Halloween has just passed. And with it boogey-men, spooks, and un-accounted for fears. Odd, how fear so easily takes on a persona; can become a full-fledged life in its own.
Such was the case the other night when I went to plug in my back porch Halloween decoration. I have an adorable, Wal-mart Special plastic pumpkin-head, shaped and carved to look like Winnie-the Pooh in all his delightful, cherubic, innocent grin. And it was gone. Not a single shred of evidence of it's demise. Nothing else was disturbed. Nothing amiss. Just that Winnie had vanished.
And I felt spooked. I was irritated, yes. Why would anyone want to take such a sweet thing? Had to be a prank. And that's what ticked me off. This Pooh had sentimental value. It gave me a way to connect to my grandchildren who used to enjoy it on my old porch; the porch where we'd sit and play with match-box cars, watch fireworks on the 4th, water my flowers and drop pebbles down the grate. This pumpkin wasn't just decor. It cradled memories; it evoked childish joy and innocence. Not having it; losing it; that it was STOLEN, angered me.
But it also frightened me. That someone either that previous night when I was sleeping or during that day when I was out walking, would poke around my back porch and sneak off with my Pooh, was pretty gutsy. My bedroom window is right above where Pooh sat. Trifling around after bed-time right under my nose and me not be aware, was troubling. Or, even more so - to boldly, in broad daylight remove Winnie and walk away like nothing in the world, had to indicate some kind of low-life, scum-bag, deviant, derelict, no-good, blood-dripping, knife-toting criminal that probably just escaped from prison and whose face is tacked up in black and white at the post office. Never mind that such a monster walking away with a Winnie-the-Pooh pumpkin-head tucked under his arm didn't quite jive. You never know what those perverts take pleasure in. At least, that's how I was feeling. Vulnerable; scared; on edge.
This is Cannon Beach. There is no crime in Cannon Beach, I told myself. Well, yes, there is NOW, I argued back. The only thing about Cannon Beach that has made me feel vulnerable is, Tsunami awareness. I have felt completely free to walk about town, the beach, the trails; to not look over my shoulder in darkened areas. I've taken comfort when the police chief cruises through the village and residential blocks......about six times a day. In Cannon Beach I have never felt on-guard against crime. It never crossed my mind. But at times I HAVE been on guard, Tsunami-guard......well, more like Tsunami red-code-alert.
When I walk remote areas of the beach, I scan for an escape route should the Big One come. I've versed myself on where I'll high-tail it from my house; taken note of where the power lines are should they crash over and lay exposed blocking a route. I've studied the Tsunami map, and I know I have to get my Tsunami back-pack put together. All of this information has made me aware, yes. But at times it has made me more than aware. Some times, it just plain freaks me out.
The freak-out time is usually bed-time. And the boogey-man starts in.........
....now, Carol. Where's the flashlight? You know, dear; just in case. And, where'd you put your contact lens case? Do you think you'll have enough time to grab them on the run? And if you do, where will you put them? Are you gonna carry them around in your hand while you're trying to grab for your Tsunami back-pack, which by the way you haven't prepared yet, while you're trying to hold on to the flashlight? Well, you could stick the lens case in your pocket. My pocket? Where the heck am I going to have pockets? My pajamas don't have pockets! God, I'm gonna have to get pj's with pockets. Shoes. Where are your shoes? Did you put some by the bed? What about socks? Do you think you'll have time for socks? I wonder how big the Big One is? Will I be fast enough? I wonder if I could climb that big spruce out back?.......
Yes, when I'm tired, maybe worried about other things, Tsunami awareness can become a Jekyl-Hyde monster. And now, it seemed, I had another Cannon Beach spook to worry about. A porch interloper. This robber of innocence. The memorabilia thief. I don't want to be on a red-code-crime-alert in my village, on my street, in my house. I don't want this petty incident to become a monster too, one that requires a mental smack down every time my imagination goes berserk. So, I gave myself a little talking to...
....this is life, Carol. Ah, yes, sorrowfully not so innocent, but it's not an imminent monster out to devour you. Deal with the reality. Do the things you need to be sensible. But live. Oh God, yes. Live.
So, yesterday morning I'm taking the garbage out back, and lo and behold, there's my Pooh pumpkin. It's laying in the yard over by the corner of the house next to the porch, flipped on its side with its electric cord all strung out near the bushes. I was delighted. Certainly about having my keepsake back, but I felt a certain cosmic glee....maybe the culprit had a flash of conscious, a sense of noble humanity and brotherhood, and brought my joy, and why, yes even, my sense of safety back!
As I turned to go inside with Pooh tucked safely within my arms, my neighbor called out to me.
"Hey, Carol. Did you see the elk this morning? They've been poking around the last few days."
"Aww. No, I missed them," I answered.
"Yah," he answered back. "They were right on your back porch. Coolest thing. I'm surprised you didn't hear or see them."
Elk. Burglar elk. Toying with a plastic pumpkin. These majestic, yet goofy looking creatures had been nosing Pooh around my back yard with their velvety, huge muzzles. I made a decision as I headed back indoors. I cannot let spooks create nether-worlds in my existence. A simple caution does not have to become a fearsome monster.
