"A Room of One's Own"

When the going gets tough, the tough take a nap.  Or get an ice cream cone. Or maybe hang out at the dog park.  I identified my state of mind last week as "caregiver fatigue", which really means trying to fix things it's not in my power to fix, be terminally optimistic and patient, and put my own needs on the far back burner.  It's an imbalance that's so familiar that it took several days and some outside intervention to identify.

I was polishing up my Earth Mother image. It was somewhat tarnished from several years of therapy and learning to be good to myself, even when I'm not perfect and even when I'm not 100% available for duty to others.  Damn these therapists and sponsors, anyway! So I put away the polish, put on my big girl panties and (with gentle reminders) realized again that there IS a limit to how much I can, or should, do for other people.  Such a hard lesson for someone who, at one time, was praised constantly for being "Mommy's big helper".

What pulled me back from the precipice was writing, of course.  Besides an outpouring in the journal, I have done at least a few hundred to a few thousand words every day for the past four days.  And it works!  I'm feeling more like myself again and the ideas are flowing.  As a matter of fact, they're in overflow ---- I've been bombarded with ideas for my next NaNoWriMo book.  It's not against the rules to do some planning, outlining and research before November 1st, after all.  And after the last two books (Visions and Warnings and the one I'm finishing now, tentatively titled Lost Souls) which veered off into untested waters for me, I'm returning to historical fiction for the next one.  It will be set at the end of the Nineteenth Century in a coal-mining boomtown in southern Iowa.  I'm itching to get started on it, or at least to do some character descriptions and background research.

There is something magical for me about coming upstairs to the room I have created for my various interests and creative projects, and delving into my imagination.  Buddy comes and goes, often sacking out beside me on the old, worn couch.  Light streams in from the window that looks down on the street below.  The fan revolves silently, setting a few of the ribbons and papers aflutter, and I hear the comfortable sounds from downstairs that tell me Jill is here, Torrie and Lucky are keeping watch, and Netflix is still working fine.  I've never had such freedom before.  Virginia Woolf was right --- "A Room of One's Own" is ideal.

How pregnancy and hurricanes are alike

First I have to qualify this: I have never been an organized, well-planned person, and I particularly was not that way in my younger years.  So I have no experience with sitting down with a significant other and planning to have a baby.  Just didn't happen that way in my universe.

It occurred to me this evening that a hurricane event like we had today with Irene, is a little bit akin to a pregnancy scare.  I trip lightly through life, la-de-da, doing whatever and suddenly, on the horizon, is a little bitty cloud.  A tiny question.  Just a blip on the radar.

Days go by and it becomes more insistent.  A tropical storm?  An oooops pregnancy?

As more days go by, it's time to pay enough attention to start considering the possible shift in reality.  A little preparation, at least mentally.  OK.  Put some things in a box.  Buy some batteries.  Stock up on water.  Look at a possible Plan B (or C or D).

If I really were pregnant (circa 1974) do I drop out of school?  Quit my job?  Shift career plans?

If a hurricane really comes are we ready?  Enough food?  What about the animals?  What about the stuff on the porch?  Should we just pack up the pets and head for the hills?

In both cases, the anticipation is the killer.  Not knowing what's going to happen.  Having to wait and see.  I can hardly stand waiting till the end of a movie to find out who done it.  Suspense is not my friend.

Today, the hurricane was more or less a non-event where I live.  Wind enough to make it wild and interesting without knocking over trees or tearing off roofs.  Rain enough to water everything well and sluice down the window panes, but not enough to pool in the yard or flood our street.  Anyway, we live on a hill.  We stayed inside, watched movies, checked in with the news, admired Mother Nature making herself known outside the patio door.  No need to break out the hurricane box.  No loss of power.  Just a blowy, rainy day.

