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.

Comfort and Joy

Some things have been added to my home this week - some very important things that add another dimension to my level of contentment. My bookshelves arrived, and I've been happily unpacking and arranging the books I brought with me so far. I realized this is the first time in my life that all my books are together in one place. For years they've been scattered haphazardly throughout the house. And although I could pinpoint in my mind's eye where each volume was, it's ever so much nicer  having them arranged all neat and orderly on the shelves. I also have a comfy chair, a reading lamp, and a warm blanket in case of a chill.

Plus, you can see there is ample room for additions to the library.

That makes me very happy indeed.

Still basking in this bookish glow, another exciting arrival brought even more joy this week.

Since we moved here, I've been without a piano in the house (for the first time in 50 years!)  I decided against bringing the grand piano, and instead moved this pretty little console that was my birthday present back in 1962. It's still in beautiful condition, and with a good tuning it will serve my purposes just fine.

So now our cozy basement is a haven for all my favorite things, and I have especially enjoyed it on this cold and snowy Friday.

Having these two all-important portions of my life settled into place reminds me to honor what  makes life interesting for me. It's never changed much, since I was a little girl just embarking on a lifelong love of books and music. My parents bought the piano for me (after much wheedling and whining, I might add) on a pure leap of faith, unsure whether I would stick with it. After all, the whims of a six year old are not known for their reliability over the long haul. But when we were moving it the other day, my mother recalled the day it was delivered as "one of the happiest days of her life." She remembered my excitement, but she also remembered my grandmother sitting down and playing her favorite hymns. "I thought to myself, what could be better than this?" she said fondly.

I can still recall with exact precision of feeling the jaw-dropping wonder I felt when I came home from school and saw it sitting in my living room. I started playing that day, and haven't stopped.

And books - well, books and stories soothed me through childhood illness, kept me company during lonely times, taught me about life and educated me on the ways of the world. As we were assembling the bookshelves last weekend, I was remembering a little two-shelf bookcase I requested one Christmas when I was about eight  years old. It matched my maple bedroom set, and when it was delivered I filled it up with my Nancy Drew's, Trixie Belden's and Little House books.

Then I took a permanent marker and wrote in the appropriate Dewey Decimal numbers right on the surface of the shelf.

Yikes.

But no one scolded me for it. My (very forgiving) parents realized that I had a plan, and were wise and kind enough to let me play it out the way I wanted.

I think we all need certain things in our lives that bring us comfort and joy. I was lucky enough to find mine very early on, and they have stood me in good stead for more than half a century now.

I hope you have yours close at hand on this winter's day.

State of Contentment

When we moved to Brookwood Court, I had this pretty vision of how I wanted my daily life to be - the early morning coffee in my bedroom reading nook, walking the pups along the ponds, writing or working in the sunny corner of my upstairs office. Afternoons chores and errands, followed by reading in the living room with a cup of tea, or curling up in the cozy library corner of the basement when the weather was cold and gray. Preparing meals in my large, bright kitchen, with some Chopin, Debussy, or Secret Garden playing softly in the background. Well, guess what?

My vision came true.

That doesn't often happen in life, does it?

Real life rarely looks like what we picture in our minds. And even when life mirrors imagination, sometimes it doesn't turn out to be as fulfilling as we had hoped.

But a good number of my days play out exactly as I imagined they would, and they feel as right as I had hoped.  I have such an overwhelming sense of contentment here, a feeling of being in exactly the right place at the right time. The restlessness that plagued me for the past few years is gone.

I feel at home.

If you know me, either "virtually," or  in real life (or both!) you know how much of a homebody I am. Sometimes I love my home too much, want to cocoon myself safely away from the rest of the world which seems more and more cacophonous and intrusive. I don't fight it anymore, but simply indulge myself in the need to nest, trusting the instincts that tell me to say home, be quiet, revel in the stillness.

The real world constantly urges our participation, invites us to expect big things, exhorts us to make something happen.

We're forever being nudged to the next big thing.

Right now I'm just letting contentment happen, and for me that's something big.

How about you? What's the big thing in your life right now? 

Write On Wednesday: Fear of Writing

Sometimes writing scares me. I have things I want to write about, exciting ideas that often come to mind while I'm doing something completely un-writerly like grocery shopping or exercising. My heart races a little bit, a shiver runs down my spine. I rummage around looking for a notebook and pen, a leftover to-do list, something to make a note of this amazing idea before it gets lost in the detritus of everyday thinking. Then comes the scary part.

No matter how good I think the idea is, I'm afraid to start writing about it. Afraid to sit down in front of that blank computer screen and do the labor to bring that idea into the world.

What is so frightening? What is it that stills my fingers and pushes that idea to the back of my mind? Is it the fear of failing - that I won't be able to do this thing justice, make of it what I know it could be? Am I worried that this magical notion really isn't magical at all, and that once I begin to flesh it out on the page it will turn into a deformed monster rather than a beautifully realized story?

Could it be that I'm terrified of what I might discover about myself if I go deep enough inside my heart to bring this story to the world? Terrified to take the risk of exposing myself, my talent (or lack of it), my story?

"The risk of writing is an internal risk," says Laraine Herring in her book Writing Begins with the Breath. "You brave the depths of your own being and then bring it back up for commentary by the world. Not the work of wimps. Many writers would likely rather climb Mt. Fuji than go in there, but in there is precisely where you must go. You can't really prepare yourself for what's in there because you don't know all that's in there."

I'm not a mountain climber. Sometimes- especially when it comes to writing- I'm a wimp. I'm afraid of the unknown, afraid of change.

I don't like taking risks.

But I do know that the well of ideas and emotions living inside me need to find their way into the world, need to come to life on the page. And I must find the courage to start putting them there.

Anaïs Nin once wrote this: And the day came when the risk it took to remain tightly closed in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom.

I think I'm ready for that day.

How about you? What fears stop you from writing? Are you able to take the risk and bloom?

*this post was originally published on the Write On Wednesday blog, September 28, 2011