The Thing With Feathers

Yesterday I wrote a long post in this space, a post in which I laid bare some of the pain of these past months. I revealed that I was going through a “valley time,” a time of anxiety, sadness, discontent. When I had finished it, I thought immediately that I should delete it, should not dare to reveal this weakness, should not indulge myself in such blatant self-pity.

But I changed my mind. Let it go. Released it to the eyes of others.

And then. Then you responded. In comments. E-mails. Private messages. “Yes, me too,” you said. “I’ve been there. I understand."

Once again a connection was made through writing, words were shared that shed some light on my darkness, much the way the morning sun just this minute broke through pewter colored clouds still laden with cold. That brief flash of sunlight directly outside the window reminds me, as your words did yesterday, that warmth and brightness are still there, even if they are sometimes obscured by the heaviness of clouds around us.

I had thought I was alone, and you reminded me I was not. You listened, you heard, you recognized. 

There is great strength in that. Today there is a crack of light in the darkness. I feel empowered to start the climb upwards, away from the recesses of that darker place where I’ve been dwelling. With that feeling comes hope..."the thing with feathers," as Emily Dickinson described it. A gentle, fragile, feeling, but one with the amazing power of lifting our hearts and taking wing against the darkness.

Although I mostly dwell in this land of sensing and feeling (my Myers Briggs profile is Introvert Sensing Feeling Judging) I am a practical person, a person who needs concrete things to do. So this week I have been putting only good food in my body - no sugar, no processed foods, no alcohol, and no caffeine (well, just a tiny bit in the morning). I’ve walked every day because walking for me is “moving meditation” and gets the blood flowing through my heart and to my brain. I’m planning my days so I can accomplish what I need to, and trying not to let myself be sidetracked by the time killers that so often disable me... especially the Internet. I’m looking at the world around me with brighter eyes, remembering how to savor the small moments of beauty -  like my pretty coffee cup, the call of ducks in flight over the ponds, the smooth pages of a brand new book, the warmth of my little dog as he snuggles next to me in bed.

I’m trying to get myself back on the track, the trail that leads out of the valley and into a brighter place. 

 I’m grateful. For the connections we shared, for the hands held out to my as I opened my heart on this page. 

And I’m hopeful. That thing with feathers is perched in my soul this morning.

Write On Wednesday: Listening to My Heart

It’s been quiet here in this online space, this place where we connect about books and writing and family and...life in general.

But it hasn’t been quiet in my head or in my heart. No, there is a veritable beehive of activity going on in both places. Like the angry buzzing of a disturbed hive, these thoughts swarm and sting, painfully disturbing the equilibrium I need in order to thrive.

As spring continues to drag it’s feet here in Michigan, my spirits drag along with it. For months now, I’ve been in a valley emotionally and creatively- not the lush, verdant kind that peppers the landscape in southern England, but the gloomy lowland that comes with feeling unsatisfied, uneasy, unfulfilled.  I wake in the night, restless and painful, and move into the second bedroom where I read for hours before falling back into a fitful sleep just before the alarm sounds. I drink more caffeine and alcohol than I should, because they give me the illusion of feeling better for a moment. I disdain the image I see in the mirror, wear the same jeans and sweaters because it’s easy and I look terrible anyway. 

We’ve all spent time in that valley. But for most of us with families, homes, jobs, and all the other responsibilities of day to day living, we keep plowing through the dark times, doing all those things that have to be done, keeping our sadnesses to ourselves. We need to preserve our image of strength and capability. We don’t want the people we love to see our weakness. We’re afraid they’ll misunderstand our sadness. 

So we wrap it up tightly and tuck it inside a corner of our hearts. Sometimes I can physically feel it, like another pulsing beat, trapped in that corner where I’ve forced it to go, out of sight and sound of the rest of my life. I let it peek out only in the pages of my journal, my poor notebook taking a beating these days as I write and write and write, pouring my heart out on that page. It’s as if my pen is linked directly to that hurting place, that wondering, aching, worried place that I so carefully keep hidden from the light of day.

There is a healing power in writing. It helps every morning to take that time and listen to my heart, to write those private words.

But lately my heart has felt full to overflowing. It’s needed to spill out these anxieties and fears elsewhere, to share its burdens with someone else. It needs to let go of just a little bit of that tightly held control over my image. 

