On Stewardship

Be a good steward to your gifts. Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears. Be by yourself as often as you can. Walk. Take the phone off the hook. Work regular hours.  

Poet Jane Kenyon intended these words as instructions for writers, a set of inviolable regulations to both promote and protect the creative thought process and the work ethic. Like most people who want to write - or pursue any kind of artistic lifestyle - I yearn for a set of rules to follow. I want someone to lay it out point blank, someone to give me a roadmap. Just do this and thus and so, and at the end you’ll have the masterpiece you want so badly. I want the protocol like the doctor in the emergency room, or the chemist in the laboratory. I want the boilerplate an attorney might use, or the set of formulas an engineer would employ.

In the sense that there are any such things for a creative person, I suppose Jane Kenyon’s principles come as close as anything to fulfilling that role. Protect your time. Have good sentences in your ears. Work regular hours.  Be a good steward to your gifts.

Like anything worth doing, being a good steward to your gifts takes a conscious effort. It starts when I stop scheduling appointments in the morning so I can have that hour or two to work. It continues when I disable the internet (the 21st century version of taking the phone off the hook) and bring both dogs upstairs to my office so they aren’t barking at every other Fido, Max, or Maddie walking by. It’s fed by the inspiration in a select group of books on my desktop, the words of my “teachers” - Dani Shapiro, Katrina Kenison, Anne Lamott, Karen Maezen Miller - who stand before me with gentle encouragement and well-wishes.

Most often the things that derail me from good stewardship are the demands of ordinary life. The grocery shopping and doctor’s appointments, the dog whose hair needs trimming, the laundry that overflows the basket in my closet. These tasks are my job. They don’t pay the bills, but they keep our lives humming smoothly along, which is important for me.  Truth? I am obsessive-compulsive enough that I need that full pantry, clear calendar, and empty laundry basket in order to focus my attention on anything else - like writing.

Or at least I think I do.

Good stewardship, the kind Kenyon talks about, must start with the belief that this writing thing is worth all the effort. And there is the most difficult concept of all. The belief that what I do matters, that the words I try to weave into a coherent whole can make something meaningful. That even if I’m the only person who feels excited about what I put on the page, it’s still necessary to spend the time putting it there.

What I need more than anything is an unwavering conviction in the value of my gift. Only then can I make the dedicated and concerted effort necessary to protect it, nurture it, fulfill it by following Kenyon’s prescriptions. And if I look at her precepts even more closely, I see that they fulfill most of my personal requirements for a good life, irrespective of writing at all.  They are the backbone of a calm and collected way of being that is among my highest aspirations. Feed your inner life. Read good books. Walk. 

Anne Lamott writes about this kind of life in the final pages of Bird by Bird. “This life of reading, writing, corresponding...is nearly ideal. It is spiritually invigorating. It is intellectually quickening. One can find in writing a perfect focus for life. It offers challenge and delight and agony and commitment. We see our work as a vocation, with the potential to be as rich and enlivening as the priesthood."

“In this dark and wounded society,” she concludes, “writing can give you the pleasures of a woodpecker, of hollowing out a hole in a tree where you can build your nest and say, ‘This is my niche, this is where I live now, this is where I belong.’"

So here I am, in my quiet room at the top of the stairs, my notebook on my lap, my dogs napping peacefully beside me, surrounded by words of my own making and those of writers I admire.

This is my niche. This is where I live now. This is where I belong.

This is my gift.

Clean Slate

In September I buy a new calendar. It’s a habit left over from years of going to school, and later of working in schools. In September the schedule changes, life shifts into overdrive, and time must be managed and arranged rather than simply experienced. At least, that’s the way it used to be.

In reality, things won’t be very different for me this month than they have been for the past three months. But I’m not sure my brain understands this, because something keeps waking me up in the middle of the night, agitating me, poking me, inciting me to get up and get moving because time is a-wastin’. Even though my new fall calendar pages are about as empty as my old summer calendar pages were, my head is filled with lengthy lists, all those things I planned to accomplish this summer, most of which I didn’t. They are nagging me now, wagging their reproachful fingers in my face.

Don’t be fooled with all my recent talk about living in the moment and accepting things as they are, about being patient and present, about living a more mindful and grateful life. Those are wonderful and admirable things, and for about five minutes of every day I catch a glimpse of myself in the act of one or the other of them. It’s rather like walking down the street and seeing your reflection in a store window, wondering for a moment who that very attractive woman might be before realizing it’s only you in your Sunday best, looking all spiffed up for a change.

For most of the time, I’m the same person I’ve always been. I fritter away precious time with things that don’t matter and then reproach myself for my lack of accomplishment. I get impatient with people who don’t see things my way, or behave the way I expect them to. I want more than I have, even though I know I already have more than enough of everything I need. I worry about those blank squares on my calendar pages, wondering if I’ve pared my life down farther than I should.

These are the thoughts that wake me at 4:00 a.m.

Or 3:00 a.m.