And finally this evening, a little irrational disappointment.  I was all ready!  I watched the videos of assorted NC hurricanes of note, and remembered the stifling, humid days after Fran in '96 --- trees down everywhere you looked, the loss of power for over a week, the interruption of life that seemed to take a long time to get over.  I was ready, in case it happened again.  I didn't really WANT it to ----- or did I?

And that's how it would be back in the "Oh my god what if I'm pregnant?" days ---- relief, then a little disappointment.  I already had Plan B in my head.  It might not be what I wanted, but... wouldn't it be kind of fun? Surprising? Different?

I'm not a risk taker.  I'm actually pretty risk-averse. But sometimes a little shake-up is called for, a little something to test the mettle, call out some hidden strengths, even make life uncomfortable for awhile, in order to relish sunny days all the more.

I go to bed tonight grateful that this storm was no worse than it was, concerned for the people who did suffer losses, and yes, a little let down.  But that's ok.  There's always something more on the horizon.

Slippery

When my children were little, I often reminded myself that the days were fleeting.  I tried to fix them in my mind so I would always remember what they were like, how precious they were, how sweet.  Inevitably, the memories become fuzzy until now, decades later, they are more like stories I tell myself about the memories rather than recreations.  Memory is such a slippery beast.

Now that I'm so much older and time seems to be going by so much faster, I find myself wanting again to preserve the days, fix the memories in time, as though that will make it all slow down.  I was on the deck this evening looking over the landscape, as I do from my place at the table for the many meals we eat outdoors.  The need to fix it in memory was so strong today that I actually took pictures with the camera.  But even pictures don't accomplish the real purpose.

I want to hold onto my life.  I don't want it to slip away and be over.  The older I get, at least for now, the more I want to be here and be conscious.  I spent many years escaping, even some of those years with small children. But escape holds no allure anymore.  I wish I could somehow hold it in my hands, taste it with the tip of my tongue and savor this life and all that it brings me.

Lately, I've been cultivating consciousness --- presence --- mindfulness.  My squirrel brain is quieting.  Urgency fades. Pleasure abounds, much to my surprise.  My 25-year-old self never would have believed that. Pursuit, activity, frenzy, excitement, and strong sensation were the pathways to pleasure for me then. I'm sure it's not that way for everyone.  It was for me.  It's what I needed to feel alive.

Now, aliveness comes in the moment.  This one.  The breath and scent and touch of the moment.  What amazing freedom that is tonight.

All the world's a stage

It's pretty amazing to me that whenever I check the sales on my ebooks, they keep going up.  I've long since passed the time when it's only family and friends who are buying them --- and I'm doing virtually nothing to promote them. So how does this happen?

Magic of the interwebs, I guess ---- thank you Amazon.com!

This summer I spent quite a bit of time and energy getting the books out in both paperback and ebook formats, with lots of proofing, tweaking, and revising.  During that time, my focus shifted away from creation and onto the nuts and bolts of publication.  Taking the self-publishing route, as I have, I get to control the timeline, but the entire responsibility for quality and distribution fall on me.  Drives my little perfectionistic self NUTS!

I have often said, over the years, that I like the creativity of writing, but not the selling.  That still holds true, though I do actually like learning the new skills it took to put it out there.  I also have always known that I would write, whether anybody ever read it or not.  Call it Emily Dickinson Syndrome.  It's not like drinking bourbon or eating cookies --- not that kind of compulsion ---- but it seems that writing satisfies some deep need for expression in me.  So I've always done it, even though much of it has never seen the light of day.

Do I like that my books are selling?  Of course!  It's quite a thrill.  What I'm afraid of is that I will get caught up in "logistics", as I call it, and neglect the creative impulse.  I'm also wary of the ego aspect of it.  I grew up in a performance oriented family --- not only was academic performance a priority, actual public performances were a matter of course.  My father was a musician.  My sister and I sang in one of those ever-popular sister acts on stage and tv.  We all took dance, we all had piano and various other instrumental lessons.  And every chance we got, we were in theater.  From the time we were young, our parents were continuously involved in community theater, and if we kids weren't actually in the production, we were often at rehearsals or working backstage.  While most of us dropped off by the time we were raising kids and making a living, my youngest sister is still active in two theater groups and always at one rehearsal or another. And I guess you have to count the 15+ years that I was straddling the 19th and 20th centuries in museums, schools, festivals and even private parties, as a living history interpreter, educator and storyteller.

