Write On Wednesday: What’s Next?

Long ago on another blog far away, I held a weekly writer’s roundtable every Wednesday. It was anchored by a short essay, and I invited writers to weigh in on the topic of the day. Connections were created around this table. It was where I first met Andi Cumbo Floyd, Jeanie Croope, Kerstin Martin - women with whom I continue to draw inspiration for creative work (not just writing). 

Since Life In General was published, I’ve been thinking about what’s next for me in this writing practice which I depend upon, and I thought it might be fun to explore that in a new series of Write on Wednesday posts. For the past two years my writing goals were focused on putting Life In General together. It was a satisfying process and a superb learning experience. Publishing it put a cap on eight years worth of writing and tied it up nice and neatly.  

But Life Goes On. That’s the theme that seems to be emerging for my online writing, the essays I write here on this blog. How do I use what I’ve learned in this decade of my 50’s and go forward with it into my 60’s? You know those guiding principles I talk about in the Afterword of Life In General? How are they working out for me as life moves forward? How will they help me handle the inevitable changes yet to come? 

Beyond that, though, I feel an urgency to try something new, to start from scratch on writing something that might turn into another book. I’ve hinted at it here from time to time, I’ve made a few false starts and even have part of a “shitty rough draft.” It’s a topic that fascinates me, that makes me ponder family legacy and how it affects our personalities and the choices we make for our own lives. It’s also about roads not taken, and how our lives are steered by what we don’t do as much as what we do.

But there is much work ahead, and much to think about. I’m reading a lot right now, reading even more memoirs than I usually do (which is saying a lot). But I’m reading them with an eye to form and structure and voice, rather than immersing myself solely in the story. I’m studying books about writing memoir, starting with my friend Beth Kephart’s challenging text Handling the Truth. And it is challenging me - to think and re-think every early assumption I made about this project, with an eye on the “universal question” within which to frame it.

But it’s all good. I’m not in a hurry. 

It feels like a hike in the wilderness on a cool spring day. A fresh breeze tingles on my skin, clouds scuttle across the blue sky above, my feet crackle and crunch on the forest path, one step after the next, my gait steady but unhurried. The day is long, there is plenty of sunlight, and much to see and hear. I’m simply enjoying the walk. 

That’s what’s next for me.

Writer and artist friends: What’s next for you? 

What Saves You?

When I am among the trees, 
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines, 
they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment, 
and never hurry through the world 
but walk slowly, and bow often. 
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,”
they say, “and you, too, have come
into the world to do this, to go easy,
to be filled with light, and to shine.” ~ Mary Oliver

For poet Mary Oliver, the trees - the willows and the honey locust, the beech, the oaks, and the pines - save her. We all need saving from time to time. I know I do. When we are “distant from the hope of ourselves” for whatever reason, we look to our personal sources of encouragement and wisdom to instruct and inspire. Nature is that source for Oliver, as it is for many poets and writers. I’ve been reading Terry Tempest Williams memoir, Refuge, in which she pays homage to her landscape. “Only the land’s mercy and a calm mind can save my soul,” she writes as she drives across the Great Basin. “If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place to hide, and so we are found."

When we write or speak about those things that “save" us, an element of the sacramental creeps in. In the short passage above, Terry Tempest Williams uses the words like holy, sacred, soul, mercy, and pilgrimage, all words we associate with religious experiences. Indeed, the word “save” itself is loaded with religious connotation for those of us who grew up in the Christian tradition. We were raised to believe in the “saving power” of faith in God and Jesus Christ, a gift that was there for the asking through simple grace.

I suspect nature is a saving grace for many people, though most of us don’t have the same facility for description as do the poets and writers who honor it so beautifully, so religiously. Today when I awoke the room was filled with the particular brightness that only sun on new fallen snow can offer. Pristinely white, not yet marred by traffic or footprint, the ground outside was aglitter with trillions of tiny snowflakes etched in ice. I’m not a fan of winter or snow, but even I was struck by the silent, perfect beauty of my view out the window. 

Am I "distant from the hope of myself" these days? Perhaps a little. That particular line in Oliver’s poem always strikes at my heart. It is so poignant. We all have those hopes for ourselves. We want to be more - creative, compassionate, attentive, loving, patient, mindful. We want, as Oliver says, to have “goodness and discernment,” to “never hurry through the world.” We pick and worry at ourselves and our lives, discontent with each minute. But she is right - when I can walk outdoors among the trees or especially along the waterside somewhere, I feel content, fulfilled, peaceful. I feel as if I belong, as if I am enough just as I am.