Or sometimes even 2:00 a.m.

I know better than to let myself be ruled by these kinds of thoughts, especially now when there really is no good reason for their existence. My life is enviable by any standards, and certainly by my own which have always touted time and independence as major priorities for happiness.

But standing still is not in my nature, so perhaps what I’m feeling is less nagging over what’s undone than a nudge toward forward motion. “The best remedy for anxiety is concrete action.” How often I forget that sometimes I have to get out of my head and actually live in the real world. Grab a pencil and fill in the blank spots on my calendar, one activity, one action, one event, one moment at a time. Go for a walk, a bike ride, a yoga class. Get a haircut, get some groceries, make some meals. Play the piano. Write. Read.

It doesn’t have to be like Septembers of old, in the days of juggling two jobs and three musical groups along with the responsibilities of family and home. It doesn’t have to be overwhelming.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.

It can just be one thing, one baby step, one calendar square at a time.

Presence of Mind

These is much talk these days of “mindfulness,” of “living in the now.” I’ve done some of that talking myself, here on this very page. We are all so busy, it seems, wearing our busy-ness like a badge of honor, teaching our children the dubious virtues of a “full life” with teams and lessons and after school study groups. And yet in the midst of all that productive busy-ness, something is amiss. We become aware of a gnawing emptiness, a feeling that surely there is more than all this running to and fro. During the past few weeks, I’ve been given many opportunities to be mindful and to live in the now, opportunities to practice paying attention and appreciating small moments.

Opportunities to be patient and present.

This gift (for I am calling it a gift, even though at first it seemed to be anything but - which is so often true of these kinds of gifts) began when one of my dogs became seriously ill. The details don’t matter, and he is doing fine now, but he was hospitalized for several days in a specialized veterinary hospital about 40 miles from our home. His doctor was the soul of kindness and compassion, combined with an obvious intelligence about the internal workings of the canine body.  He called me three times each day that Magic was in the hospital, giving me an update on current conditions and his treatment plan going forward.

One of our biggest concerns was that Magic wasn’t eating, had not been eating well for some time. I had been trying everything at home to entice his appetite, mostly to no avail. I would cajole and prod, but he only turned his head away at each proffered bite. I got frustrated.

On Friday evening, Dr. Becker calls me at 7:00 p.m. with some good news, that Magic has eaten at last. “I’ve been sitting with him for about an hour,” Dr. Becker tells me matter-of-factly, “coaxing him along, and he finally showed some interest."

My sense of relief was quickly followed by a sense of wonder. Imagine that this doctor, a man who surely is “busy” in every sense of the word spent an hour of his time on a beautiful summer evening coaxing my little dog to eat.

Such patience.

Suddenly all my striving, my agitation, my bluster and hurry seemed so silly. What was the rush? especially when most of my days are my own to fill or not as I choose? My dog, whom I love and who has given me 12 years of loyal faithfulness and joy, surely deserved better than my irritated impatience when he didn’t eat the food I provided for him. What is time for, if not to be lavished on what we love the most?

Magic is home now, and his feeding time has become my exercise in patience and presence. I sit on the floor, offering very tiny bites of things that will tempt him - roast beef, cheese, a little salami or ham. He is reluctant at first, he still needs coaxing, needs quiet attention paid and some gentle urging. But finally he will accede to one bite, one little morsel, followed by another, and then another, until the plate is clean.

I remain present, there on the floor beside him. I stop thinking about the phone calls I need to make, the kitchen remodeling I want to do, the book that needs editing, the music I should organize. I practice patience.

It seems to me that much of our drive to be busy is born from fear. We’re afraid we’ll miss opportunities to experience something wonderful, to create the next big thing, to enjoy life as it was meant to be.  We worry we don’t accomplish all that must be accomplished in order to have the perfect body, the perfect house, the perfect garden. We’re greedy - we want to gobble ravenously, when perhaps we should nibble decorously. Yet we say we must learn to be mindful, we must try to live in the now, adding those things to our already long lists of things to accomplish when we have more time.

But here’s the thing. We DO have time. Time is, in fact, all we have. This time, this minute. There is no guarantee about what comes next. Take your minute - one or two or nine million, however many you’re lucky enough to be given. Sit down and savor them.

Why worry so much about having it all, when really, you already do?

Feed your dog from your hand.

Breathe.

Endings and Beginnings

Sitting at my desk this morning, I spy the first golden tipped leaves peeking out atop the branches of the maple tree outside my window. Summer is waning.

I don’t ache at summer’s end as much as I once did, facing the prospect of a new school year with all its attendant worries. During the years my son was in school, hating every minute of it, each day brought its own set of difficulties. (For those mothers dreading September for similar reasons - my heart is with you.)

Nor do I despair as the pages of my calendar suddenly fill to the brim with appointments and rehearsals and work schedules.  While September will bring a slight uptick in the amount of my activity, the dailiness of life won’t change very much, and that’s alright with me.

