Bed on the Couch

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, 

And all my toys beside me lay, To keep me happy all the day. 

I posted this photo on Instagram the other day. It was captioned, “Cozy bed on the couch, day three." The hashtag -#sickgirl-further defined my condition. 

Today could be called cozy bed on the couch, day five. This most persistent of maladies has kept me literally on the couch since Saturday. More disturbing is that this current episode is the third bout of this mess I’ve endured since mid December.  The symptoms are old news - cough, body aches, sore throat, headache, congestion, earache, upset stomach. Apparently I’m not the only one whose been going through this revolving door of malaise. According to an informal poll among my Facebook friends, this is rampant.

I realized today how complacent about my good health I’ve become. I was a sickly kid, always on the verge of coming down with something or other, even if that something was mostly in my mother’s overactive and fearful imagination. At the slightest sniffle, she had the thermometer in my mouth and was on the phone to the doctor, scheduling an appointment. (To be fair, I was asthmatic, and had made enough middle of the night trips to the ER for breathing treatments to make any mother wary. And mine was especially so.) Then she’d make me a “cozy bed on the couch,” with my two pillows at my head, my favorite blanket, and a pile of books to keep me company. Just like the child in Stevenson’s famous poem, The Land of Counterpane.

I outgrew the asthma, but most of my adult life I’ve been prone to sinus infections and even a normal head cold invariably ends up as bronchitis or sometimes pneumonia. When I was actively working in schools and exposed to so many different germs, I was sick quite often during the winter. I became pretty adept at powering through it.  I recall once accompanying 15 students at a State vocal competition, then playing the second night of a three night run of 42nd Street all while running a temperature of 102 degrees. 

The show must go on, and all that.

But I’ve since learned the hard way that rest is a key component in treatment and recovery. So every time I got sick this past month, I have been diligent about stopping in my tracks, staying inside, drinking a lot of fluids - all the things my mother taught me to do when I was firmly entrenched in those long ago bed on the couch days.

Nevertheless, I keep getting sick, and this past week was a doozy. I can’t recall when I’ve felt so completely wiped out. I dragged myself downstairs in the morning only long enough to get some toast and hot water  - another mark of the seriousness of this episode? Neither coffee nor wine had any appeal whatsoever - and then I’d be back to my bed on the couch.

As with every gray cloud there are silver linings. Enforced stillness is sometimes good for creatives. In between my fever dreams I’ve actually had some good ideas for things to write about. I’ve read a lot, putting me closer to my goal of reading 100 books this year. My mom has gone full throttle into Mother mode, making dinners, dog sitting, offering mom-like advice in several phone calls during the day. She loves to be needed (and what mother doesn’t?) My dogs have enjoyed spending these sunny winter days romping around in her backyard instead of cooped up in the condo with me.

My poor husband though- not only has he been forced to listen to my coughing, snuffling, moaning and whining, he’s had to look at me in my saggy flannel pajamas, trailing my blanket around like Linus. 

And now is not the time to remind me that my word for 2015 was VIBRANT.

Normally I might think that these recurring episodes of sickness are about my body trying to tell me something. But I’ve been taking pretty good care of my body for some time. I eat well, I exercise moderately every day. I don’t overdo my activities anymore, and the things I choose to spend time on are just that - things I’ve chosen which makes a world of difference in how you perceive time spent doing them. My life is pretty stress free these days, which is saying a lot for a woman my age.

So I’m left pondering what the message is here - because I always believe there’s something to learn from every experience, that every small thread of the universe connects us to a larger story within our own lives or in the world around us.

I guess I’ll crawl under that blanket on my cozy bed on the couch and see if something comes to mind. 

If you have any ideas, let me know. Just don’t get too close - I might still be contagious.

The Sunday Salon: Reading Robinson

Gilead, Home, Lila...for the past two weeks I’ve been living with Marilynne Robinson’s characters in these three novels set in the small town of Gilead, Iowa. My heart has ached with them as they look for grace in their lives and relationships. I’ve rejoiced with them over small moments of warmth and closeness. I've pondered with them - why do things happen the way they do? What does it mean to forgive? How do we learn to trust ourselves and the people who profess to love us?

I have to confess. I first read Gilead and Home about three years ago, and was not in love with them. They both seemed so heavy and introspective. I needed more to happen. 

My reaction bothered me. I had heard so much praise for Robinson’s body of work. She is a writer’s writer, I heard. All the readers and writers I respect most love and study her work.

It seems she is an oracle. Why did this book fail to move me?