So I made a decision about that other Cannon Beach trepidation too. I will put my Tsunami back-pack together, store it in my coat closet by the front door for easy access, but it will be a citadel, my fortification, a guardian, NOT a boogey-man.
....but I still may think about pajamas with pockets.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
NaNoWriMo; WhyNot?
I've just done a dumb thing.
Some dumb things are inspired. Some are courageous even. And then some are just plain out-of-my-league ridiculous. My gut feeling is that signing up at the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) website is going to fall somewhere in the last category. In my romantic, idealistic vision of writing-glory, I am savoring the notion that courageous inspiration is what seized me. But as I reckon with what I've done, I think reckless abandon is more the case.
You see, NaNoWriMo is a zany website encouraging writers to sign up for the ultimate motivational boost - a deadline. And this deadline is the mother of all deadlines: to write a complete 50,000 word novel in 30 days. (And believe me, this can be done. The current best seller, Water for Elephants, is a NaNoWriMo accomplishment.) What makes this challenge even more grappling is that November is the designated month. Which, of course, includes a major holiday revolving around family, travel, food-prepping, visiting, and all kinds of out of the usual scheduling and routine. In other words, it's a deadline goal that will require the most diligent discipline. It will take a commitment of producing, at the least, 1666 words a day. That's six to seven pages!
I honestly don't know what in the world I was thinking.
Even though the website reassures me that a 50,000 word draft within 30 days will be a rough, rough draft looking a lot like, well, as they said, crap (and this was supremely encouraging), the point is two-fold. One, it's the discipline thing; getting a handle on the just-do-it struggle. In fact, while perusing the website forums designed for communal support and guidance, I felt a smug camaraderie. Why, for heaven's sake - procrastination seems to be everybody's issue. And point two, because the daily word count demand is so high, self-editing cannot happen; you just have to keep pounding out the words. What that leaves is pure creative abandon. In other words, because editing and creativity occur in opposite sides of the brain, it's a vehicle that forces an unleashing of creative energy, a method to uncork the stopper. I like the way one of my new writing friends puts it -"just unleash the puppy and see where it goes."
The idea of a self-competitive deadline set within a community of like idiots is rather compelling. It sounds like a fun way to launch myself over a long standing, self-imposed barrier. And the metaphors of unleashing puppies and uncorking plugged up creativity speak to me. I am a hog-tied writer. I want so badly to shake the bottle and blow the cork. So, for about a month I have toyed with NaNoWriMo. I would peek at their site; then I would linger; then I would start mapping out characters and plot lines in my mind; until one day in an abstractly, mindless impulse, I signed in.
And then I did the math.
Now I can talk six to seven pages of words any old day. Why, I can think six to seven pages of words a minute, easy. But to write six pages a day.....well, let me put it this way....to write one, 250 word page of text takes me about an hour. Yes, an hour. So, we're talking six pages? That's right; we're talking six hours. No way on God's green earth. Once I had the math, I went back to the website and found lots of discussion about some kind of 750 word count test. It seems that the average time it takes for these NaNoWriMo participants to write 750 words, which is three pages, is oh, say......around........forty to sixty minutes.
I'm done. Every ounce of smug camaraderie just slid right on down like oil. Now, my plot-line felt stupid; my characters, while I like them, became too complicated and were too many; my confusion about point of view (first person? third person?) loomed like Kilimanjaro. Every potential area for self-doubt loudly and grandly announced itself.
And then I found the NaNoWriMo Rebel forum. Yes, ....writing rebels. Hmmmm.....
It seems there are these NaNoWriMos that, for one work-life reason or another, set a different goal for themselves. Many have been previous participants; some are new. While this group cannot claim the "official" victory title of "Winner" at the end of the month, they are still part of the community, and they still consider themselves winners if they complete their own set goal. They still benefit from the experience; they're just a bit out of the box.
Ahh.....I found my group.
So, I've reset my goal to 22,500 words, which works out to three pages a day. For me, this is both, a disciplined stretch, and a reachable goal. Three pages, every day, is a challenge. This will be work; but it is something that is not beyond my skill (as long as I know I have the luscious liberty to produce, crap). I have one week to re-group. In my panicked, self-defeat mode I jumped around between story-lines and characters so much that I am confused and have no idea which way I'm going. But that's ok. The main thing is, I'm just going to let this puppy off the leash, and see where it goes!
NaNoWriMo website: http://www.nanowrimo.org/
Some dumb things are inspired. Some are courageous even. And then some are just plain out-of-my-league ridiculous. My gut feeling is that signing up at the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) website is going to fall somewhere in the last category. In my romantic, idealistic vision of writing-glory, I am savoring the notion that courageous inspiration is what seized me. But as I reckon with what I've done, I think reckless abandon is more the case.
