intelligent, non-alarmist, yet responsive to my concerns.  She treated me with dignity and took time to explain and listen.  The office staff was equally helpful and professional.  They arranged for additional tests quickly, and the doctor contacted me personally to go over all the results.  All in all, it restored a bit of my somewhat tarnished faith in the medical profession.

End result - there's no need for immediate concern, although we're keeping a watchful eye on the situation.  I feel much better.

Then, earlier tonight, our church newsletter arrived with the news that our beloved pastor has announced his retirement.  It won't be until October of 2009, but the long process of goodbye has begun.  He has been with our congregation for 20 years, and literally brought the church back from the brink of ruin and built a thriving congregation.  Not only will he be missed, but it will be so very hard to replace him.  It's a bit scary, because the wrong minister can absolutely devastate a church in very short time - I've seen it happen, and it's not a pretty picture.

So, a rather disparate set of circumstance in my domestic life this week.  You all know I like to tie things together into some neat and tidy little revelation, but I'm not seeing any connections here.  I guess you'll have to be content with a simple summary of my life in general for the third week in July 2008.

How about you?  What's been happening in your life this week?

The Three P's

Back in the early 1980's when I was a young stay at home mother, I embarked on my first writing "career," a short lived attempt at penning children's stories, informative articles, and essays about motherhood.  I dutifully scoured Writer's Digest for appropriate markets, sent work out in 9 X 13 manila envelopes with an SSAE included, kept a nifty little spreadsheet to tally what had been submitted and when.  I actually sold the very first thing I sent out, and, as you might imagine, decided it was sign that I was destined for greatness. Hah.

Within a year or so, I grew tired of the whole thing. The business of writing, of chasing down markets and tailoring my work to fit publications, of trying to get the edge on the competition and scour out what editors were currently looking for.  It seemed impossible to make any kind of profit from writing, not only a monetary one, but even to have a profitable experience.  I was no longer invested in my subject matter, because I was so busy trying to determine how to be successful in the market.  About that time, opportunities in music began coming my way, and I transferred my creative energy into the musical arena.  Before long, I stopped writing all together, and didn't pick up a pen for nearly 20 years.

So when I started blogging in 2006, I meant to practice writing for my own edification, to increase my awareness of the world around me, to engage my mind and my senses in a new way, and to chronicle my passage through midlife.  It was to be simply for pleasure, with no committment to time or space, no necessity for perfection, and no grandiose ideas about making a profit from it.

Natalie Goldberg talks about writing as "practice," as a way to "penetrate your life and become sane."  Julia Cameron speaks of her writing practice as a "way to meditate on life and savor it."  As a musician, I'm well acquainted with the concept of practice as "repetition with the objective of improving."  And I practice writing in that sense, too.  But writing is an activity I hold in high esteem, one I continue to work at with the intention of improving, yet not putting pressure on myself to be perfect.  It's more than just a pleasurable hobby, one I can take or leave as the mood strikes me, for I've committed myself to it, invested time and energy and thought in it. 

I admit to occasional twinges of guilt over the vast amounts of time I spend playing with words, trying to express my ideas and experiences in some meaningful way, when I could be doing something more concretely profitable.  But that's something else I've learned through this writing practice - that reward is more than money or things.  The profit from my writing comes not by getting checks in the mail, or even by seeing my name in the byline.  It comes from a sense of accomplishment, a increase in self awareness, a keener observation of life, of people, and the world around me.   It also comes from the connections I make with others, through this unique opportunity to share our words in blogging.

Okay, I'll also admit those grandiose dreams creep in every once in a while, dreams of best selling novels and book tours, dreams of prize winning columns in the New York Times.  Realistically, I know these dreams aren't about to come true. 

But perhaps the likelihood for great achievement increases when you have a dedicated emotional relationship to your creative practice. 

So, how about you?  What do the three P's of writing...practice, pleasure, profit...mean in your writing life?

Alone Again

This title is misleading, because I'm really not alone all that much anymore.  There was a time in my married life when Jim traveled quite a bit, and then,  when he didn't, I did.  But for the past four or five years, neither one of us travels much without the other.