Saved.

But winter is hard. There is little opportunity for outdoor walking for me, there are no green leafed trees to sough and sigh and sing me their soothing song.  I have to find other saviors, and I am trying to be patient with myself as I search. Sometimes a cup of tea sipped from a beautiful china cup, both dogs curled on the couch next to me, a good book or two close by, some Chopin or Debussy playing softly in the background - sometimes that can save me. Those few minutes are reminders to slow down and savor, to “walk slowly and bow often” to the comforting peace and warmth of my home and the little animals who depend on me. 

Reading and writing - yes, they can save me. The power of words pulls me in, but also sets me free. It lights the way toward what a good life can mean, and connects me to the world and every person in it. 

The end of Mary Oliver’s poem gives us a mandate of sorts, one I try to remember when I most need saving from all the petty grievances I harbor against myself. “It’s simple..You too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine."

On this cold winter day, I hope you find what saves you. May you go easy with it and shine.

Playing Dress Up

During my childhood I would go home with my best friend after school about once a week. She had two younger brothers, one of whom was young enough to be having an afternoon nap when we arrived, making it necessary for us to be extremely quiet because her mother would not be happy with us if we wakened him.  So we would tiptoe into the back door and make our way stealthily to my friend’s bedroom. Our quiet play usually consisted of reading or dressing/undressing our Barbie dolls. Conversing in stage whispers, we had to suppress our giggles before they turned into noisy fits of laughter. 

While we were playing, I was aware of my friend’s mother rustling around in her bedroom next door. I could hear the closet door opening and closing, the whisk of hangars passed across the clothes rod, followed by the sounds of zippers being zipped, snaps being snapped. Periodic efficient clicks ensued, sounds I recognized as the opening and closing of lipsticks and compacts.

By the time the baby was awake, my friend’s mother would emerge from her room dressed in a slim skirt and matching sweater, with a pair of black low-heeled pumps on her feet. She always wore a pearl studs in her pierced ears, and soft pink lipstick. Her gray hair, though cut short, was neatly styled and freshly brushed. She would lift the baby gently out of his crib and set him to play in his playpen, then go into the kitchen and finish preparing dinner. 

This transformation was a mystery to me. My own mother dressed each day in plain slacks and tops, which she wore all day unless she was going out, at which time she often put on an ensemble similar to my friend’s mothers. One day my curiosity got the better of me. “Why does your mom get dressed up every afternoon?” I asked my friend.

I could see she had never paid this much attention. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably because she wants to look nice for my dad when he gets home from work."

Keep in mind that this was the mid 1960’s, an era when women in their mid-30’s were mostly at home all day raising the children. When the men came in after a hard day at the office, wives still felt it was their duty to have a hot meal prepared, the children clean, tidy, and quiet. Sometimes they also felt it behooved them to look attractive. 

Obviously this made an impression on me because I’m still remembering it 50 years later (as I sit here wearing black yoga pants and a 10 year old Tabor Hill Winery t-shirt topped with an Eddie Bauer thermal sweatshirt.) I am home all day today, working around the house and at my desk, so I will most likely have this outfit on when my husband comes home at the end of his work day (at which point he will change into gray fleece pants and an oversized flannel shirt.)

I guess I started thinking about this after watching Downton Abbey the other night. As we watch, we chuckle at the number of times everyone changes their clothes at Downton. The ladies will wear one outfit for breakfast, another for riding or walks in the morning, still another for afternoon tea, and a final full dress affair for dinner. Each outfit requires the assistance of their ladies maid to lay out the pieces, tighten the corsets, fasten the jewelry clasps, and smooth on the gloves. The men don’t have it much better with their stiff shirt fronts, high starched collars, and innumerable hats, all of which signify their social class and status, so must be chosen with care and attention to detail.

Thing have drastically changed in the dress up department in the past 100 years - even in the past 40 or 50. Perhaps we have devolved too far into casual complacency when it comes to our appearance. I was certainly brought up to dress nicely, and even though my mother didn’t “dress for dinner,” she believed in people looking stylish and wearing good clothes. She often bemoaned that my father, if left to his own devices, would dress “as if he just got off the boat,” while my clothes were always purchased at quality stores like J.L. Hudson or Jacobsons- no K-Mart, Montgomery Wards or Sears duds for me. So I grew up loving clothes, although I went through a period of being very chubby and buying clothing was a completely demoralizing experience. But by the time I reached puberty, the baby fat distributed itself nicely into a Junior size 3, and I became a clothes horse of the first order. The hardest part of going to a Catholic high school was being forced to wear a uniform every day. It was torture for a young style maven like me. 