I anticipate the beauty of autumn days, the rainbow hue of colored leaves, crisp cool air on the morning walk. Autumn brings pleasures that suit me well: warm sweaters and cozy blankets, savory stews in the slow cooker, the glow of firelight at early evening.  I plan to relish them all, using each one to stave off anticipatory fears of another bitter and punishing winter.

But before summer ends, we have the joy of a visit from our son and his family, two weeks with the patter of little feet running through the house each morning, of reading favorite stories, playing games of make believe, of taking walks through the neighborhood. Watching my son with his own son is a pleasure I could never have anticipated, especially when I think of the unhappy teenager that once stalked through the house every August, already angry at the prospect of school days lying in wait. Who would have guessed that years later he would devote such patience, caring, dedication, imagination, and  unending devotion to a small child of his own?

Certainly not me. And while I adore every minute of the time I spend with my grandson, am proud and amazed at his charm, his intelligence, his beautiful clear skin and lovely little voice, it is still my own son who holds pride of place in my heart.  Because he belongs to me in a way my grandson cannot.

When my son was young, I loved summer vacations, loved having him home with me, loved the freedom to do what we wanted to do without the restriction of school calendars. As much as he disliked going back to school, I disliked it as well, because it meant giving up all that time with him during the day, meant turning his care over to someone else, entrusting him to a world fraught with the possibility of hurt. Like those first gold-tinged leave on my maple tree this morning, those school days were the foreshadowing of the end of our halcyon days of summer together and a reminder that one day he would be grown and living his own life apart and away from me.

Each school year brings parents closer to that time when their children will leave the nest and set out on their own path through life.  It’s part of the natural plan, like the change of season. Our roles as parents wane over the years, we become less a vital part of our children’s daily lives and more of a (hopefully!) pleasant presence in the back of their minds.

It’s the way it’s supposed to be.

With every end, there is a beginning. Yes, my son grew up and moved far away and we see each other only a few times a year instead of every day. But here is a wonderful beginning in this beautiful child of his. I take comfort in that, just as I take comfort in the pleasures of fall as way of gathering strength for the the winter ahead.

In knowing that the cycle begins again, and continues never-ending through all of time.

On Compassion

In the city block where my grandparents lived, shabbily dressed men often walked the streets delivering advertising circulars for local grocery and department stores.  My grandmother called them “the bargain paper men.” They were often older men, thin and gray haired; they might walk with a limp, their hand might tremble as they fastened the rolled up advertisement to the door handle with a green rubber band. A shy, fearful child, I would often crouch behind the door out of sight when I spied them coming down the street. I felt a strange combination of fear and sadness toward these men. Sometimes, if my grandfather were around, I would run and crawl into his lap, thinking I could protect him - also a quiet, slender, gray-haired man - from the fate of becoming a bargain paper man, as if he could suddenly fall victim to whatever dire circumstance had led them to this place.

My heart ached for those men and all the things I worried they didn’t have - a warm home, a good job, meals to eat, people to love them. I couldn’t name it then, but those feelings were the first stirrings of compassion, the kind of concern for another’s suffering that seems to be in short supply in today’s world.

In the news right now are refugee children, thousands of them, seeking a better life on our shores; families in the middle east torn apart by political violence that has its roots in grievances thousands of years in the making; the innocent dead littered across a prairie after their aircraft was shot from the sky by an angry government.

There is so much compassion needed. Where do we find it amidst our quickness to anger and our rush to judgement? Even though every religion in the world espouses compassion and kindness as key values, we often turn deaf ears and hardened hearts to the needs of others. We’re protective of our own needs, snarly about giving away too much time or money. Or we think we can’t do enough, so we do nothing.

I  worry about people and animals who don’t have enough - enough love, enough shelter, enough to eat or drink. I want to help them in a big way, but I don’t know how. I give bits of time and money and effort to big organizations dedicated to compassionate care, but that seems like pitiable recompense.

I can’t begin to solve all the world’s problems. None of us can, no matter how much we pontificate or splutter on Facebook, no matter how many checks we write or mission trips we participate in.  But I believe every act of compassion builds upon itself: every time we smile at a stranger, or do a favor for a neighbor, or foster a homeless pet, we put a small piece of positive energy into the world, energy that multiplies and spreads.

My grandparents house also had an alley behind it, and sometimes in the mornings men would appear at the back gate asking for food. Perhaps these were the same “bargain paper men” I would see later in the day. Perhaps they were other homeless men. Yes, they could have been drinkers or drug addicts down on their luck. Nevertheless, my grandmother often handed them a sack of something to eat. “I always feed them,” she told me once. “You never know, one of them might be Jesus come back to earth."

How amazing if we could see divinity in every person we meet, whether they are rich or poor, black, white, refugee, or warrior. Difficult to do, I admit. I fail at it on a regular basis.

But imagine - if every person on the planet did one small kind thing for someone else every day, what a wonderful world that would be.

The only way to get there is to start small.

Start with one person, one act of kindness. With me. With you.

But start today.