However...

Due to a complicated set of circumstances (an unexpectedly very cheap airline ticket for him, and a long standing work committment for me) he's in Florida for the week and I'm here.

Alone.

Except for the pups - which is not a small thing, really, since they are great company.

So let's be honest - sometimes being single sounds attractive, doesn't it?  No one snoring, no one hogging the bathroom or the wide screen TV, no one setting their alarm clock for some ungodly hour allowing it to wake you up before they turn it off and go back to sleep, no one asking "when's dinner?" and then making a phone call when you get it ready...

No one.

I'm a little bit surprised how lonely I feel.  It could be that there's just a bit of jealousy involved - after all, he gets to spend time with the children, and I don't. 

But mostly, it's feeling as if part of me is missing, as if I'm forgetting something very important in everything I do, as if one vital piece of the puzzle that is my life has been lost behind the refrigerator or (hideous thought!) thrown in the trash.

So I've been a bit aimless today, wandering a bit, moping a bit.  I cleaned house, walked the dogs, ate a salad for dinner and then drank a tad more than my alloted one glass of wine. 

I also watched a movie (on the wide screen TV!) that was simply adorable - Dan In Real Life.  If you haven't seen it, watch it.  Soon. You won't be sorry. 

I finished the novel I was reading - The Wednesday Sisters.  (I recommend that as well.)

And here I sit, writing this as a way of postponing crawling into my big king sized bed all alone (except for Magic and Molly, who, as I've said, are quite good company.  Molly even snores pretty well.)

When you've been with someone for 35 years, it's easy to become a bit complacent in your relationship.  You kid around about it sometimes, make jokes about being together so long.  It's kind of nice to know that you still miss each other when you're apart.  Sort of like that song in Fiddler on the Roof.  You know the one...Do You Love Me? Tevye asks his wife.  Do I love you? she replies sarcastically, and then proceeds to serenade him with a litany of things that prove her love for him. Twenty five years of cooking, washing, keeping house, sharing a bed...if that's not love, what is?

And then they finish the song in close harmony...

"It doesn't mean a thing, but even so...after twenty five years...it's nice to know."

That it is.

Write On Schedule

When I was a little girl, I loved to make daily schedules for myself.  I got the idea from a book (where else?)  called "Healthy Living for Boys and Girls," and I clearly recall its mottled green cover with red script lettering.  The first chapter recommended sticking to a daily schedule, advising that regularity was beneficial to the growing body and the mind.  The book even had sample schedules for a typical day, so I copied it down in my round grade school handwriting and posted it on the wall above my desk.  It went something like this: 8:00 a.m -Get up

8:05 a.m. - Use the bathroom, wash hands and face

8:15 a.m. - Eat breakfast

8:30 a.m. - Brush teeth and comb hair

8:35 a.m. - Get dressed for school

8:45 a.m. Leave for school

It went on in this quite rigid vein, with prescribed times throughout the day for play, homework, and family time.   Naturally, I soon fell off the schedule wagon, as it were, and reverted back to my normal, more relaxed way of doing things.  But there's something about schedules that still appeals to me.  I suppose it's the part of me that prefers my life to be neat and orderly, hoping that if I impose some schedule on it, then I can make it so. 

In terms of my writing life, I also crave a schedule.  I'd love to set aside a certain time every day when I could sit down and write.  Some writers swear that's the only way to do it.  "You sit down every day at approximately the same time," Ann Lamott says.  "This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively." (Bird By Bird)  Julia Cameron agrees.  "I write daily," she says.  "I get up to write the same way I go out to the barn and toss hay to the horses.  My creative horses demand the same care.  They, too, must be fed, and in a timely fashion, and that is why I write first thing in the morning." (The Right to Write)

Admittedly, I haven's always been too successful in slotting writing time into my daily life.  Partly, it's my own fault, for letting other things take priority.  On work days, I'm out of the house by 8:30, and don't get home until 5:00.  There are dogs to walk, the husband and I to feed, and always emails to answer... Somehow, it feels indulgent to set aside time for myself within the framework of other more pressing responsibilities.