You see, NaNoWriMo is a zany website encouraging writers to sign up for the ultimate motivational boost - a deadline. And this deadline is the mother of all deadlines: to write a complete 50,000 word novel in 30 days. (And believe me, this can be done. The current best seller, Water for Elephants, is a NaNoWriMo accomplishment.) What makes this challenge even more grappling is that November is the designated month. Which, of course, includes a major holiday revolving around family, travel, food-prepping, visiting, and all kinds of out of the usual scheduling and routine. In other words, it's a deadline goal that will require the most diligent discipline. It will take a commitment of producing, at the least, 1666 words a day. That's six to seven pages!
I honestly don't know what in the world I was thinking.
Even though the website reassures me that a 50,000 word draft within 30 days will be a rough, rough draft looking a lot like, well, as they said, crap (and this was supremely encouraging), the point is two-fold. One, it's the discipline thing; getting a handle on the just-do-it struggle. In fact, while perusing the website forums designed for communal support and guidance, I felt a smug camaraderie. Why, for heaven's sake - procrastination seems to be everybody's issue. And point two, because the daily word count demand is so high, self-editing cannot happen; you just have to keep pounding out the words. What that leaves is pure creative abandon. In other words, because editing and creativity occur in opposite sides of the brain, it's a vehicle that forces an unleashing of creative energy, a method to uncork the stopper. I like the way one of my new writing friends puts it -"just unleash the puppy and see where it goes."
The idea of a self-competitive deadline set within a community of like idiots is rather compelling. It sounds like a fun way to launch myself over a long standing, self-imposed barrier. And the metaphors of unleashing puppies and uncorking plugged up creativity speak to me. I am a hog-tied writer. I want so badly to shake the bottle and blow the cork. So, for about a month I have toyed with NaNoWriMo. I would peek at their site; then I would linger; then I would start mapping out characters and plot lines in my mind; until one day in an abstractly, mindless impulse, I signed in.
And then I did the math.
Now I can talk six to seven pages of words any old day. Why, I can think six to seven pages of words a minute, easy. But to write six pages a day.....well, let me put it this way....to write one, 250 word page of text takes me about an hour. Yes, an hour. So, we're talking six pages? That's right; we're talking six hours. No way on God's green earth. Once I had the math, I went back to the website and found lots of discussion about some kind of 750 word count test. It seems that the average time it takes for these NaNoWriMo participants to write 750 words, which is three pages, is oh, say......around........forty to sixty minutes.
I'm done. Every ounce of smug camaraderie just slid right on down like oil. Now, my plot-line felt stupid; my characters, while I like them, became too complicated and were too many; my confusion about point of view (first person? third person?) loomed like Kilimanjaro. Every potential area for self-doubt loudly and grandly announced itself.
And then I found the NaNoWriMo Rebel forum. Yes, ....writing rebels. Hmmmm.....
It seems there are these NaNoWriMos that, for one work-life reason or another, set a different goal for themselves. Many have been previous participants; some are new. While this group cannot claim the "official" victory title of "Winner" at the end of the month, they are still part of the community, and they still consider themselves winners if they complete their own set goal. They still benefit from the experience; they're just a bit out of the box.
Ahh.....I found my group.
So, I've reset my goal to 22,500 words, which works out to three pages a day. For me, this is both, a disciplined stretch, and a reachable goal. Three pages, every day, is a challenge. This will be work; but it is something that is not beyond my skill (as long as I know I have the luscious liberty to produce, crap). I have one week to re-group. In my panicked, self-defeat mode I jumped around between story-lines and characters so much that I am confused and have no idea which way I'm going. But that's ok. The main thing is, I'm just going to let this puppy off the leash, and see where it goes!
NaNoWriMo website: http://www.nanowrimo.org/
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Last Choice
NOTE: This entry is fiction. It's the result of a writing assignment from the Tolovana Arts Colony writing group I've linked into - an exercise titled "If this were your last day, how would you spend it?"
It is NOT autobiographical. However, as a novice fiction writer I am drilled to "write what I know." So, though I draw from life as I know it, and while this is not a real incident nor are these characters real people, I have to admit if you know my life, some things are, I apologize...so very familiar. I like how a classmate and new friend puts it (citing Joyce Carol Oates) - "I'll tell you my truth, but it will come out as fiction."
At some point, I hope to become skilled enough in fiction that nothing I write is recognizable; except what is universally human. And there we are. All in the same camp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She knew this was her day.
Yes, there'd be more days ahead, but they would become clouded, vaporous. This was her day that she chose for herself, while she still could. Choice had become her most sacred companion. This friendship with self-design had become...how could she explain it? Delicious. Yes; that was it - sumptuous; delectable; sensuous even. This time there was no default; no fall-back plan-B arranged around appeasement, the safe-guarding of others' needs at all costs. This was about pure, unadulterated self-comfort. And it was luscious.
Like the melty, chocolaty, marshmallow-gooey graham cracker mess sticking to her grandchildren's fingers as they leaned into the campfire, setting their smore-ish concoctions ablaze. They were cherubic, those fingers. She wanted to lick them, to keep forever in her mouth the taste of babies, toddler-hood story time, rocking and singing together in the big gold chair, racing through the play-ground monkey-bars playing tag-you're-it, squeezes and giggles and wrap-their-scrawny-little-arms-around-her-neck hugs that stole her breath and heart.
