Excavating

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms or like books written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them...Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer. -Rainer Maria Rilke

 For several years now, I’ve made a practice of sitting down to write each morning. I do this shortly after I wake up -before my walk and after my coffee-while the impressions of sleep still swirl in my subconscious mind. This morning writing is not for public consumption, will not appear in essays, or on any of the blogs, or even on Facebook or Twitter. These words are just for me, and they come from a place so deep inside that I couldn’t consciously find my way there.

More times than I can count, I have learned something new about myself during this writing time. There is some connection between my spirit and the pen, some alchemy that occurs when my hand starts moving across the page which causes truths to rise up from the hidden levels of my soul and appear in front of me on the page. It connects me with the deeper questions about what is “unsolved in my heart” and allows me the patience to observe them from different angles.

I come to this writing time with great anticipation, because it’s the one time of day I can sit with my own thoughts, the time of day I allow myself to dig deeply for thoughts and ideas and feelings. The paper and pen become my tools for excavation, sweeping across my mind for hidden nuggets of gold.

There is so little time for stillness in the everyday world. We itch to fill every second with stimulation or productivity, and modern technology certainly gives us ever opportunity to do just that.

Whether it’s the actual writing itself, or just the 30 minutes of quiet, I rely on that sacred time to help me unearth my most important feelings and thoughts, and bring them with all honesty to the page.

How about you? What does writing bring to light for you? How do you excavate your deepest thoughts and feelings from the safety of their burial place?

Write On Wednesday: Excavation

There is some connection between my spirit and the pen, some alchemy that occurs when my hand starts moving across the page which causes truths to rise up from the hidden levels of my soul and appear in front of me on the page. It connects me with the deeper questions about what is “unsolved in my heart” and allows me the patience to observe them from different angles.  ~Write On Wednesday

 

You’d probably be surprised at the number of blog posts hidden away in the “Drafts” section.

Sometimes I’m surprised by them.

These are the bastard children of my writing life, written when I’m angry or downtrodden or feeling as if I’ve completely lost my way. These are the things I sometimes long to tell you, friends of my heart, and so I pour them out onto the page, filled as they might be with doubt or recrimination.

But then I have second thoughts.

Who wants to read my sad story? I think.

And what right have I to complain? I chide.

So instead of clicking “publish” I click “save to draft.” Or I just “x” out of Wordpress, ignoring the little pop up window that warns me “my changes will not be saved.”

No, don’t save my changes. Throw them recklessly to the wind, those long-winded episodes of malcontent.

Who needs them?

There is supposed to be something cathartic about writing out our feelings. Most of us have been advised at one time or another to write a letter to someone who has hurt us, a letter that spells out all our feelings and gives vent to all the anger. Instead of mailing the letter, we’re then told to destroy it, perhaps set it aflame and watch the bad feelings melt into ash. The act of writing is known to be good for the soul, and even if you don’t consider yourself a “writer,” putting pen to paper has a way of clarifying those thoughts and feelings that otherwise whirl like a funnel cloud in our hearts.

Dorothea Brande writes that “If you are unwilling to write from the honest, though perhaps far from final, point of view that represents your present state, you may come to your deathbed with your contribution to the world still unmade..."

It seems to me we sometimes need to express the “point of view that represents our present state,” even if that state is one of confusion and pain and sadness.  In expressing it to ourselves we come to a greater understanding of who we really are underneath. It is this awareness that then gives fire to the real work of our art, and brings us one step closer making our contribution to the world.

 

March Madness is Officially Over!

It is with great glee that I report the manic month of March officially ended. Friday was a fitting end to the Maddest Month in Memory, what with doing an all-day training session at the office and then a bell concert at night. In a complete reversal from what I expected, the training session was actually the more satisfying of the two events. Last night’s concert was missing something – that undefinable “it” factor that makes art come alive. I know I didn’t have it, and no one else in the group seemed to either. Instead of energizing me, it was more like a long slog through a muddy field.