And what does this have to do with selling books?  I do love a spotlight!  It's easy to get hooked on the ego of it all.  But writing is a solitary pursuit.  As much fun as I have when I'm writing, for a social butterfly like me, it can get a little lonely.

What I strive for is balance.  I need them both, the public and the private, the creative and the commercial.  And isn't that what I keep looking for in all of my life?  Somehow, even with my full-tilt, obsessive-compulsive, high/low self, who will keep doing something that feels good until it doesn't, I want to find a middle road.  I sometimes feel like my life IS a stage (wait, did somebody already use that?) and I keep weaving my way around and through the set pieces trying to find my way.  Gargoyles, heroines, towers, dragons, and drawing rooms ---- I need it all, in order to feed the me of me.  Not a bad gig, all in all.

Wanna buy a book?

Normal is as Normal Does

I used to live in Normal.  Normal, Illinois, that is.  That's where I finished my undergraduate studies and took my master's ---- Illinois State University.  I was always amused by the thought of living in Normal, even though I knew it derived from the fact that the university used to be a "normal school" --- a training college for teachers.  That's what they called them, back in the day.  Don't ask me why.

So did living in Normal make me normal?  I suppose it depends on your point of view. If paying enough money, putting in enough work and jumping through enough hoops to be awarded two degrees is normal, then yes.  I was normal.  As a matter of fact, considering the heavy emphasis on education and academic achievement that I learned at home, I felt as though it was not only normal, but imperative to earn a graduate degree.  That's how you become a good person in order to lead an upright, normal life.

But did I consider myself normal on the inside?  Not in the least.  Since I had long since developed the habit of comparing my insides to other people's outsides, I always felt like a mess.  From the inside out, it felt like I was always on the verge of collapse, ever in peril of being discovered to be a fraud.  I went through all the motions, and I developed real skill at hoop jumping, but I never felt that I earned my diplomas like other people did.

Now I feel pretty normal, for the first time in my life.  And this is in spite of living a life that many other people would consider abnormal.  Two Old Broads --- that's us.  Enjoying wedded bliss.

DIGRESSION ALERT: I've been annoyed lately about the word "lifestyle" being used to describe how I, and others of my tribe, live.  Lifestyle is what you buy at the mall. I didn't purchase lesbian at Pottery Barn.  Being gay is one of the aspects of who I am.  It defines me in a limited, but profound way.  I'm also short ---- very short.  Not even 5 feet tall.  But I assure you, I don't live a "short lifestyle".  END OF RANT

Normal.  When I was growing up in the 1950s in rural Iowa, it was normal to go barefoot a lot, to have the run of the town and surrounding countryside without adult supervision, to create your own games and amusements out of whatever raw materials were available, and to be fed candy and cookies by any kind lady whose porch or kitchen you fetched up in, whether you knew them or not.  That was normal because that's how most people lived.  It would have been abnormal to cosset your kid indoors in front of a screen all the time and away from other people.  Folks would have thought there was something wrong with you, that you were not parenting your kid correctly.

Now I'm not saying that was right and people do it wrong now.  Not at all --- I don't have a cane to thump on the floor while declaiming "Back in my day..."  What's changed is what NORMAL is.  Normal comes from the root word norm.  Norm is defined as a standard or average.  What is most common?  Today, because of changes in society, changes in parenting standards and educational practices and employment, it is more normal for kids to be in structured activities or institutional settings during what used to be playtime.  More people live in neighborhoods where it is unsafe, or it is felt to be unsafe to let kids play without direct supervision.  So the new normal involves a great deal more direct supervision and less opportunity for chance discoveries or encounters.

