The Beginning

I’m writing this while on the plane to Atlanta, en route to Manchester airport and from there, to Wales. I’m listening to Antje Duvecot singing “Reasonland,” and thinking of two days ago when Clare and her beautiful family came over for dinner, and we hung out in the livingroom afterword, singing and playing instruments to and with one another. S. gave a bass recital of sorts – basically, she was practicing for orchestra camp, and it occurred to me that we should have company over more often. It encourages the basic practicing that should happen daily anyway!

But even if S. hadn’t picked up her bass and played for us – though I’m very glad she did! – it was amazing to have Clare and her daughter harmonizing together like angels, and to see both of the twins playing guitar. We had two guitars out. Clare played some Antje Duvecot songs – figuring out the chording as she went, because she’s that good. And we all sang “This Land is Your Land,” together, with those of us who could harmonizing. As I think back on it, I realize that the dads (D. and Tim) may have stepped out of the room for this display of old-time fun, but it just makes me so happy to know that there are still families in the world who sing together, and to know that we are not too self-conscious to be one of them. It makes me think of a nineteenth century salon, something that encourages the pursuit of art.

In contrast, here I am wearing blue ear buds that are connected to a Macbook Air, typing away and listening to iTunes. I’m not usually someone who is “plugged in” while on a plane, but I have the great fortune of no one in the seat next to me so I don’t feel as much as usual that someone might be looking over my shoulder, judging how I turn a phrase! And I’m writing. Writing! Something I hope to do for the next three weeks extensively. God willing I will have both endurance and inspiration enough to fashion some poems and re-write my novel. While studying more about Dylan Thomas, sightseeing, and working very hard to speak and understand as much Welsh as possible.

This scribbling on the plane, in fact, is a sign (to myself even if no one else ever reads this blog) of my commitment to write. I won’t be able to post this message until I’m back on the ground with internet access, but there’s no reason not to write it. I’ve had my nap and snack and now I’m hoping to stay awake for the balance of this flight (another hour, I believe) and then sleep on the next leg, over the Atlantic. We’ll arrive not long after noon local time – which I think is GMT + 1. But I slept little last night, and I’m sure the two hours I just drooled on myself from SFO to here were not too much to keep me from sleeping again soon. I tend to be rocked to sleep in moving vehicles of all kinds, anyway.

[tried to upload a picture of the view on the approach to Atlanta, but the wifi connection is not cooperating yet!]

Hello from SFO

Our dear friends Kate & Becca used to tease that "I'm at the airport" was code for needing to run away or check out. It was short-hand for admitting that it was time for a break.

Well, I'm at the airport. But surrounded by fellow travelers who are equally excited about this journey to Wales. And at the risk of seeming antisocial, I'm just posting this quick entry that the trip has begun! More soon...

testing...testing..

So this is a test of posting to my blog from my smart phone, if only to say that this time next week I'll be quite close to landing on Britsh soil.
 Hooray!

Active Tense

As opposed to "passive tense."

Today started early, with a walk to a chicken-sitting gig, where I let the 10 gals out of their henhouse for the day, watered Paige's exquisite garden, and took care of the three kitties and angelfish. The owners returned this afternoon, so I won't be back until they next time they go on vacation (September?), but I always enjoy the time alone doing domestic chores away from my own home. What's that all about? If only I felt the same peace in my own home, where I am too judgmental about what I haven't yet done. At least, I suppose that's what's going on.

Later in the morning, I went to the home of one of Petaluma's Poet Laureates (once a Poet Laureate, always a Poet Laureate, right?). Terry also happens to be the leader of our upcoming Poets' trip to Wales, and she's building a lovely herb spiral, inspired by spirals she'd seen during previous trips to Ireland. It was a work party-cum-BBQ and a great chance to spend a little more time with her and a couple other fellow travelers.

I'm now officially "SUPER EXCITED" about the trip. I haven't done much on the revise-the-novel front, although I have been working on poetry and will be sending some things off in the next couple of days for a competition. Such things keep me motivated. Or (as is now the case) re-inspire me. And writing a blog entry two days in a row is fairly remarkable, if I do say so myself.