Oh well.

And now life returns to some semblance of normal, at least for a couple of weeks. I say “some” because the month of April has a most unpleasant task in store. We’ve sold our home in Florida, and by the end of the month will have to dispose of all the furnishings.

Big. Huge. Sigh.

I can’t think about that too hard right now, or I will start to cry. And I’ve worked too hard during that last month to start April off with tears.

The best part of the weekend occurred earlier today, when, courtesy of the magic of the internet, we had over an hour long visit with the wonderful, marvelous, spectacular Mr. Connor. He smiled, he cooed, he burbled and blubbered, he demonstrated his brand new Jump-a-Roo, and almost rolled over.

In other words, he put on quite a show for his weary grandmother, who has been moping around in a fierce bout of melancholy.

Spirits were duly lifted, Mr. Connor. Such power you hold, for one so tiny.

Here’s the coolest little dude in the land...

How about you? How’s your April shaping up?

 

The Stuffing Bowl

On days when I work all day, my mom usually makes dinner for us. I used to feel guilty about it, but then I realized two things. First, it gives her an opportunity to help me in a meaningful way - a need no mother ever outgrows. Plus, it means she herself gets a good meal where she might otherwise settle for cereal and toast.

Many times she makes a casserole, or something that can be reheated in one dish, and sends it home with me. Often, it’s in this dish, the one I fondly call The Stuffing Bowl.

The Stuffing Bowl has been in our family for 98 years. It was wedding present given to my maternal grandmother by her younger sister. My Aunt Lil would have been about 16 when my grandmother got married, and according to legend, she went into town to the local mercantile and purchased the bowl with money saved from selling eggs.

So the bowl went with my grandparents to their first home in Millwood, Kentucky in 1924. It came with them when they packed up their household and moved to Detroit in 1940. It came to Redford when they moved in with my parents in 1962. And of course it stayed in my mother’s kitchen after my grandmother died in 1992.

My grandmother’s famous cornbread stuffing was always served in this bowl on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Hence, The Stuffing Bowl. Which for the past 10 years has been carted back and forth between my house and my mother’s on the average of twice a week.

I always handle The Stuffing Bowl ever SO carefully. I am a notorious bull in a china shop, and I cannot imagine my devastation were I to break it. Every time I look at it, I imagine my Aunt riding into town on her horse (which is really how they got around and about in central Kentucky in the early 1920’s) and getting that bowl at her cousin Buck Crawford’s dark little general store. I imagine my grandmother as a young bride, placing it carefully in her first kitchen’s cupboard. I picture her in my memory spooning great dollops of fragrant, seasoned turkey dressing into it and placing it in the center of our dining room table.

I’ve been meaning to write about The Stuffing Bowl for a long time. But I was finally inspired to do it after reading a book called Red Brick, Black Mountain, White Clay. Author Christopher Benefy writes quite a bit about the beauty of everyday objects. He refers to the way a piece of pottery “stands in two worlds at one and the same time.” Pottery, “unlike a painting or statue is not intended to be insulated and untouchable but is meant to fulfill a purpose - even if only symbolically. For it is held in the hand and drawn into the movement of every day life."

There’s nothing particularly artistic about The Stuffing Bowl. It’s simply a piece of Hall’s Superior Quality Kitchenware, circa 1920. But to me it’s more precious than the pieces of Waterford crystal I received as gifts for my own wedding.

Because they’ve been on the shelf behind closed doors, beautiful to look at, but never “drawn into the movement of everyday life" like The Stuffing Bowl.

They’ve not been touched by three generations of hands, they’ve not held food lovingly prepared to nourish a precious family.

They’re not The Stuffing Bowl, and they never will be.

How about you? Is there a special piece of pottery or kitchen ware that’s imbued with special meaning for you and your family?