Normal has shifted in so many spheres --- watch a few episodes of Mad Men or better yet, old 50s and 60s sitcoms, and it's easy to see the underlying assumptions about relationships, roles, behavioral expectations, etc.  It's startling to see how many people smoked and where they did it, now that the norms have shifted so much.  Drinking and driving?  It's always been a scourge, but time was, you'd get off with a warning or rarely even be stopped in the first place.

At my doctor's office there is a sign above the scale that says "Normal is just a setting on the washing machine."  What's the worst part of going for a checkup?  Not the fasting, not the needles, not the long wait in a flimsy gown --- it's the scales.  It might as well be SCREAMING --- "You pathetic excuse for a human being, you waste of oxygen, get the hell out of here and don't come back till you lose forty pounds!"  The sign doesn't drown it out, but it helps.

For most of the last decade,  my normal was working 60+ hours a week and never being done.  It was always thinking about school, the kids, the job, the unfinished tasks, the new things to try, the things that didn't work.  Normal was guilt about being an inattentive wife, a negligent daughter, an unavailable mother, an infrequent friend.  Normal was putting self-care dead last on the to-do list.

I'm glad I live in a new normal now.  

Be here now and breathe

I've been reminded lately, that I am perfect just as I am.  In fact, I heard that this morning in yoga class.  It was met by considerable skepticism by several of the women present, who are all in their 80s and 90s.  It is sad to me that the common complaints we have are still about expanding waistlines and not being good enough.  Is it something that we are all doomed to take to the grave?

The perfection statement, the first time I heard it many years ago, was one of the most puzzling things I had ever encountered.  Perfect?  Nobody's perfect --- I've heard that all my life!  Sometimes, someone would add "except God" which really only made things worse.  So how, by any stretch of the imagination, could I look at myself in the mirror and see perfection?

But when my children were born, I could instantly see the perfection in them.  I still do.  Sure, my son had a bright red birthmark on top of his head, but that didn't make him imperfect ---- it was part of his perfect self.  And my daughter with the interesting toes?  Absolute perfection, no doubt about it!

So what happened to me?  Why could I only see things that were wrong, whether I was looking at my physical image in the mirror or thinking about my accomplishments and behavioral characteristics?  Someone might describe me as generous, but I knew that wasn't true.  Others saw me as smart ---hah! there are about a gazillion people smarter than I am.  I've heard myself described over and over as patient, but I know about the seething impatience I have inside myself, the impatience I learned from watching my father interact with people and situations.

So when a teacher of yoga or meditation or self-acceptance or even religion says that I am perfect, there's a HUGE disconnect, and I could only think that the person was intentionally lying, or more likely, I'm too stupid and screwed up to understand it.  Fortunately, I do have some persistence and I've stayed on the planet long enough to start understanding things that made no sense to me the first 150 times I was exposed to them.  Like attachment.

When I was in my late teens and newly married, my then-husband introduced me to the writings of Alan Watts and a couple of others.  The Buddhist teaching about attachment seemed like the most ridiculous and idiotic thing I'd ever heard.  I was passionately in love with this man.  You mean I'm not supposed to love my husband?  That was my interpretation and I rejected it out of hand. I wasn't really interested in trying to figure out what they were saying.

Over the ensuing decades, I've come across enough related ideas, and had enough of life-living, to form my personal understanding of what I think is meant by attachment.  It has been my own experience that attachment creates unhappiness or dissatisfaction.  When I love someone passionately the seeds of unhappiness are intrinsic to the experience; to lose that love will make me unhappy, and even the thought that it could happen creates dissatisfaction and unhappiness in the present moment.  Likewise, a "negative" situation contains inherent dissatisfaction in the thought that it "should be different".  Do I rejoice in my own or someone else's illness?  No, but if I can be with it in the present moment, it simply is. I don't have to like it --- up or down judgment has nothing to do with what IS.