So when I heard about Lila, the third novel in this grouping that would focus on the woman who married Reverend John Ames of Gilead, the novel that would tell Lila's hard scrabble story and reveal how a young woman drifted in off the street, ended up married to a much, much older man and bearing him a son, I decided to tackle the other two books again. In preparation.

This time around, I got it. All of it. The reasons writers especially love Marilynne Robinson. The things this woman does with words and ideas, the way she forces the reader to just slooooooow down, savor and ponder every sentence - it is a master class in going deep. These are very spiritual books, they delve into topics of faith and grace and fate, of honoring mothers and fathers and family history. Of being a good neighbor and a good steward of gifts. 

They are not books to read when you’re waiting in the doctor’s office. They are not books to read while lying on the beach.

They seem best read in a quiet room while the fireplace crackles and sputters, with maybe a cup of coffee close at hand. Or sitting on a long front porch overlooking a grassy meadow, while birds sing on the wires and wind shushes through the pines. In a place where you can sit and be still. Where you can read without the distractions of modern life.

Reading all three of these books together is like being baptized in the River Robinson. It’s a total immersion baptism. And I’m coming up refreshed and renewed, just as it should be.

How about you? Do you ever immerse yourself in one writer and read all their books in a row? 
What are you reading this week?

The Family Business

My husband and I were born and bred in Detroit - The Motor City - and automobiles are definitely in our blood. Both of my grandfathers came to Detroit expressly because of the automotive industry. My maternal grandfather by way of a small town in central Kentucky, my paternal grandfather by way of a small village in Armenia. But because of Ford Motor Company and Timken Axle, they were able to provide for their families during Depression years and The Great War. 

No surprise then that my father whet his teeth at Ford’s, learning enough about the tool and die industry to open his own business and then become an automotive supplier. 

My father-in-law worked for Chrysler, my mother-in-law worked for Ford, and both retired with good pensions and benefits, the kinds that have long since faded from the business world. Although Jim has never worked directly for an automotive company, he has spent his career in designing and building the inner workings of those huge factories where cars are assembled. 

My first car was a 1972 blue Chevy Nova with a 350 engine; my second car a 1976 silver Trans Am, “screaming chicken” and all. Followed by a 1978 Corvette silver anniversary edition, which my dad bought for me in May of 1979. My relationship to my husband was originally inspired by my desire for a ride in is 1971 black Mach One Mustang.

I think my son considers our old 1979 Bandit Tran Am his mechanical “brother” since Jim bought it the day after Brian was born. And I have a sneaking suspicion that our grandson’s middle name (Alexander) was chosen based on the fact that his monogram would be CAR. Which is perfect, since he is a complete and total car enthusiast, and at the age of 3 is already “driving” his Dad’s Pontiac GTO through the neighborhood.

So I’m a car girl in every way. Our whole family is loyal to the American automotive industry. The only “foreign” car we’ve ever had was my 2007 Saab turbo, and the year after I bought it the American car companies went bankrupt. I know I can’t take responsibility for that. But still. I’m all American from now on. (Or a least, American labeled.  I realize that a good many parts and pieces of American cars are no longer manufactured in America. That is much to my chagrin - but that is an entirely different story than the one I mean to tell today.) 

The American automotive industry has fed and clothed me since the day I was born.

It’s kind of our family business. 

Because of all that, a good portion of our income has always been spent on cars. And I’ll admit, as I’ve gotten older I’ve sometimes wished I had some of that back. Did I really need to lease new Lincoln Mark VIII’s every two years for eight years running, to the tune of $500 a month each time? That was a good chunk of change down the proverbial drain, even though I did really enjoy driving that sleek, smooth riding, powerful car around town.

One of the things that’s happened to me as I’ve aged is a definite diminishment in my enjoyment of the automotive experience. It’s a sad fact about getting older: the things that once brought great pleasure seem sort of ho-hum. (I know, there’s another story implicit in that statement too, but I’m not about to go there.) Maybe it’s because I’ve been relegated for the past five years to what I consider an “old-lady car.” Or maybe it’s just because the cars I can realistically afford aren’t all that appealing. If someone were to offer me one of those Shelby Mustang GT’s like I saw on the floor of the auto show yesterday, I would probably be much more enthusiastic. 

But maybe not. I think my priorities have simply shifted. These days I think more about saving my money to make sure we have a nice home for our retirement, that we can spend winters in Florida or somewhere else warm. I don’t do a lot of driving anymore anyway, and I’m beginning to have more interest in comfort (yes to heated/cooled seats and steering wheels!) and less about how fast I can get off the red light.