"Mom. How you doin'? Are you warm enough?" Mark reached over and tucked the blanket tighter around her.
He looked at her, his eyes soft, but straight on. He always made sure they connected. Even at times when it would've been easier not to, he did. She looked up at him and once again they smiled at each other deeply, as if to reassure each others' soul; to reassure their own.
"I'm doing great, honey."
She leaned back in her chair digging her toes deeper into the sand and gazed up at the Dipper. Earlier Venus had been the show, had hung brilliant and solitary, dancing for the longest time between light and dark; between indigo and tangerine, sky and horizon, chasing the sun, changing partners, but now, rollicking among the crystalline chorus-line - a part of an incandescent anthem. She understood this Venus-dance; she was coming to know this song. She took a deep breath and inhaled the notes.
And there they were: the campfire; the sea; the sand; her children and grandchildren, their voices as aroma penetrating her senses clean through to her cells. Their laughter now, around the campfire - a love potion.
"Mom, remember the time...," Leigh was laughing so hard she couldn't finish. Her luxurious doe-eyes, those eyes that seemed to behold and reflect wisdom, that could shimmer mischief, that could ooze love right back onto itself, were now crinkled in tears and whimsy. Leigh was pulling her youngest son, Samuel, onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him and burying her laughter into the nape of Samuel's neck.
She could smell that neck with Leigh.
"You guys were so mean," said Scott. "Giving me head-swishies in the toilet. I was a little kid! Freakin' scared me to death."
He drooped his eyes, pouted his lips way out and despite his tattoos and dangling cigarette, managed to look every inch the innocent. But he couldn't stifle glee; couldn't hinge a mirth rescued from flames, re-born from angst, and throwing his head back he cackled from such a deep and lavish place that everyone around the campfire was captured with him; even the little ones joined in, their giggles like harmonized tinkling bells. His laugh was contagious, just like his spirit.
"Aww; come on little brother...we weren't really mean. That's just, you know, sibling protocol," said Mark, his laugh deep and long, like a sigh that had waited a long time, and now reveled in its release and goodness. He saluted Scott with his beer.
Scott raised his, which sent all the grown-ups into motion.
"Here's to us," said Leigh, raising her wine glass.
"To us," they chorused.
Yes, she thought, to us.
There were a lot choices they had all made through the years. Choices that made them who they were. Some choices came from places that drove them; drove them to survive; to just make it through. Some came from recoil; some were scripted; and some, yes by God, some were freely decided - rationally, deliberately, selected in grace.
Her daughter-in-law leaned over and whispered to her,
"This is so fun. I'm glad you planned it."
"Yes. Me too, sweetie."
She felt her scarf start to slip off her head, felt the chill actually, and reached up to adjust herself against the night. Her fingers brushed the scar in her naked scalp, but she refused their usual impulse to linger. She knew its line by heart. No need. Not now. No.
The fire popped. Its glow warming the remaining strands of night. They were all there, around the campfire - warming the night with her.
"Gramma?"
"Yes, darlin'."
"My fingers sticky."
She looked at them.
"Ohhhh, yes they are!" she said, as she cupped Samuel's hand, licking his fingers, savoring the gooey messiness of love, sending him into squeals of laughter as he wriggled away.
"Nah, nah. Can't catch me Gramma!"
"Oh yes I can! You better run, Samuel. Gramma's gonna catch you and eat those tasty little fingers right up!"
And she leapt out of her chair, chasing Samuel beside the dune.
Yes. While there was still a dusky campfire light.
Yes. While the sea hummed; while the sky glittered.
Yes.
To us.
Yes.
It is NOT autobiographical. However, as a novice fiction writer I am drilled to "write what I know." So, though I draw from life as I know it, and while this is not a real incident nor are these characters real people, I have to admit if you know my life, some things are, I apologize...so very familiar. I like how a classmate and new friend puts it (citing Joyce Carol Oates) - "I'll tell you my truth, but it will come out as fiction."
At some point, I hope to become skilled enough in fiction that nothing I write is recognizable; except what is universally human. And there we are. All in the same camp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She knew this was her day.
Yes, there'd be more days ahead, but they would become clouded, vaporous. This was her day that she chose for herself, while she still could. Choice had become her most sacred companion. This friendship with self-design had become...how could she explain it? Delicious. Yes; that was it - sumptuous; delectable; sensuous even. This time there was no default; no fall-back plan-B arranged around appeasement, the safe-guarding of others' needs at all costs. This was about pure, unadulterated self-comfort. And it was luscious.
Like the melty, chocolaty, marshmallow-gooey graham cracker mess sticking to her grandchildren's fingers as they leaned into the campfire, setting their smore-ish concoctions ablaze. They were cherubic, those fingers. She wanted to lick them, to keep forever in her mouth the taste of babies, toddler-hood story time, rocking and singing together in the big gold chair, racing through the play-ground monkey-bars playing tag-you're-it, squeezes and giggles and wrap-their-scrawny-little-arms-around-her-neck hugs that stole her breath and heart.
"Mom. How you doin'? Are you warm enough?" Mark reached over and tucked the blanket tighter around her.