So there I am.  Once, nearly twenty years ago, I was in a personal crisis and feeling as though I was reaching the end of my rope.  I took a call from a young woman I was sponsoring in sobriety, and she said to me, "Just be here now and breathe."  I have used that phrase for myself and others innumerable times since that day.

Right here.  Right now.  In this moment, in this breath, is perfection.  It's all I have to do to experience perfection ---- just be here now, and breathe.

This is what I do

It's funny how summer can have the flavor of vacation, even though I have nothing to vacation from.  And now that school supplies are flooding the stores and my teacher friends are gearing up for another year, I feel the old anticipation begin to churn.  I'm starting to be productive again.

This has been a writing week.  I'm working on my last year's Nano book, planning to finish it in the next three months.  I have an approach-avoidance relationship with writing.  I can sit down with all the needed tools --- a cup of coffee, my trusty laptop, the proper music for the piece I'm writing, dogs snoozing in the vicinity (essential!) and then proceed to spend three hours browsing around on the computer.  As I avoid, the anxiety begins to expand until I finally have no choice but to either jump up and scrub the kitchen floor or actually turn to writing.

Here's how it starts.  I read over what I wrote the last time, changing words, re-punctuating, listening for rhythm and pacing.  Then I tell myself that nobody ever has to see this stuff, that I'm only writing it for myself, and if I don't like it I can delete it in an instant. After that, I'm ready to close my eyes, put my fingers on the keys and start typing.  Almost always, after all that preparation, it begins to flow immediately.  All I have to do is reel it off, describe the movie in my head, listen to the voices of the characters and take dictation.  Time disappears.  I disappear. I have no worries, no problems, no anxiety, no fear.  It is like losing consciousness of myself and plunging into the world I'm creating.  Often, my fingers fly across the keys faster than I think they can go.  I am not conscious of thinking or composing.  The story moves forward, often in surprising ways.  Characters pop up that I didn't know had been invited.  Solutions present themselves, circumstances change, details emerge, and I just keep recording.  I get so caught up in it that I can make myself laugh out loud, or type through my tears. I've been known to tie something up so perfectly that I have to get out of my chair to stomp and dance.  Sometimes they're belligerent or stubborn and I get so frustrated with the characters that I just have to stop before I strangle them on the spot.

After awhile, usually a couple of hours or longer, something will happen, either in the story or here in "real" life and I am suddenly back in my present time. This body. This house. The transition can be jarring.  Often, it takes me an hour or two to completely shake off where I've been while I was writing.  When a book is deeply in process, it never entirely lets go of me.  I always know it's cranking away, like the background programs on a computer.  I may be visiting with friends or talking to Jill or shopping for groceries, but something keeps whirring.  I even know where this little engine is located --- in the back, left side of my brain, just behind my ear, like a little fan spinning around, keeping the thoughts going. I dream it, too, though usually not recognizable as the story I'm writing.

I suppose, when I'm in this state, it's not the easiest thing to be around me.  I'm distracted and probably appear distant and preoccupied. It takes an understanding partner to put up with it, and I'm lucky to have one in Jill.  She not only tolerates these spells of neurotic creativity, she encourages me and feeds me with kisses and snacks and the occasional reminder that life is still happening on this plane.

I do, on occasion, get stuck.  When that happens, my best bet is a change of location.  I go to a coffee shop or out to Falls Lake and do my writing there. I put it away and read someone else's novel for awhile.  When I have a section I simply can't bring myself to write, I can also skip over it and go to some other part.  In fact, I don't always write consecutively.  I have started in the middle and gone forwards and backwards, I've started with the ending and gone back to write the rest.

It feels like a wonderful gift I've been given, to be able to entertain myself this way.  I was the queen of 'let's pretend' when I was a child, and I guess it never stopped. I may or may not entertain other people along the way, but for me, inside myself, this is the most fun I know how to have.  I don't know what else I could ask for.