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things.” This Bible verse seems very true to me in these days, as I think about the ways our lives will change in the years ahead. As we walked around the floor of the Auto Show yesterday, instead of dreaming about what color car I might get next, or trying to decide whether to get a two door or four door, or which had the most horsepower or the sleekest lines, I was planning how best to coincide my next car purchase with Jim’s retirement so that it made sense for our budget. 

At almost 59 years of age, I’m certainly well past childhood. I had a good long run of playing with cars, and I’ve got some great car-related memories (especially in the aforementioned 1971 Mach One Mustang that belonged to a certain first boyfriend). Even though I spent a lot of money in my “salad days” of car ownership, I don’t really begrudge it. The feeling of speeding down the highway with the windows down, the t-tops off, and the radio blaring rock and roll is a feeling I savored time and again. I don’t know for certain that it’s completely over -somewhere deep down I still may be holding out hope for that red Mustang convertible - but for now it feels as if I can put my cars away in the annals of my memory and travel on. 

Write On Wednesday: Going Deep

“The risk of writing is an internal risk. You brave the depths of your being and then bring it up for commentary by the world. Not the work of wimps.”  Laraine Herring, Writing Begins With the Breath

A friend who read Life In General had this to say: “I loved your book, Becca, but there were times when I wanted more of the story, times I felt like I wanted you to expand it into even more directions, emotionally and literally.” 

At first I was tempted to defend the short essays which fill the book, reminding her they were all originally blog posts that are, by nature, small slices of life and not meant to be long-form essays. 

But I didn’t. 

Because deep down, I know she’s right.

I recognize it myself - I come to a certain place in the writing, a crossroads in effect, when I could either stop traveling or continue on into the unknown. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I stop dead in my tracks. It’s visceral sensation, a need to jump up and hurry away from the keyboard, put down the pen and close the notebook. 

It’s fear, plain and simple. 

As Laraine Herring says, “the risk of writing is internal. You can’t really prepare yourself for what’s in there, because you don’t know all of what’s in there.” Writing unearths ideas and emotions and opinions we aren’t always aware of. Sometimes these are uncomfortable. Sometimes they are empowering.

They are often revelatory. They are always surprising.

 “When I coach students through essay writing,” says Anna Qundlen, in Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, “I invariably give the same direction: go deeper, go deeper. In each iteration, reveal more, of who you truly are, of what you really think.” It’s like opening a series of beautiful nested boxes. Each one contains something unexpected. Each one takes you a little step deeper into the inner earth of your soul. As you lift the lid, you run the risk of exposing something you aren’t quite sure how to handle.

So yes, “going deep” into the psyche is scary, and I’ve never pretended toward intrepidity. But I believe another factor in my tendency to stop short is a fear of inadequacy: not only as a writer, but also as a thinker. I’m not sure I possess the kind of analytical mindset required to process complex issues in writing. I shy away from the kind of deep thought necessary to plumb the furthest depths of an emotion or an issue, and stay on the surface where things are simpler. 

Where will I find the courage and the ingenuity to take my writing and my thinking to this next level? 

Two words: Focus and Stillness.

“There is so little time for stillness in the everyday world,” I wrote in Life In General. “We itch to fill every second with stimulation, entertainment or productivity, and modern technology gives us a million opportunities to do just that."

A friend and I were talking about the concept of children and boredom. She said that on the rare occasions her son complained of boredom, she would remind him how lucky he was. “Now you have an opportunity to really choose what you’d like to do, even if it’s just sitting down and watching people go by.” 

It’s the quality of quiet contemplation that I lack: the ability to slow down, observe, wonder. To think about what I’ve read or listened to, heard or seen. And it isn’t as if I don’t have time - my time is mostly my own these days and the hours in front of me are often spacious (at least in comparison to many people I know). It’s mostly that I feel the siren call of busyness, the urge to do something “productive,” one that is provocative and pervasive in my life, as I imagine it is in yours.

Again, it’s like opening the nested boxes, looking at the deeper meaning of each level of experience. 

That sounds kind of intense, does’t it? 

I’ve been re-reading Marilynne Robinson’s novels Gilead and Home, preparatory to reading her latest, Lila. These three novels are nested beautifully together, each one delving deep into the experiences of two families in a small Iowa town in the 1950’s at a particular slice of time. Robinson is a writer who forces her reader to slow down and focus. Her writing is stately and diligent. It unfolds ideas about grace and faith and fealty in powerful language that begs re-reading. I cannot imagine a woman who writes this way as anything other than one who moves slowly and thoughtfully through the world, leaving little trace of herself on the modern thoroughfares of social media or public acclaim. Yet she is fearless about exploring the hunger and thirst of the soul. She ponders questions that pertain to us all: where do we find the grace to forgive ourselves or those who have disappointed us? how does faith matter in our relationships with family and friends? what constitutes a life well lived? 