As a adult, when I worked in a high school I usually dressed in what’s known as business causal. I wanted to set a good example for the teenage girls, who mostly came to school in outfits that could have been plucked from the floor of their brothers closet. Later, when I was working in an office, I continued to dress professionally, adding blazers and skirts to my office wardrobe. I enjoyed dressing up each day, although as I aged it was harder to keep up with style trends without looking ridiculous. 

“Dress codes” for school and work had begun to disappear in the 1970’s and were all but gone by the 21st century. The year I started high school was the first year that girls were allowed to wear pants to school in the public schools.  (Yes, I am that old.) I remember the school administration tried to prevent the change by quoting “scientific evidence” that young people performed better in school if they were "dressed up.”

I can’t quote you those studies, but I can tell you from personal experience there might be something to that - at least for some people. I do feel more confident and focused when I’m wearing a smart looking outfit. It’s only common sense - if you feel attractive you have more confidence which can translate into better performance.  It’s akin to drinking coffee from a beautiful china cup. It always seems to taste better when you do. And sexist or not, most men- at least men of a certain age- will tell you they appreciate a woman who is “dressed up,” especially if she’s wearing a skirt or dress. (I know. But they can’t help it.) Besides, I appreciate a man in a classically tailored navy suit with a crisp white shirt and beautiful silk tie. 

Still, I’m not interested in dressing like the Edwardians at Downton Abbey. Nor do I really want to feel compelled to put on a smart looking outfit each afternoon to wear while we eat dinner in front of the TV like my friend’s mother did in the 1960’s. And since I’m home all the time, I realize I’ve let my appearance slide. I tend to reach for the same pair of jeans and black tops every day. My yoga pants beckon when it’s time to watch TV or settle into the reading chair. I wonder: Would my writing go better if I put on slacks and a tailored shirt? Would I be more inclined to practice piano seriously if I were wore a flowing skirt to the piano bench?

Perhaps that’s a good experiment to try, one of these cold winter days when I’m home alone and feeling like playing dress up.

Who’s In Charge

Although I’m not one to embrace the idea of “resolutions” for the New Year, I do like to spend some time pondering come January first. I think about what worked over the past year, and what didn’t. I wonder what I might do differently in the coming months to make me feel happier, healthier, more productive, more patient, more compassionate. Are there new habits I could embrace? Is a change in daily routine in order?

As I’ve been re-reading bits and pieces of Life in General, I’m so aware of constant themes that run through my life and appear in my writing practice. I spend a lot of energy bemoaning the passage of time, and feeling as if I’ve not been productive or accomplished enough because of it. How can I address that problem in 2015? I wonder.

The answer lies in another subject that comes up often: I expend inordinate amounts of time and energy trying to control things that really aren’t mine to control. Most of that time and energy is in service to worrying. “Why do you worry about things you can’t control?” my husband said to me the other day when I was (once again) obsessively wringing my hands about something. “Make a plan, stick to it, and stop worrying about it. Your worrying will not change the situation.”

Oh so easy to say for one who lives by the voice of reason and logic. (Note: But also one whose personalized license plate on his 2014 Dodge Charger reads “In Chrg”).

 I think all my worrying and attempts to control life and it’s variety of situations circles back to the It’s Only Me syndrome. Whether it’s because my family is so small, or so scattered, or just because I was raised as the bright, shining center of everyone’s attention, I often feel very alone in the world, a feeling that lends itself to a pathological need to manage the outcome of everybody’s life. Not only to do it, but to fret and worry about it, too. After all, if I don’t do it, who will?

Who else can help Mom get her grocery shopping done, make sure she’s eating, take care of her doctor’s appointments and medications? And if Mom falls and ends up in assisted living, whose fault will it be? Somehow or other, it will feel like mine. Because It’s Only Me.

Who else can make sure the dog with the finicky appetite eats his meal in a timely fashion so the dog with the voracious appetite won’t steal it? And if the finicky dog gets an upset stomach and the voracious dog gets too fat to waddle up the stairs, whose fault will it be? Mine. It’s Only Me, after all.