So today, I open it to you.

One of my favorite movies of all time is The Way We Were, starring Barbara Streisand and Robert Redford. There is a scene in the movie when Streisand’s character opens her heart. “I want, I want...” she says, her heart’s desires written plainly on her face.

I want to feel better, to feel lighter and brighter and more focused. I want my heart to be lifted, like the branches of our trees in a warm gentle breeze. I want to find new focus for my creative work, I want to have the courage to take forward steps in my life in general.

I want not only to listen to my heart, but to answer it, to respond to what it needs. 

This morning while waiting for the coffee to brew, I picked up the copy of Life In General sitting on my kitchen desk. I turned to the end, to those “Guiding Principles” and realize how far I’ve come from every one of them. When I wrote that section of the book, I was happier than I’d been in many years. My situation hasn’t changed that much since those days. But I’ve drifted away from those things I know to be true about myself and what fulfills me. And - to paraphrase an old song - I’ve been looking for happiness in all the wrong places. It’s not going to come from writing, or playing music, or relationships with other, or even the weather, even though all of those things will be factors in lightening the burdens I’ve been stockpiling. 

I know real happiness has to start inside me. 

In my heart.

It’s a lot easier to sit back and let life do all the happiness work - to expect people and events and possessions to make us feel fulfilled and satisfied. But all too often, life falls down on the job, and we’re left in the lurch. We descend into the valley, and sometimes we just wallow there. 

That’s what I’ve been doing this winter. It’s time to start climbing out.

And I’m letting my heart lead the way.

Write On Wednesday: Change of Venue

 I am a creature of habit. I count on my morning coffee (in my favorite mug) and my evening glass of wine. I do morning pages in the comfy chair upstairs, and read my book on the sofa in the den. I like a walk before lunch and one after dinner, a hot bath before bed, and a few minutes of quiet time with my book before turning out the light.

I write at my computer, which sits in the center of a large walnut writing table underneath the upstairs corner casement windows in the guest bedroom on the second floor. On nice days, I crank open each window and listen to the finches and cardinals serenade me while I ponder and peck away at the keyboard. I prefer to write in the mornings (after the walk) but sometimes an hour or two between 7 and 9 in the evening works well too.

This week I had some time to myself on Monday, a hour or so in the afternoon between places to be when it wasn’t convenient to go home. Before I left for rehearsal that morning, I packed up my notebook and pen and thought I might spend that time in a coffee shop doing some writing.

Because I had some other errands to do, the most convenient coffee shop was a Starbucks, located in the midst of a small downtown area in a neighboring suburb.

I’ll tell you a secret.  I don’t really like Starbucks - not the taste of the coffee, not the ambience in the stores, and certainly not the prices. 

But I went in, because it was raining and chilly and I needed somewhere to be.

Inside this very dimly lit Starbucks were four comfy leather armchairs nestled in the corner by the window. All occupied of course. Two college students with piles of spiral notebooks and fat soft covered textbooks were sprawled comfortably in two of them, while two young girls sat in the other two, their legs tucked beneath them, busy texting or tweeting on their iPhones and sipping frothy coffee drinks.

There were about a dozen tiny dark tables with hard, short backed chairs clustered around them. Many of these were occupied by people working on laptop computers, most of them wearing headphones attached to their cell phones, listening to music I assume, because they weren’t talking to anyone. 

I ordered tea (because remember I don’t like the coffee) and chose one of the empty tables by the wall, rather than one in the middle of the room. I tried to get comfortable in a chair that reminded me a lot of the chairs we’d been forced to sit in at elementary school. I dunked my teabag a few times into the cup of (scalding!) hot water and stirred four packets of sugar into the tall paper cup.

I opened my notebook and tried to write.

It should have been a perfect writing atmosphere. With the exception of the one middle aged woman sitting across from me with a book, noisily licking her fingers after each bite of a sticky pastry, every other person was completely in their own private zone, plugged in, tuned out of the rest of the room. Even the baristas were quiet. There was background music, but it was subdued and generic. No one new came in, there were no hisses or spurts of foaming espresso makers. 

I’d like to say I felt prolific and creative, that the various people in the coffee shop inspired interesting character sketches. Mostly, I felt self-conscious, pretentious, and even a little silly. 