21 days to form a habit? How many days to format the habit of a lifetime of daily writing? The answer? All of them. "Write all the days!" as the family might say, much as one says, "Eat all the cake!"

And maybe this is what my new poet friends & I will look like while staying in Wales:

Half the Fun

...at least half the fun of a trip is the planning of it. The excitement of anticipation, the puzzle-solving logistics (train timetables, packing strategies, room reservations), all the components of the pre-realized dream have a certain appeal to me.

So as I prepare to travel for a 2+ week long trip (writing! with other poets! in Wales!), I'm thoroughly enjoying the preparation stage of things. And, because I am focusing more on my writing, I'm starting here with at least a brief update and mention of the trip, and to state my intention to blog more while away, although internet access will be challenging at best. Pob hwyl!

Achievement Unlocked

Or so goes the gaming phrase, according to D.

I could say "mission accomplished" but really it's more of a goal than a mission, or more of a small but very significant step towards accomplishment of the greater mission.

At least I have a sense of how it (probably) ends. I have something of a story arc, something of an idea of where Point B is and how to get there from Point A. I have the roughest golem.

And now the real work begins. Fortunately, I have always liked the editing, shaping, fixing part of writing. This might be the reason behind multiple, multiple drafts of even the shortest poems.

So I'm excited about breathing real life into this book now, and making it something better. But ask me again in two months if I'm enjoying the re-write clean up polish as much as I think I will now.

Pointy Pal Julia threatened to share the news with Suzanne if I didn't first, and so here you go. A post to declare that setting my own deadline and daring myself to get something done seems to have worked.

The new goal: a mostly-completed draft by end of July that can be further improved by a trip to Wales. Then let's see if anyone out there is interested in this little creation. Let's see if it has any worth.

The above shot is a view of the town where the story is set (from http://www.aberystwyth.com/):

One Day at a Time

Or maybe it should be "1000 words at a time," the amount I managed to write in about an hour yesterday at the Apple Box after some quality catch-up time with the Pointy Pals writerly friends. Still, if feels like a slow slog toward completion.

The protagonist is re-assessing all of her recent major life-changing decisions and second-guessing herself (write what you know). No, actually, she's more confused than I am - but then again, I have not had a scheming novelist throwing a bunch of stuff at me all at once to make things interesting. Note: this is not meant to be a fate-tempting statement! I am knocking on wood with my left hand and typing this single-handedly with my right.

Today I started the day writing a draft of a poem, but have not (yet) looked at the novel. However, the girls have just gone to bed for the night & D. is not yet due home for a while, and the glass of wine and red couch by the wood-burning stove beckons. So I am grateful for the poem draft and the blog post and being caught up in most of my personal email. For now.

A Novel Idea

I have nothing more witty than the title of this post to say. I'm just focusing on finishing the rough draft of my novel, and I've enlisted the support of my family but asking them to ask me every day, "Have you finished your novel yet?"

This is a lazy alternative to writing my goal and deadline on a 3x5 card and reading it every day, as any self-respecting self-help author would advise. But actually, I plan to do both. I just have to scratch out the current date on my "I will finish the rough draft of my novel by" card and put a new date in. How about March 31st? March 31st sounds good to me. Besides being the birthday of D's sister and my birth father, it's Easter. A holiday of hope, and the eve of National Poetry Month (the other project I have my sights on is assembling a book-length collection of poetry).

So even though there may be no one but me reading this blog at this point: There. I've put it in writing. "So say we all!"

St. David's Day 2013

Friday and St. David's day. I have a few daffodils in a vase at work, cut fresh in the back yard. When we moved into our house, 19 years ago, the front yard was a typical suburban expanse of lawn with a fruitless mulberry in the middle of it. I used to mow it with a manual mower, even when seven months pregnant with my first child (much to my macho neighbor's chagrin - why wasn't my husband doing that? He just didn't understand how much I enjoyed it!). We bought the house in December, and it wasn't until the following spring that we had the surprise of a daffodil coming up in the corner of the front lawn. Just a single plant and a single bloom, like a surprise present from the previous owners. 