He looked at her, his eyes soft, but straight on. He always made sure they connected. Even at times when it would've been easier not to, he did. She looked up at him and once again they smiled at each other deeply, as if to reassure each others' soul; to reassure their own.
"I'm doing great, honey."
She leaned back in her chair digging her toes deeper into the sand and gazed up at the Dipper. Earlier Venus had been the show, had hung brilliant and solitary, dancing for the longest time between light and dark; between indigo and tangerine, sky and horizon, chasing the sun, changing partners, but now, rollicking among the crystalline chorus-line - a part of an incandescent anthem. She understood this Venus-dance; she was coming to know this song. She took a deep breath and inhaled the notes.
And there they were: the campfire; the sea; the sand; her children and grandchildren, their voices as aroma penetrating her senses clean through to her cells. Their laughter now, around the campfire - a love potion.
"Mom, remember the time...," Leigh was laughing so hard she couldn't finish. Her luxurious doe-eyes, those eyes that seemed to behold and reflect wisdom, that could shimmer mischief, that could ooze love right back onto itself, were now crinkled in tears and whimsy. Leigh was pulling her youngest son, Samuel, onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him and burying her laughter into the nape of Samuel's neck.
She could smell that neck with Leigh.
"You guys were so mean," said Scott. "Giving me head-swishies in the toilet. I was a little kid! Freakin' scared me to death."
He drooped his eyes, pouted his lips way out and despite his tattoos and dangling cigarette, managed to look every inch the innocent. But he couldn't stifle glee; couldn't hinge a mirth rescued from flames, re-born from angst, and throwing his head back he cackled from such a deep and lavish place that everyone around the campfire was captured with him; even the little ones joined in, their giggles like harmonized tinkling bells. His laugh was contagious, just like his spirit.
"Aww; come on little brother...we weren't really mean. That's just, you know, sibling protocol," said Mark, his laugh deep and long, like a sigh that had waited a long time, and now reveled in its release and goodness. He saluted Scott with his beer.
Scott raised his, which sent all the grown-ups into motion.
"Here's to us," said Leigh, raising her wine glass.
"To us," they chorused.
Yes, she thought, to us.
There were a lot choices they had all made through the years. Choices that made them who they were. Some choices came from places that drove them; drove them to survive; to just make it through. Some came from recoil; some were scripted; and some, yes by God, some were freely decided - rationally, deliberately, selected in grace.
Her daughter-in-law leaned over and whispered to her,
"This is so fun. I'm glad you planned it."
"Yes. Me too, sweetie."
She felt her scarf start to slip off her head, felt the chill actually, and reached up to adjust herself against the night. Her fingers brushed the scar in her naked scalp, but she refused their usual impulse to linger. She knew its line by heart. No need. Not now. No.
The fire popped. Its glow warming the remaining strands of night. They were all there, around the campfire - warming the night with her.
"Gramma?"
"Yes, darlin'."
"My fingers sticky."
She looked at them.
"Ohhhh, yes they are!" she said, as she cupped Samuel's hand, licking his fingers, savoring the gooey messiness of love, sending him into squeals of laughter as he wriggled away.
"Nah, nah. Can't catch me Gramma!"
"Oh yes I can! You better run, Samuel. Gramma's gonna catch you and eat those tasty little fingers right up!"
And she leapt out of her chair, chasing Samuel beside the dune.
Yes. While there was still a dusky campfire light.
Yes. While the sea hummed; while the sky glittered.
Yes.
To us.
Yes.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Finding the Sweet Spot
I have a favorite spot in my kitchen, an area where I end up. It's the place where I saute, where I watch the evening news, where I gaze out the window, where I often stand and eat my meals. I call it the sweet spot.
This summer two of my dearest friends (I call them "the girls") came out from New Jersey to visit. They gave me a writing journal - a purple-ish, floral, ribbon-tied book with an elegant pen. I dubbed it "Musings from the Sweet Spot," and propped it within easy reach on the counter between my radio and wine rack. But I haven't had any particular musings to jot down while occupying that space. I tend to hear my muse as I walk the beach -
.....until the other day.
Lately I have been re-figuring my days, trying to get a sense of how to shape my daily life since my job(s) have been gradually pared down from three to one, from three-quarter-time to half-time, to quarter-time, to no time. The summer economy at the coast has whittled away my employment; has shaken loose my self-created structure - my sense of order and purpose to each day. I have enough post-divorce support to manage for a while, I am not panic-struck, but I am uncomfortable with this "non-productive" freedom. I find myself needing to qualify; to quantify; to fill this space responsibly.
So, at the Sweet Spot I am contemplating - how should I re-do my resume....I need to start net-working....gotta make sure I keep up with the local bi-monthly classifieds....how's this gonna work, Carol.....
.....when I hear Love, in the tenderest tone say, "You have been spurning Me."
And I am struck - with awe at the gentleness; dumbfounded by the statement; curious of the meaning. I know this voice; instantly. I know this Lover; this One who woos me in the sunsets; cradles me in the soft sand, enfolding me in dunes like a warm blanket. I know this One, and I cry out - "Spurning You? Oh, I am so sorry! How have I been spurning You?"