There is a mystique among writers about writing in coffee shops and cafes. We all think of the romance of Hemingway and his companions on the Left Bank in Paris, scribbling away all day, holding court with tiny cups of espresso in the morning, giving way to goblets of wine in the afternoon. 

Certainly I’m no Hemingway. I’m just a woman who likes putting words on paper, who thinks better when she has a pencil in her hand or her fingers on a keyboard. It was an interesting experiment, changing up my writing venue, tiptoeing for a moment into a different atmosphere. But probably not one I’ll repeat any time soon.

I am definitely still a creature of habit, and it seems I’ll be keeping my writing habits intact for the time being. 

Blown Away

The wind is fierce this morning. From my second story “office” I can not only see it, the tall treetops behind the houses across the street and swaying and shifting in a elegant dance, but I can hear it too, a none-too-gentle moaning sound that sweeps around the corner of the house and across the front yard.

While popular usage of the term “blown away” refers to being extremely impressed by something, I can’t say I feel that way about this spring’s weather. In fact, I’d say the many chilly, gray, rainy and windy spring days are knocking my off my moorings in a more literal way. It manifests itself in physically, with headaches, sinus pressure, poor appetite. But also in an emotional way with a longing, an ache to feel warmth and sun. For the heaviness in the atmosphere to lift, for the energy of spring to, well - spring.

My mother and grandmother both were very attuned to weather. Both of them were terrified of storms - thunder and snow storms alike.  Coming from a long line of farmers, I suppose it was in their blood: after all, weather was totally related to one’s livelihood, and could make all the difference between having food to sell and eat and ending up with nothing. My mom suffers in the winter - not only with her arthritis pain, but with being trapped inside. As soon as spring arrives and she’s able to putter around in her yard, her blood pressure comes down, she moves more confidently and quickly, and her appetite improves. The past two years have been particularly difficult for her, and I’m as eager for spring to arrive for her benefit as I am for mine.

I know it will get here, it always does. I think I felt entitled to an early spring, after the long and punishing winter cold. This week (spring break!) I’ve woken every morning to gunmetal gray skies, cold, and sometimes icy rain. My inner child is stamping her foot and pouting in protest.

But all I can do is stand my ground and wait. 

And try not to get blown away in the process. 

The Sunday Salon: Inspirational Reading

Although not a traditionally religious person, I am one who seeks ways to add a spiritual dimension to my life. I am also constantly struggling to define what that means: right now it’s a desire to connect to something larger and more lasting than my physical presence on earth, and to do so in a way that adds meaning to my life and to the lives of others. 

It comes through daily routines and rituals I craft for myself: time alone in the morning to think and read and write, walking outdoors, listening to and playing music. It comes from being with people I care about, bearing witness to their stories, doing things that might make their lives a little easier or more pleasant. 

And, not surprisingly, inspiration for my ongoing spiritual journey often comes from books. These are some of the books I’ve turned to - and keep returning to - for guidance and insight:

Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh: I first read this classic memoir in the 1980’s when I was a young mother, dealing with the multiple demands of daily life with children and family, much as Lindberg was doing when she wrote it. It spoke to me of women’s eternal journey and struggle, and the deeper meaning in all the myriad details of our days.

The Crosswicks Trilogy, Madeleine L’Engle: Since I read A Wrinkle in Time in fourth grade, Madeleine L’Engle’s work has touched my intellect and my heart. These three memoirs delve into her history, her family life, her love of music, writing, science, and God and they way they all intertwine together. 

Magical Journey, Katrina Kenison: When I first read this warm and meaningful memoir two years ago, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. Katrina Kenison writes with an uncanny sense of prescience into my own soul. A woman's journey into and through midlife is fraught with uncertainty and change. Reading this book felt like Kenison was taking my hand and leading me gently forward into it with her, providing a guiding presence along the way.

Paradise in Plain Sight, Karen Maezen Miller: I knew nothing about Zen Buddhism or Japanese gardens when I opened this slender little book last fall. She opened my eyes to an entirely different reality - one where it’s not only permissible to let go of unrealistic expectations and perfectionism, but to embrace a sense of calm and peace, a belief that life unfolds as it was meant to do one moment at a time. 

Wishing you insight and inspiration for your own spiritual journeys this spring, wherever you may find it.