The next year, there were two blooms, and then a few more each year - until we finally re-landscaped to remove the lawn and put in planter boxes and a combination of ornamental grasses and rampantly persistent poppies that do battle with weeds every year. Actually, I do battle with the weeds. I don't think the grasses or poppies - which really are like weeds, at this point, even care. I moved the daffodil bulbs to the back yard when we pulled out the lawn, and each year they've continued to spread, until now around mid-February I have an entire corner of yellow blooms heralding the coming of St. David's Day. They have grown without me doing anything about it, epitomizing grace and engendering my awe and gratitude. 

Daffodils are such happy flowers. This year for the first time I could actually smell them, too. I'd thought they had no smell at all - in fact, a coworker at the library 25 years ago had once famously said to me, "Daffodils smell disappointing." But these, this year, under my nose, are a light floral sweetness that lifts my spirits and makes me hope for the coming Spring.

Any Day that Starts With Writing is a Good Day

That's my new motto. Even if this morning's writing started 2 hours later than my best-intentions (damn them!) would have had me at my screen, creating. Working towards a wrap-up of the first ugly draft of "Hiraeth." Perhaps by March 1 (St. David's Day!) I'll have writing the ending and have started to take out and examine the whole ugly mess of a thing so I can rebuild it into something worthy of the time I've put into it.

Ash Wednesday, Valentine's Eve

This is the time of year when I reawaken with the daffodils and focus on writing and on the self-examination and internal life that are a part of that activity.

I am (again) back to trying to work a 40 hour week. I am (again) back to trying to write daily.

R. is getting closer to graduation and the beginning of a whole new stage of her life.
D. is growing his business (The Works) and working only 20 hours a week at his "day job"
S. is still dancing almost daily, and playing in the Rep. Orchestra whenever possible. Her interest in ballet is waning, and her interest in acting and voice is waxing. She's now taller than R. and has started to share more and more of her thoughts and feelings with me, just at the age when children typically stop sharing such things. Go figure.

I'm well into the tail end of my Welsh novel, and plan to have the first messy error-riddled draft finished within the next couple of weeks, so I can start all over and make it right. And make it good.

And WALES!
I will be traveling there this summer for three weeks - for the first time in nearly 14 years. It's been far to great a hiatus, and I'm very, very excited about the trip.

Hello July

Blogspot warns me that the browser I'm using is not supported, and that I may experience "unexpected behavior" as a result.

I'm expecting the unexpected, but I doubt this post will jump up and start tap-dancing while you're reading it.

Lately I've been writing. Only a few sentences, and on a good day a poem draft. But daily, for many days now. (16, but who's counting?) And I've been reading. Poetry, for the most part. But also, I'm immersed in Lindbergh. First it was Anne Morrow, with A Gift From the Sea during vacation last month. And now, I'm enjoying Forward From Here by her daughter Reeve Lindbergh. That voice is so clear to me. Direct, and honest, and humble without being self-effacing. There's something about the perspective of both women that reminds me of Madeleine L'Engle. I've probably said this before. And there's something about all three of them that will forever remind me of my maternal grandmother, who introduced me to Anne Morrow Lindbergh, with whom she'd shared French class at Smith in the twenties. Is it a humanist quality? It's something beyond just feminist, beyond just New England prose (although there's that, too). But I find it expansive, inspirational and at the same time, so very comfortable and familiar - old friends from whom I've been parted for too long.

In addition to reading more in general, I've been listening to Pema Chodron and to Diane Ackerson's One Hundred Names for Love on CD.

For a few weeks there, too, I was reading The Success Principles. It was interesting being compelled equally by the exercises suggested by Canfield for visualizing everything you want to be and do and have, and by Chodron's instruction to learn about the traps and suffering that come from beliefs and thoughts. I felt a little schizophrenic! But then the Canfield book had to go back to the library (someone else pursuing success had put a hold on it), while I own the Chodron CDs. So I've traded in much of the index-card affirmation reading and visualization of my new home, slim self, and fat bank account for almost-daily meditation.