But setting aside a certain time of day to write, helps acknowledge the importance of writing in our lives.  It becomes a necessary activity for which we make time within our personal schedule, amdist the myriad of responsibilities to family, work, and the world.  Scheduling writing time is more than being obsessive compulsive - it's a way of telling ourselves and the world that our writing practice is valuable and worth the effort.  "Writing, the creative effort, the use of the imagination, should come first, at least for some part of every day of your life," states Brenda Ueland.  (If You Want To Write) 

However, as I learned back in fifth grade, a schedule that is too rigid simply invites non-compliance. So I try to give myself some breathing room.  I've committed to writing every day,  but the time of day and the amount of time I can devote to writing tends to fluctuate.  Monday's and Friday's  are my days off, so they're big writing days for me.  I get up at my regular time, have coffee and read, then do morning pages.  Some laundry goes in, while the dogs and I go out to walk.  After that, it's come home and sit down to write - first the week's post for Sunday Salon, or Write On Wednesday,  followed by some work on another writing project, such as a short story or essay.  After a lunch break, I often return to the keyboard, and find myself writing well into the afternoon. 

I agree with Natalie Goldberg when she says that "in order to improve your writing, you have to practice just like any other sport."  But I also see the wisdom in the rest of her advice.  "Don't be dutiful and make it into a blind routine. Don't set up a system-'I have to write every day'- and then just numbly do it." (Writing Down the Bones) 

I think there must be a balance between commitment to a writing practice, and simple adherence to an arbitrary time table.  Otherwise, writing becomes just another on a list of mundane chores - like "washing face and combing hair."  And writing is so much more than that, isn't it?

So, how about you?  How does writing fit into your daily life?  What's your ideal time to write, and why? Do you "write on schedule" or "when the spirit moves you"?

You can write a post on your blog, leaving a comment with a link, or simply leave your complete response in the comments section.  Write On Wednesday is open all week, in case you need some time to fit writing into your schedule   *smiles*

 

 

Hello Again

Amazing.  An entire week has gone by without a word from me on this page. What have I been doing with myself? 

Kind of you to ask.

I've just returned from a weekend jaunt to Columbus, Ohio, to attend the wedding one of my former students.  When I started working with high school students in 1993, I never imagined that my involvement in their lives would one day extend to attending events like their weddings. (And funerals, too, but that's another story.)

But it has.

Laura was one of those girls who had it all together in high school, and now, 11 years post graduation, she hasn't changed one bit.  Her wedding was picture perfect, every last detail (right down to the hand packed goodie bags waiting at the hotel for her guests) was perfectly orchestrated.  She even managed to keep threatened rain showers at bay long enough for all the guests to get to the reception...and than have the rain end just at 11 p.m. when the festivities began to wind down.

I love weddings, with their bright shiny hope and promise, their tradition and ceremony.  This one was a nice balance of style and taste, without being ostentatious or overdone.  It was a bit subdued by modern standards, and my friend and I were discussing this on the way home. 

"Well," I remarked to Pat (who has been separated from her husband for almost 20 years), "it doesn't take a million dollar wedding to make a million dollar marriage."

"That's for sure," she agreed.

I'm sure we were both thinking about the young man who had ridden with us to the wedding, a classmate of Laura's (in fact, her first love) who just three weeks ago had signed divorce papers.  Pat and I attended his wedding too, back in 2004.  We watched he and his lovely bride exchange vows under a gazebo in the warm glow of a Florida sunset, enjoyed seeing them dancing the night away, gleeful and full of hope. In fact, that wedding was the last time  we saw Jeff, another of their classmates, a brilliant man who took his life in January of 2006.

Young people, none of them yet 30 years of age, and they've already experienced some of life's most tumultuous moments - marriage, divorce, death - it doesn't get more elemental than that.

It makes me thankful for the relatively slow trajectory I've traveled on life's pathway. For the past three decades, I've lived in the same home with the same man, where we raised a healthy child who now has a successful life of his own.

And given all the uncertainty in this world, that's worth about a million dollars to me.