Now, it's hard to explain how a nanosecond can contain chapters of meaning; how instantaneously scenes flash into cognitive view, connect to deep desires, and make sense. Some call it revelation. For there it all was - in Love's reply:
....."I love meeting you in The Writing; I love to hear your voice."
And there it was - in the flash of unspoken desires, oh how I wish I could write; how I wish I could live at the beach; how I wish I could find my voice. There it was in a burst of recall - the support of family, the affirmation from friends, most recently from writer Mike Burgess, "Carol, if you keep hearing you're a horse, then it's time to get the saddle." There it was in an explosion of purport - the years of journaling, the closed employment doors, the available house, the financial means, the beach spread before me like an avenue to my heart. In a gasp I knew - knew why I ached for my core; knew that I had shoved it away; knew that my core was a chamber designed for communion, to be written in the language of Love.
Oh, yes; I have spurned You. I have treated this gift of space and time too casually. I have tried to minimize Your voice, though You have yearned powerfully within me. You have ached for me; ached for me to express; ached for me to write. And I have been aching for You.
And there it all was....
....my Core; uncovered at the Sweet Spot.
This summer two of my dearest friends (I call them "the girls") came out from New Jersey to visit. They gave me a writing journal - a purple-ish, floral, ribbon-tied book with an elegant pen. I dubbed it "Musings from the Sweet Spot," and propped it within easy reach on the counter between my radio and wine rack. But I haven't had any particular musings to jot down while occupying that space. I tend to hear my muse as I walk the beach -
.....until the other day.
Lately I have been re-figuring my days, trying to get a sense of how to shape my daily life since my job(s) have been gradually pared down from three to one, from three-quarter-time to half-time, to quarter-time, to no time. The summer economy at the coast has whittled away my employment; has shaken loose my self-created structure - my sense of order and purpose to each day. I have enough post-divorce support to manage for a while, I am not panic-struck, but I am uncomfortable with this "non-productive" freedom. I find myself needing to qualify; to quantify; to fill this space responsibly.
So, at the Sweet Spot I am contemplating - how should I re-do my resume....I need to start net-working....gotta make sure I keep up with the local bi-monthly classifieds....how's this gonna work, Carol.....
.....when I hear Love, in the tenderest tone say, "You have been spurning Me."
And I am struck - with awe at the gentleness; dumbfounded by the statement; curious of the meaning. I know this voice; instantly. I know this Lover; this One who woos me in the sunsets; cradles me in the soft sand, enfolding me in dunes like a warm blanket. I know this One, and I cry out - "Spurning You? Oh, I am so sorry! How have I been spurning You?"
Now, it's hard to explain how a nanosecond can contain chapters of meaning; how instantaneously scenes flash into cognitive view, connect to deep desires, and make sense. Some call it revelation. For there it all was - in Love's reply:
....."I love meeting you in The Writing; I love to hear your voice."
And there it was - in the flash of unspoken desires, oh how I wish I could write; how I wish I could live at the beach; how I wish I could find my voice. There it was in a burst of recall - the support of family, the affirmation from friends, most recently from writer Mike Burgess, "Carol, if you keep hearing you're a horse, then it's time to get the saddle." There it was in an explosion of purport - the years of journaling, the closed employment doors, the available house, the financial means, the beach spread before me like an avenue to my heart. In a gasp I knew - knew why I ached for my core; knew that I had shoved it away; knew that my core was a chamber designed for communion, to be written in the language of Love.
Oh, yes; I have spurned You. I have treated this gift of space and time too casually. I have tried to minimize Your voice, though You have yearned powerfully within me. You have ached for me; ached for me to express; ached for me to write. And I have been aching for You.
And there it all was....
....my Core; uncovered at the Sweet Spot.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A Picasso-ian Family Portrait
My family is attempting to re-assemble. It feels like a Picasso.
There's a leg over here; a cracked face hanging over there; broken composition lines, un-tethered figures floating around with no clear spatial relation to one another. All the familiar pieces are there (though looking strangely unfamiliar) within the composition. But fitting them together in a familiar way has been obliterated like a mega-bomb.
Some Picasso canvases are soaked in color, bleeding passion like the slap of a furious lover. But this one, Guernica, is black and white, creating a different kind of slap. It's like a shock of cold water that startles you into sobriety. Guernica is a portrait of horror - the horror of violence, chaos, war. Some wars are political; some are within ourselves, flailed out on family ground. We see the wounded, the maimed laying strewn; grasping, arching for rescue and placement. We see bullish monsters and groaning steeds; but more than anything we see madness.
Next week my children, grandchildren, myself, and (here I go again, attempting an appropriate label I'm comfortable with) my former spouse (the father and grandfather of these mutual offspring) are getting together in our first post-divorce vacation-like thing. Now, to say that we're ALL getting together at the same time and place is a stretch. Various arrangements of us will be together at various times, but there will be a few over-lapping instances when most of us will be together. The planning of this vacation-like thing has already gone through several drafts, been sabotaged in a grenade-like implosion, reconstructed with smudgy lines that could dribble off the page any moment, yet is still attempting to wobble forward. We are desperately trying to reconnect, to reconstitute some kind of family beyond semblance. We want to be together; we just don't know what together is. And, there is still a lot of bleeding on the field. We are all, still, very raw.
