Where Things Stand

...or sit, or stagger. Take your pick.

But the current surface-skimming state of affairs - or at least what comes to mind - is this matter-of-fact update:

D. works.
I work. I drive - about 100 miles a day during the work week.
The girls are in school.
R. plays soccer and rides when she can. She also volunteers with a local equestrian therapy center.
S. dances, and was just put in a good role in the Nutcracker. She also continues to make progress with her bass, that fog-horn, cow-lowing instrument that I've come to enjoy listening to while I fold laundry.

I don't write as much as I long to, and lately I feel that this not-writing-ness is less a casual burbling stream outside my window than a full-throated river quickly gaining speed as it crashes toward the sea of Lost Opportunity. And I'm tired of walking along it or sometimes putting a toe in the bracing water. And I don't want to build a bridge. Instead, I want to dam it and channel that power into words on the page, words on the screen, and Something of Worth (intrinsic worth, mind you - not just that false worth suggested with capital letters). Otherwise, what's the point?

Worse than writing without any spirit in the words, worse than writing poorly, is wasting the drive to write.

I think I want the writer's life. I could be wrong. But I'd like to test the theory more than I have in the last year, anyway.

Hurry up and Wait

I realize that saying how long I worked today or how little I slept last night is a symptom of insecurity. It's fishing for sympathy. So I'll temper it with lack of detail. But I'm starting to feel it, here in the coffee shop with my writer pals, trying to remember the plot of that old novel that needs finishing...

Someone observed last week that my "self-awareness" was so extreme as to be crippling.

So is shyness or claims of introversion a manifestation of narcissism? Self-exiled in self-involvement? I think maybe yes.

I miss Wales with an physical ache. The Welsh call it hiraeth. Heart-sick homesickness, even if its for something that isn't technically your home. Writing something set there both helps and makes it harder.

But I have these characters in limbo between plot points who I feel have been looking up at me expectantly over crossed arms, occassionally checking their watches and sighing heavily. Like, Hel-LO? Remember us?

So I'll see if I can move the ahead a couple of squares on the board.

Bird by bird.

Fallen but Rising

Last week I was hit hard by a fresh reminder of how we are all, to some degree, morally compromised. Flawed, yes. And sometimes really ethically broken. But also, even the best of us, scarred by a thousand little cuts--nicks in our integrity. Does this make us human? Or keep us from being human? Or is it the recognition of it, and how we respond to that, the test of the caliber of our humanity?

I spent a couple of days feeling old and as in mourning. I think it was over the loss of another layer of innocence. Is there any going back?

But this is, after all, a time of change for me. After a year plus being dormant in so many ways, I feel new things coming. New and good, slowly building up like green seedlings pushing through the damp dark earth toward light. Have I said this before? If so, I hope I can attribute it to the cyclical nature of things rather than neurosis. I'd rather believe it's a valid rebirth happening, and not same-old-tune mutterings like a drunkard's forgetful promise.

(a piece of garden, 4/09)

Does this count as redemption?

There's something like absolution (although self-given) that comes with deleting the worthless placeholder posts from last month.

As always, taking the pressure off of myself for not blogging daily leads to a higher likelihood that I will blog. And so removing the reminders of where I fell short of my own standards feels like me forgiving myself and erasing a poor record.


The weather is wet and cold and oddly autumnal for nearly mid-May. It's wonderful weather if one is inside. No need to water the newly planted garden today!

Ballet & Bubbles Press

Check it out!


http://www.petaluma360.com/article/20100305/community/100309717

And this is Wednesday

Having posted daily recordings of nothingness, while the days themselves have been anything but...

It's Wednesday. D's truck ("Big Blue") is currently broken down and will need to be towed to a repair shop.

The girls are playing violin and bass in the livingroom while D starts a fire.

I haven't looked at my personal email in days and haven't logged on to FB for probably weeks.

By the time the sun sets, I'm done.

But I think getting back into running 3-4 times a week will help. It's been way too long, and my plans for walking and running without the benefit of a treadmill (and all the reading I can get done while on said device) have come to little.

Sad but true.

The change in the time on Sunday will mean it will feel like 4am when I get up in the morning Monday-Friday, but it will also mean more light late in the day, so more time to run and to take the dog to the dog park before my energy completely wanes with the setting sun.

Sunday, more cleaning, Moon Circle

Saturday, spring cleaning, Alice

Friday!

Dydd Dewi Sant 2010

Happy St. David's day, one and all!