She is one who goes deep, and perhaps can begin to teach me how it’s done. Reading these books, reading them slowly as this author mandates by her writing style, is such a pleasure, especially on these cold and snowy winter days that seem perfect for slowing down and savoring the stillness outside my windows. 

As I think about the new writing I want to do this year, I know I must move forward to that next level my friend urged me toward. I’ll have to “brave the depths of my being” to explore a larger panorama of my life, seek more details from my memories, and unearth some of those emotions that, until now, I’ve left by the side of the road. 

How about you? Do you eagerly open the nested boxes containing your deepest thoughts and fears? Or do you leave them closed tightly by the side of the road?

A Word About “The Word"

In January 2013, I chose an inspirational word as my guide for life throughout the coming year. It was the first time I had engaged in that practice, and it came about through working with my friend Deb Smouse, who puts together a yearly workbook to help guide you toward the word (or words) most meaningful to you. Working through the exercises in that little workbook was so enlightening to me then, and put me in touch with my feelings in a very surprising way. My word for 2013 (“Settled”) helped me get my new house in order, literally and figuratively. 

I repeated the process again in 2014, and came up with the word that not only helped me complete Life in General, but gave me a new way of thinking about the things I do for my family: Devotion.

 I was eager to discover my “touchstone” word for 2015, so once the holiday hustle was over I spent an afternoon in my comfy chair with a pot of tea and began the process. Part of the exercises involve scanning lists of words and marking those that “speak" to you. This is easier than it sounds, especially if you’re a word person. Reading through those words, I get a definite feeling about them. Most of the time it’s kind of neutral - nothing really happens. Sometimes it’s an averse feeling, like you’ve smelled a unpleasant odor. 

Then there are the words that “pop,” that give you a definite pleasurable sensation. My lists of those usually include lots of words like attentive, calm, disciplined, productive, generous, peaceful, wise, tender. 

This year’s words were so surprising. They were words that generally don’t show up on my lists at all: words like elegant and festive; fearless and feisty. Impact, insightful, luxurious. Proficient, resolute, revitalized. Strength, successful. Unsinkable.

At one point I found myself saying out loud, “Where did that come from?” (I think that was “feisty”).

As I worked my way to the end of the book, and came up with the final words that meant the most, I was enthusiastic. These were magic words that could enable a new way of looking at myself and my life. 

Excited. Confident. Elegant. 

Vibrant.

I always think of myself as a very low-key, understated kind person. I like to fly under the radar most of the time. I don’t want to make a big splash or draw attention to myself.

To my mind, those are all antithetical to someone who would be considered Vibrant. That person is outgoing, vivacious, bright, adventurous.

But I think the way I gravitated toward this word indicates a need to bring some elements of vibrancy into my life. Looking back over the past year, I can see myself coming to this point. We’re settled in our home now and I feel like it’s ours. I’ve finished my book, a long time goal and one that I completed successfully and with gratifying results. I feel more confident than I have in a long time, more sure of what it is I need to be happy. And I’m excited about new creative projects and partnerships for the future. I’ve started to feel an urge to get out more, do new things. And while I’ll always be a homebody, I’m feeling ready to see other places once again. I’ve felt a need to take better care of myself, not just on the inside but the outside. Lavish some extra care on my body, get some new clothes, ditch the blacks and greys for brighter colors. 

There is vibrancy in all of that.

Just because I didn’t fit my pre-conceived perceptions of a vibrant self-confident person doesn’t mean I can’t alter my ideas about vibrancy in a way that makes it congruent with my personal nature. By limiting myself to this idea of myself as quiet, self-effacing, and understated, I am limiting my ability to be and do in the world. Just as there are self-fulfilling prophecies, there are self-limiting ones as well.

You are as you think you are. 

This notion of a word (or words) to guide us is, admittedly, sort of self-indulgent. But in a world where the focus is often on injustice, violence, anger, and hopelessness, maybe it’s important to look inward sometimes to make sure we don’t slip into that kind of despair. 

I definitely feel like the world could use more vibrant, confident, excited, and elegant people. 

This year, I hope to be one of them.

(*If you’re interested in choosing your own word, try Deb Smouse’s workbook, Choosing Your 2015 Touchstones. You can get one free by subscribing to her newsletter (which also has some great ideas for creating a life you’ll love.)