We are struggling to gather onto this post-bombed canvas - to hang onto a portrait. All families have those studio-portrait moments of assemblage - the arrangement of tall to short, girl to boy, which baby is upon whose lap, whose hand is on which shoulder....now smile. There is a placement; a kind of artistic structure, no matter how arranged, which says - we are family. Walk in any office or cubicle and from across the room in a glance, you know exactly what that framed, matted, people-grouping is hanging on the wall - it's a family portrait. It says this is the collective from which I come; which places me; of which I am. This is us; this is me.
When I look at Guernica I feel it more than see it. Frankly, I don't know what the heck I'm looking at. But I can feel it. I feel the bombastic lack of structure - like jagged glass it tears at my sense of order and sanity. I don't feel safe in it's shadow. I feel the vapid loss of color and life, a canvas screaming for a gigantic crayon swatch, while declaring at the same time how this sallow pallor is perfectly appropriate. It feels drained of warmth. There are no soft lines, and I feel that too; the angular, weirdly juxtaposed planes shoving me off footing. I feel my arms flailing, flapping at something, anything. I feel the pain, the angst, the horror, not only as my own, but as ours; us - sprawled disjointed across the canvas. I feel us groping, clawing at pieces, trying to create some kind of composition that says something about us other than we are a flayed out mess. Some kind of assemblage that says, we ARE still family; we are more than the horror.
And perhaps,
this is the redemptive point of a Picasso.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Be Open; Show Up
After a year of unemployment, of the disappointing Portland job-interview-tread-mill scene, of running away from it all to the coast (never intending to look for work while submerged in my beach-y sabbatical), I am now juggling three jobs!
This is not really hard to do in the coastal "off" season. Part-time, piece-meal work over the winter is typical. I'm meeting all kinds of folk who do this, year after year. They work a steady job over the summer - long, hard hours at one site; and then thread a bunch of odds and ends together over the winter. The coast employment mentality is a refreshing contrast to the Portland mindset. Last year in my strategic job search, I stuck two notations to my lap top when I needed a little rah-rah moment. On the left corner of my screen a post-it challenges me to "Be Open." On the other side another goads me to just "Show Up." It was a way to stretch my confidence beyond my boxy limitations; to remind myself I don't have to have the full package to go after the job. Just be open and show up. Go for it; be a competitor like the rest of 'em. But at the coast, Be Open, Show Up takes on a whole new dimension.
For instance, instead of the typical job search protocol (preparing a cover letter, selecting just the right one of my five resumes, rehearsing the snappy four-point interview presentation, matching the appropriate blouse and shoes to the professional suit and job description, meeting with a series of interviewers who explain all about their needs and deftly query my skill sets), I was hired during a casual over the counter conversation after tromping the beach in my bald jeans and sloppy rubber clogs and told, "Go ahead and get started with my manager. I'll interview you when I get back from my buying-trip and vacation." That's in three weeks. Ya gotta love this beach mentality. Be Open; Show Up.
That's one of the jobs - gift store retail; for now. I was told they were desperate for clerical help too later (after the interview?). Or, this position could be a combination of both roles. Who knows? Don't know my wage. Obviously don't know the job description. But I'm working! And.....I can walk the beach to work.
Then there's the temporary job in Seaside for a couple in dire need of a vacation. Owners of a furniture store, but too under-staffed to take time off and enjoy some down time, they're eager for mature back-up help. My friend and I strolled in, killing time before we fulfilled our girlie night out to watch Meryl Streep in It's Complicated, and began visiting with the two women working the showroom. They were bored and friendly; we were friendly and chatty, and before I knew it I was engaged in a conversation that lead to a job as "floor-room sitter" while they're on vacation. I have a weekend of training, and bam! Next week, I'm on deck. Nothing complicated or traditional about it.
And of course, there's hostessing at Mo's - great people who took me in like mother hens....clucking in empathy; not ready to hire for the spring/summer rush, but couldn't deny their DNA. Helping others get a step up is part of the Mo's heritage - hailing from Mo herself. A salty, gutsy coastal gal who raised her family and a restaurant, chowder bowl by chowder bowl. Working at Mo's doesn't feel like working. It's more like a family pulling together; serving lusty meals at the family table. Coming into this job was nothing at all like a Monster.com process.
I've conditioned myself toward landing the one job. The one that shapes my stage of life in a practical tidy orbit. Health care is the hub with concentric issues of retirement, sustainable living, and a life/work balance. The sensible American dream. But reality asks, "how elastic can I be?"
We'll see. For now, I'll stay in the mode and see where it takes me. I'll Be Open and Show Up.