Brought daffodils, scones, muffins & Welsh flag to work today to celebrate.

Another afternoon of running around and evening of caring for the family. But in spite of some bumps along the road, we're all well and reasonably happy. And overall, very silly.

Dydd Dewi Sant hapus iawn i chi!

Diverse day

Got up early, took dog to dog park, went north to help lay Marley floor for dance competition, came home & made breakfast, gardened, went to friends' house to watch the hockey game, went north with the girls in tow to watch 2 hours of ballet competition, dinner out, home, bedtime routine, bed. That's all.

Saturday, actually Monday

Two days after the fact, but let's pretend it's Saturday night. This is ironic, because Saturday was the day in the last week or two when I have done the most actual writing. And yet, in spite of working on a poem for an hour or more, I didn't post here. Until now.

A Tree Falling

Another morning-after retropost.

So this has been interesting. I'm tempted to feel like this has become a private journal, and that no one else is reading it. Which means I may be more inclined to bare my soul and less inclined to care about grammar. No, actually. I'm sure I can't stop caring about grammar. Even fragments are intentional.

"Intentional fragments" - I kinda like that.

And of course I re-read and edited this. It's a wonder all those hand-written journals from my younger years aren't full of crossed-out lines, or scratched out pages...

Mundane marathon

The litany of the day:

Got to work just after 5am, worked 8 hours, picked up S. from her ensemble class after school, took her to bass lesson, picked up other people's children at their school, dropped them off at the meeting point in town, got home, dropped off S., took the dog to the dog park because he was CRAZY from being inside all day, picked up S. for violin, took her to class, took her home, dropped her off, ran back up to her school for a mandatory parent meeting, got home at after 9pm, consoled sickly R., heard a bit about D.'s day, collapsed!

Thank goodness the violin+bass lessons are short-term. S. is quickly on her way to only bass.

I think the highlight of the day is proving my tested theory that one can fit a quarter-sized bass and 4 children + driver in a Prius. :)

Aren't you hungry? Aren't you tired?

My family must bear the burden of me asking them why they haven't gone to bed yet when I'm tired, or asking them what they'd like to eat when I'm hungry.

Interesting that I seem more ready to transfer my needs to them than to acknowledge them as my own. What's that all about?

Wordle of Set Down This

Inspired by Suzanne's entry. Here's a Wordle of this blog. Hmmm. I'm not sure if it only looks at recent entries - I am guessing that's the case. It's nearly 10pm now, and the kids are just (finally) in bed. I haven't completed my chores for the day, but 4:40 comes so early...well, it looks like I've been brought low by the mundane again. Fighting off a sore throat, feet chilled because my office is the least insulated room in the house, and the wood-burning stove is not nearby. And I'm ready to call it a day without having written poetry or finished the laundry. However, I did put 89 miles on my car in the normal course of the day. And I worked my eight, got the dog to the dog park, delivered various children (mine and other's) where they needed to be--on time--,attended the Board meeting, supervised homework, made S. lunch for tomorrow, listened to violin and bass practice, critiqued R's latest story, balanced the checkbook, paid the bills, replied to a couple of emails.

I'm sitting here telling myself that this, too, has its place in the Significant Work of the world. Its place and its time, and its own grace as well.

One step forward, one step nowhere...

Getting back to writing daily is a stumbling process right now, even with my youngest asking if she can write for 30 minutes while I write for 30 minutes.

But when 30 minutes don't come until 9:30pm, sleep trumps scribbling. At least, it should for her. And it did for me.

Another day, another opportunity to move in the right direction...

Time is so weird

Funny. How late it is seems inherently tied to how tired I am.

11:45pm can seem not late at all if I happen to feel wide awake, whereas 7pm can seem like the wee hours of the morning if I'm sleepy. The latter is usually the case, and in general, I do "shut down" after 8pm. Tonight, ironically, is an exception. I won't be so chipper when my alarm goes off in 5 hours, I'm sure. But it's been a good day. And by "good day," of course I mean "productive day" - a satisfying combination of duty and pleasure, and of the pleasure that only comes (for me, anyway) with duties having been done fully and in good time.

One can only hope that one sleeps better when the chores have been completed. Because one certainly sleeps less.

offline today

I spent the whole day sans computer and didn't miss it for a moment.

Walked the dog to the dog park and back for the second day in a row. It's nearly 3 miles and that makes for a 2-hour venture if we spend more than 15 minutes at the park, which we always do.

I could get used to daily long walks. Really I could.