Today I moved the location of my iMac. R. was done with her desk and I took it in order to shift my writing perspective as I've wanted to for years. I'm no longer restricted by the limitations of the immovable cantilevered desk D. had put in the office so long ago, when he realized the wide spacing of the floor joists made the floor (and any tower on it) bounce under our weight. Now computers have come a long way, I have this desk, and I can write looking out the window rather than at the wall. My back is still more or less to the door, which isn't optimal - except insofar as it meets my maternal requirements to be able to walk past the room or peek in and immediately see what my youngest might have on the screen during the (increasingly less) rare time she's allowed there. Usually it's still Club Penguin, or possibly My Little Pony. There are worse evils.

The light is about done for the day, which is always depressing on a Sunday. But this time next week, I'll have two (count 'em, two!) teenagers in the house. Yikes!

Good Friday Eve

This high holiday season has meant so little to me. I feel like my family has become just so...secular.

Yes, we're particularly busy and preoccupied this year. And maybe this just proves somehow that it's only been my pushing and prodding and bringing out the little ceramic bunny decorations half-way through Lent that has ever meant Easter was coming in our home. Or maybe it's just the the girls are older. Or that, for the first time I can remember, we have no plans - AT ALL - for Sunday.

The lack of familial pressure to prepare or go to a breakfast or lunch is a relief (if I can stop myself from feeling any filial guilt about it). But I'm saddened by the loss of celebration and ritual all the same.

We plan to have young friends staying over tomorrow and I expect to have the girls decorate eggs. Maybe that, or reading some e.e.cummings, will help.

April and the Wood Burning Stove is Still My BFF

What's better than curling up in the red couch next to the fire at the end of a hard day?
Um...nothing.

I May Be Slow, But At Least I'm Expensive

...it's kind of like that. Except that I'm impatient. So impatient, in so many ways. I don't wait for people to finish their sentences. I don't wait for people to catch up. I don't like waiting at all. I've often joked that patience is one of the big lessons I'm supposed to learn during this lifetime. My mother always ran late, my husband used to always leave me waiting. My second child is very, very slow. And I slam instead of sipping. I walk fast. I'm not good with just letting time pass.

Except that I remember being something very like patient when it came to petting zoos as a child. I would wait for a fawn to approach me. Pointlessly, for minutes, while my mother suggested we move on to the next thing. Or (we have video footage of this), I would follow a peacock all over, hoping it would be so kind as to drop a tail feather for me to collect.

But this wasn't patience, really. It was stubbornness. Or perhaps pride. Or some combination of the two.

You see? One character flaw masking another. Might come in handy to remember and instill on some unsuspecting fictional player in a novel.

Advancing at the Retreat

Just arrived home from spending about 8 hours writing and dining with fellow writers at Julia's parent's Stinson Beach house. I progressed further than I have in months (years, even) with my old Welsh novel. It was a productive time following a busy morning at work, and sandwiched between long drives: on the way out, in Mill Valley, I was rear-ended, but it seems that the cars and I sustained no damage (except a bit of a headache for me), and on the way back, it was a long and windy road in the dark.

But I'm home safe, and sound, having heard a very important quote on the way back from Diane Ackerman. Michael Krasny quoted her from her NY Times column as saying, "In the end, what we pay the most attention the most defines us, and how we choose to spend our lives transforms us." To which she replied:

It does. So you need to ask yourself, "With what do you want to spend the irreplaceable hours of your life?" Because paying attention programs the brain, and makes it easier and easier and easier to slip into those little habits, those palatial ruts, that we love so much. And they can be good or bad, depending."

I somehow didn't know of this woman before tonight. How is that? I think I have a new hero.

April Again

National Poetry month. Again. And Spring. Today, no rain.

I'm grateful for the renewal of energy that comes for me each Spring. Just when I thought the drive to accomplish anything beyond mere survival was gone for good, I have a day like this, where I am able to focus on some things that have long awaited my attention.

It felt satisfying to get a few things done: dog to dog park then to pet store for a thorough bath, pet food purchasing, squaring away travel plans, working on the Human Race campaign for S., exploring the purchase of a url for D's new business, a long run at the gym (6 miles, only .5 of which was walked), returning of video, mailing of letter, bargain grocery shopping - so important to check those expiration dates! - a little weeding, a little laundry, dishes, re-laying the butcher paper in the hallway which now constitutes our flooring, down time with the girls watching a movie, fire starting, blogging.

