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.

Welcome To My Room

This year has been tough. Just about everything in my life has been stripped down, turned inside out. It's been destabilizing; a period of deconstruction - the implosion of a hard-fought-for 37 year marriage and loss of family structure; the confusing residual impact on my children and grandchildren; the heart-breaking loss of my four year old grandson, Parker; the loss of my home; unemployment and the job-search circus; living out of a suitcase (gratefully at my mom's, but all my personal belongings are in a POD somewhere in the netherworld of storage); a diagnosis of melanoma (thankfully caught in time) with my health insurance hanging in the balance; and probably most unearthing, an intense spiritual sifting spawned from my late-in-life seminary experience (my unfinished thesis still pulsating in the background).

I have plenty of raw material whimpering for a roll-over-and-just-the-hell-die attitude. But something deep wants to fight back, take ownership, to create new life out of a landfill - something redemptive. This is my place to hash it out - through my writing. Many of you through the years have urged me to write. I have always written, privately mostly, but its been years since I've published. And the publishing world has changed. Now, editors want to see if a writer has already established a marketable platform - a captured readership. So here we are.

I will fess up - I have certain objectives in mind for this blog. First, its a cathartic journey. I'm taking six months away from life as usual (or unusual) and renting a studio-over-a-garage at the Oregon coast to heal and write. The level of writing here will be one step above my journal - a kind of stream of consciousness. It won't be quite the unedited raw-guts-laying-on-the-floor as my journal, but it may be "raw-ish." Second, I need to get back into the practice of disciplined writing - what Anne Lamott calls the "one square inch" of text EVERYDAY. Third, I want to eventually shape this material into two directions - a memoir, and the grist for short story writing. And finally, I need to capture an audience; I invite your participation. I encourage you to visit often (each click is counted for those potential editors), to comment on the shared experiences, to critique the writing, and especially, to invite your family, friends, and colleagues to join in as well.

Welcome to my room of my own - my place to unravel.