A year ago

It's the one year anniversary of my father's death, so of course I've thought about him a lot today. I'm not ready to write more about it. Some deaths don't lead to poetry for a long time, I think.

But I did start to write an ekphrastic poem this evening, as I'm now part of an ekphrastic poetry group.

Part of the jump-start process. Day 3 of Lent.

Feb. 18 2010 retro-post

At 12:30am, in bed, I thought "Oh no!"

Day two of a renewed commitment and where were my 30 minutes?!

So I lay in bed and meditated - really - until around 1am.

It also occurred to me that:

1) the red chaise sofa is entirely too comfy, especially when next to a fire in the wood-burning stofe, and its siren song of sleep is overwhelming. The time I would have spent writing was lost in its chintz arms.

2) my life at the moment does not lend itself to contemplation. I must change the configuration. But it probably can't be done in two days. Three or four may be required.

Ash Wednesday

It's Ash Wednesday.

Although nominally I'm still an "Elder," I've been away from the Presbyterian Church for about six years now.

But Lent brings out the wannabe ascetic in me, and for the last couple of days, I've been thinking about what, if anything, I might give up for Lent. I stopped eating poultry in October, so giving up meat of any kind is already taken care of. I could give up fish, but that's no real sacrifice. I've already had chocolate today. And coffee. So too late for those two old favorite candidates.

But really, I know that this year it's not what I need to give up. It's what I need to take up again.

As in, Time.
Time to reflect.
Time to write.

30 minutes a day, minimum. That's my commitment for the Lenten season this year. Me. Alone in my office, 30 minutes every day. Writing. Or meditating. Or praying. The sacrifice of giving myself over to quiet or creativity. Or both.

Blogging more often may keep me honest. You'll notice, perhaps, that I offer no "oh-my-goodness! It's been months since I added a blog entry" apology. (Um. Except for that.) I don't have time for the posturing of regret, that's why.

But here's something I wrote January 16th that I wanted to post. For the record.

It takes a certain amount of ego to be a writer. Or at least, to be the kind of writer that puts her writing out there, for world consumption—whether that is in a blog, or in a poem or essay or novel. It takes enough ego to assume that what you have to say is something that other people want to hear. Or alternately, it’s just as possible that it takes enough ego to not care whether other people want to hear it or not.

Yes, there are usually other forces at work: a love of words and language, for example. Or the drive for examination and reflection, for observation and expression. There’s often a low-level, basic need to use the written word to process one’s thoughts and understand the world.

I’m certainly compelled by this last source of motivation. Writing frees me of the weight of input through the release of output. It clears my brain of clutter and allows me to breathe. It doesn’t mean the rest of the world wants or needs to hear what I’m putting in words. But this worry over other people’s reactions has dictated so much of what I’ve chosen not to do or say in life, I’m starting to feel that no only is it high time I left that concern behind, but in fact I have some making up to do. And an unknown, but certainly shorter-than-before, time in which to do it.

I’m also driven by that love of language. Not so much individual words (although some of them are quite nice) but how they can be used. The right turn of phrase—something unique and startling—can do wonders for me It can make me feel as content as a cat in a slant of sunshine, or as thrilled as John Muir at the top of a tree in a lightning storm. It can instill in me a deep and profound hope in the whole future of the human race.

I’m writing this now because for weeks I’ve been forcing the Muse, bringer of the mood and vision that brings me offerings of insight and vocabulary, to get in line behind everything else. I’ve been moving my hand in a dismissive wave to direct her to go and wait behind the others. Behind work, shuttling children, supervising homework, making meals, offering moral support for the family, going to meetings, paying the bills, walking the dog, sorting socks. The list is extensive, as the Muse could tell you. If I allowed her to speak at all, beyond whispering that the way the winter has exposed hidden bird nests in bare branches warrants a poem, or that walks in the open air are key to a healthy soul.

Certain themes repeat. Like a little string of notes, a melody strung into every movement of a symphony, there are phrases that surface in one’s life that are only distinct from what has come before by the altered circumstances around them. The tug of war between what is necessary because of practical considerations and what is necessary because of spiritual and creative hunger comes up again and again for me. Obviously, someone has to do the dishes. And obviously, even with others helping, sometimes it has to be me.

But because I believe denying myself whatever drive or gift is my birthright may well lead at best to a wasted or bitter life, and at worst to a fatal implosion that will take everyone around me down with me, I’m going to stop and look at the naked nests. I’m going to walk in the open air. I’m going to write.