And I feel the day was about 5 hours too short, and that just one more weekend day at home would be lovely. Serves me right for working 4 hours yesterday.

But tomorrow promises more time to write, at least. I'll go to bed tonight thinking about my "Welsh novel" so that by the time I get to writer pal Julia's retreat in Stinson, I'll be focused and can join the group of novelists hitting the ground running, as it were. I could be working on a book of poetry too, but I think for a long period of time, the novel would be good. Although I may work on poetry here & there too.

But if I don't go to bed now, it'll mean too little sleep for the long day ahead. Forcing myself to wrap it up and call it done.

Slow To Post

Who remembers when POST meant power-on-self-test? For those who do, you also know that a system that took a very long time to POST was a potentially failing system. So am I failing? Nope. Fortunately, the long delay before posting for me only represents priorities that have been elsewhere.

Since last I blogged, D. has recovered from pneumonia (mostly), and R. and I have spent a week looking at colleges in Northern California and Oregon. She's a great traveling companion, and apart from a stressful hour in Portland trying unsuccessfully to find the Old Spaghetti Factory in the rain, I would consider the trip a very positive experience.

The time away gave me an opportunity for a little perspective, and I'd like to think I've come back with more balance. I worked only a hair over forty hours last week, and got home with a touch of light still in the sky more than once.

The longer days are such a blessing; I dread the time change coming later this week because of how difficult it may make mornings, but I welcome the ability to come home and accomplish domestic chores before sunset - sunset, which heralds the complete waning of my energy.
There may be no activity that gives me more satisfaction after a hard day than weeding the yard.

I realize that I'll never make my house feel like a HOME until I spend more time there, getting rid of things that hold me back and building the things that help me grow. Watching an episode of Hoarders in the hotel room with R. was at once a traumatizing and inspiring experience. And yes, R., I'm scarred for life.

Often when Lent comes along, I use it as an opportunity to commit to some kind of discipline. This year, in addition to avoiding alcohol during Lent (so far, so good!), I'm writing notes toward a poem - if not the actual first draft of a poem - every day.

11 entries for the 11 days. I had to go back and fill in a couple of blanks, but I'm on track and am grateful for the magic that happens when I show up to write. I may start thinking I have nothing but mundane grocery lists or reviews of the say to scribble, but end up with a metaphor that has made a guest appearance or (in some cases) shoved its unexpected way into the poem and transformed it. I am grateful for the appearance of the poetic mindset whenever it comes.

As I have before, I wonder what it would be like to live more than a few minutes every day as a poet. The upside is that I feel I could produce truly valuable work. The downside is that I don't think I'd be very capable of meeting normal obligations, like feeding the family, for example. Thus the crazy balancing act implied by giving myself the handle "Practical Poet."

I'm trying to do both here, people. Fold the laundry and compose the sonnet. Dishes and villanelles. Driving children while scanning a line, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel to count the feet in a phrase.

And I know I can't be the only working middle-aged mom doing this. Not all poets are either drifters or doctors, after all.

Eight

Eventually, naming posts after the date will wear thin. And by "eventually," I most likely mean tomorrow.

Had the pleasure of meeting with the writer pals, J&S today, and although I actually got little actual writing down, I did re-read some chapters of my "Welsh novel" that I hadn't read in two years, thus reminding me of whole subplots and characters I'd forgotten about completely. It helps me settle back into it, as did watching "Framed" (the BBC film that takes place in North Wales) over the weekend.

Managed to make short trips to the gym both yesterday and today. D. is better, although not yet ready to go back to work. I'm shooting for a week of NOT working 10 hour days. Goals are so important. My goal is to do less. Ironic, isn't it?

Seven retro

Teenagers hanging out in the livingroom until late, watching D. play his video game. It's beyond me how they can spend two hours watching someone else explore a gaming world. So I took a short trip to the gym while they hung out. After a day of office-cleaning and a few errands with S. - by the time the guests left and we settled down to a movie (just the family), I was ready for sleep. And missed, for the first time this year - ha! - the chance to write. But it was a good day. No complaints here.