Practice Time

My best friend Lisa and I started taking piano lessons when we were about six years old.  We had the same teacher, and were quite competitive (well, at least she  was).  I recall Lisa was never able to come out and play between 6:00 and 6:30 because it was her set time to practice piano.  There was a wind up kitchen timer always sitting on top of her piano, and her mother would set the timer for 30 minutes, during which Lisa was to practice her Hanon and scales, do the workbook exercises we were set each week, and then practice her pieces. I have to confess, my practice techniqe was much more haphazard.  I would sit down for 15 or 20 minutes in the morning before school, and usually play for a while as a way of relaxing after I came home.  I often did the workbook pages in the car on the way to my lesson.  As for Hanon and scales - well, let's just say I didn't get many gold stars on those pages in my lesson book.  My parents never forced me to practice, or chided me if I didn't.  I loved playing, and since I seemed to be at the piano for a good portion of every day, they were never too careful about exactly what I was doing.

Here's how Natalie Goldberg describes the practice of writing:

This is the practice shool of writing.  Like running, the more you do it, the better you get at it.  Some days you don't want to run and you resist every step of the three miles, but you do it anyway.  You practice whether you want to or not.  You don't wait around for inspiration and a deep desire to run.  It'll never happen, especially if you're out of shape and avoiding it.  But if you run regularly, you train your mind to cut through or ignore your resistance.  You just do it.  And in the middle of the run, you love it.  When you come to the end, you never want it to stop.

That's how writing is, too.  Once you're deep into it, you wonder what took you so long to finally settle down at the desk.  Through practice you actually do get better.  You learn to trust your deep self more and not give in to your voice that wants to avoid writing.  It is odd that we never question the feasibilty of a footballe team practicing long hours for one game; yet in writing we rarely give ourselves the space for practice.

I have a long standing writing practice, and I admit it's a bit like my piano practice.  I write every day, with a cheap, ball point pen, in a brightly colored spiral notebook, three pages of anything.  Sometimes it's stream of consciousness garbage, sometimes it's a list of everything I'm worried about, or happy about, or thinking about.  More often than not, it starts out as one thing and becomes something else - today, what began as a simple memory about a conversation I overheard as a child turned into five pages about my neighborhood.

My favorite time for writing practice is first thing in the morning, after one cup of coffee and about 15 minutes of reading.  Often, something in my reading will ignite an idea for writing -this morning, it was a passage in Richard Russo's Bridge of Sighs that got me started.

I don't hold myself to any time limit (no kitchen timers for me!), but I usually find myself spending about 20 or 30 minutes on these pages.  I write loosely, and messily, on one side of the page.  This writing is for me, and it doesn't matter whether it's grammatically correct.  When I'm really "on," the pen can barely keep up with my racing thoughts - sometimes, I feel as if my brain is running away with me, like flying down a steep hill on my bike.

"This writing practice is a warm-up for anything else you might want to write," Goldberg continues.  "It is the bottom line, the most primitive, essential beginning of writing."  Through the daily writing, we learn to listen to our own voice and trust it, we learn to free our thoughts and then corral them into words, to improvise like a jazz musician at the keyboard, experimenting with the tools of the trade.

So this week, I'm channeling my friend Lisa's mother - if you don't regularly practice writing, challenge yourself to do so.  Get yourself some brightly colored spiral notebooks (they're on sale everywhere just now!) and a package of pens.  Find a time each day when you can sit down for a few minutes and just write.  No need to pressure yourself - you'll know when you've said all that need to be said.

By the way, lest you're wondering how our musical career's ended up - my friend Lisa stopped lessons in 10th grade, and hasn't played since.  Me, on the other hand - well, I've been playing the piano regularly for the last 42 years, working as an accompanist, a solist, and just playing for the pure love of music.

How about you? Do you have a writing practice?  What's it like?  How has it helped you become a better writer?  If you're thinking about starting a writing practice, how do you envision it?  What would work for you?