This is not really hard to do in the coastal "off" season. Part-time, piece-meal work over the winter is typical. I'm meeting all kinds of folk who do this, year after year. They work a steady job over the summer - long, hard hours at one site; and then thread a bunch of odds and ends together over the winter. The coast employment mentality is a refreshing contrast to the Portland mindset. Last year in my strategic job search, I stuck two notations to my lap top when I needed a little rah-rah moment. On the left corner of my screen a post-it challenges me to "Be Open." On the other side another goads me to just "Show Up." It was a way to stretch my confidence beyond my boxy limitations; to remind myself I don't have to have the full package to go after the job. Just be open and show up. Go for it; be a competitor like the rest of 'em. But at the coast, Be Open, Show Up takes on a whole new dimension.
For instance, instead of the typical job search protocol (preparing a cover letter, selecting just the right one of my five resumes, rehearsing the snappy four-point interview presentation, matching the appropriate blouse and shoes to the professional suit and job description, meeting with a series of interviewers who explain all about their needs and deftly query my skill sets), I was hired during a casual over the counter conversation after tromping the beach in my bald jeans and sloppy rubber clogs and told, "Go ahead and get started with my manager. I'll interview you when I get back from my buying-trip and vacation." That's in three weeks. Ya gotta love this beach mentality. Be Open; Show Up.
That's one of the jobs - gift store retail; for now. I was told they were desperate for clerical help too later (after the interview?). Or, this position could be a combination of both roles. Who knows? Don't know my wage. Obviously don't know the job description. But I'm working! And.....I can walk the beach to work.
Then there's the temporary job in Seaside for a couple in dire need of a vacation. Owners of a furniture store, but too under-staffed to take time off and enjoy some down time, they're eager for mature back-up help. My friend and I strolled in, killing time before we fulfilled our girlie night out to watch Meryl Streep in It's Complicated, and began visiting with the two women working the showroom. They were bored and friendly; we were friendly and chatty, and before I knew it I was engaged in a conversation that lead to a job as "floor-room sitter" while they're on vacation. I have a weekend of training, and bam! Next week, I'm on deck. Nothing complicated or traditional about it.
And of course, there's hostessing at Mo's - great people who took me in like mother hens....clucking in empathy; not ready to hire for the spring/summer rush, but couldn't deny their DNA. Helping others get a step up is part of the Mo's heritage - hailing from Mo herself. A salty, gutsy coastal gal who raised her family and a restaurant, chowder bowl by chowder bowl. Working at Mo's doesn't feel like working. It's more like a family pulling together; serving lusty meals at the family table. Coming into this job was nothing at all like a Monster.com process.
I've conditioned myself toward landing the one job. The one that shapes my stage of life in a practical tidy orbit. Health care is the hub with concentric issues of retirement, sustainable living, and a life/work balance. The sensible American dream. But reality asks, "how elastic can I be?"
We'll see. For now, I'll stay in the mode and see where it takes me. I'll Be Open and Show Up.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Point (of it all)
Welcome to my sanctuary; the Point.
The utter-most end of a life.
Often when I walk the beach, I'll seek out a destination; a spot to challenge myself, or rather my thighs, to get the lead out. I will try to "just get there." I'll start at one end, walk the main stretch, trek up a hill or two, follow a path through sea-oated dunes to an overlook or vista, and voila! The landscape or seascape is always a reward. Actually, any view along my walk rewards me, but when I come to a Point, well, that's like an exclamation point at the end of a statement.
And there is a lot of statement-making going on while I walk. Fortunately, with the increase of hands-free cell phones, I fear no embarrassment. Along with all the other crazed, self-talkers around, as out-loud as I want to be I can whimper, laugh, pout, yell, sing, cuss (although I'm not too good at that, but I could be if I wanted to). In other words, I do a lot of hashing it out as I walk. In therapeutic terms - I'm processing.
Processing on my own is helpful, but processing against something, against someone, is even better. Hitting a tennis ball over the net to empty space over and over again, may improve my serve, but at some point I need the volley. I need the feedback - the return comment that lets me know how I'm doing in real game terms. And this, (despite all the confusing religious, spiritualized, moralized, Christianized, Buddah/Hindu/Islam/Jewish-ized mumbo-jumbo), is why I like God.
I like the fact that He/She can be more than an idea or concept. That God can be, presence. That we can opt to experience Presence if we choose. And I need to choose that - a lot. I admit, that sometimes I'm smacking my statement-balls into dead space, but there are undeniable moments when conversation happens - a volley of thought; a volley of Presence. And when it does, this Presence is safe.
I can express anything I feel, any way I want - and Presence, sticks it out with me. In fact, the day I discovered that a Point was more than destination's reward, that it was a sanctuary, was a day of horrific arguing. I beat my fists against Presence's chest; yelled; exhausted every last ounce of rage I could muster and hurled it. And Presence, remained. Stayed within the conversation. Unsullied; undisturbed; calm; engaged. Walked the whole way with me....over a creek, up steep hills, past condos and cottages, over the boardwalks and paths, and onto a dune overlook. Sat down among the dunes with me - right next to me; Presence, as close as breath. And did not say a word, but as if stretching out an arm across the expanse of sea, bid me to see. And as I looked out, I felt drawn into Presence - like a warm embrace; arms drawing me closer into peace. And then Presence said, "It's ok, baby. Lean in. Rest."
And I did.
And I worshipped.
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