Who else can coordinate paying all the bills on time, scheduling the online payments so they’re withdrawn at the appropriate times during the month, depositing the checks that come in, getting cash from the ATM for lunch money and groceries? And if a check bounces, we get a late fee on the mortgage, our credit rating plummets, and we don’t have any money for lunch, whose fault will it be? 

Only Mine.

Obviously, the need to control every little thing arises from fear. Fear of something bad happening if I don’t stay on top of the situations. Fear of screwing up. 

But I also think it arises from some deeper sense of inadequacy, a need to prove to myself that I’m capable, that I can take care of things, that I’m In Control.

This year I hope to relinquish some of my need to control every aspect of life.  I picture it like letting some of the air leak out of a balloon - not all of it at once so my life doesn’t completely deflate with an embarrassing gasp. But judiciously, so that the balloon isn’t rock hard with inner pressure, stretched so tightly its skin threatens to burst with a loud pop. Just so it feels a little more comfortable and squishy in there.

Early on in the year I also like to choose a word or words that embody positive things I hope to manifest within my life. Seems like this year might be a good time for words like “relax” or “calm,” reminders to ease up and trust that life will unfold without all of my complex machinations.  

Because after all, who’s really in charge of the “laid back” and “chilled out” departments in my life?

That would be Me. 

Fast Away

“Fast away the old year passes, hail the new ye lads and lasses."

Though we often sing Deck the Halls as a Christmas carol, there is that fourth verse which hails the coming of a new year. And fast away the old years seem to go, especially the older I get.

In terms of Life In General, I have to classify 2014 as a Very Good Year -especially if I compare it with some of the Not So Very Good years we’ve experienced in the past decade. (2009, I’m thinking of you...) People who’ve finished Life In General have remarked about the posts written during that year. “Things were kind of grim there in the middle of the book,” one friend said.

“But then it got better!” I reminded her.

Thank goodness things usually get better.

Yesterday, in one of those strange synchronous events, I received an email from a friend that included a link to a NYT piece about Alice Herz-Sommer, the oldest Holocaust survivor who died in 2014 at the age of 100. Sommer was a pianist, and she credits her love of music with saving her- literally and emotionally - from the atrocities she lived through at Terezin. This was the camp where all the “intellectual” Jews were sent. Because she was a musician, she was allowed to live as long as she could play music and be trotted out as an “example” for foreign visitors. But it was her deep love of playing that kept her alive in spirit. “As long as there is music, than life is beautiful,” she said. “How can it be otherwise?"

Last night we were surfing through Netflix, trying to find something to watch, when we came across as short documentary film entitled The Lady in Number 6. Yes, it was about Alice Herz-Sommer, filmed in 2013. She was 109 years old, living in a small apartment in London. The film opens with her, frail and birdlike, shuffling over to her piano and sitting down to play the Bach Two-Part Invention in F Major, something I’ve been playing myself since I was 12 years old. 

“I play every day, starting at 10:00 in the morning, so my neighbors know every morning what time it is!" she said with a grin. “It’s always a beautiful day when you can play music. It’s the music, it is so wonderful."

Though she lost her husband in the Holocaust, and her only son died suddenly when he was 64 years old, there is not a trace of bitterness or discontent. “I don’t hate anyone,” she says. “Because of what happened to me, I learned that life is precious and not to be taken for granted. That is a wonderful thing to know."

I sat teary eyed through much of that film. I needed to see that, after the past month when I’ve been tired and then sick and generally feeling whiny and sorry for myself. Sometimes things come our way for a reason, sometimes the stories of other peoples lives can illuminate so much about our own.

This morning at 10:00 I went to the piano and played the F Major Two-Part Invention. These short study pieces are quite perfect in the way the two melodies intertwine, weaving in and out from one hand to the next.  I recalled all the times I’ve played it before - in my piano teachers basement, in the music room at high school, on stages for judges and competitions. I wondered where I might play it in the future - if someday I too will live alone in a tiny apartment and walk slowly to my piano bench each morning, my hands crooked with arthritis, but still able to find the keys.

How lucky I am, to have the gift of music, the gift of reading and writing, the gift of family and friends who honor it in me. These are the gifts I carry with me from year to year, through all the old years of my life, and hopefully into many more new ones.

May you find and honor your gifts today. 

And may you hail the New Year with joy.