In the umpteen zillion blogs I have posted between here, MySpace, and MCMM, there are two that had to do with writer’s block. Both of those dealt with frustration and resolve to correct. With the whole blood-on-the-keyboard, head-banging exasperation that comes from an ill-timed combination of actually having the time to let the words pour forth but lacking inspiration.
What I am experiencing right now is different. There is no doubt in my mind that if I opened the file that contains my WIP I could pick up where I left off and add pages. No doubt at all. I could do it.
But I don’t.
There is a part of me that scowls at my not-writing self in the mirror and scolds in her silent mean-teacher-voice, “How dare you call yourself a writer! Every book on writing you have ever picked up said point blank on the first page: ‘Writers write.’ It’s as simple as that. Are you a writer, or not? If you are, you’d better get your butt in the chair and prove it!”
But right now I don’t feel the need to prove anything.
Because there’s something else happening in my head, and I don’t know what it is yet. It’s misty. Hazy. Still opaque. Unformed.
With everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, it’s no surprise to find my brain full to bubbling over with unformed thoughts. I could set them on my desk at school next to the unformed lesson plans I’ve taught, or on the kitchen table next to the unformed meals I’ve fed my family and I would have a perfect matched set of-- unformed stuff. (Okay, I swore I was going to write this blog without any disclaimers whatsoever. I read an article in something- probably “O” magazine- that talked about the way women precede or postscript their ideas with disclaimers or appeals for consensus, as if their opinion alone wasn’t enough to count. I decided to watch myself in my speech and writing and eliminate that tendency, because I knew when I read it that I am guilty of doing that to myself. BUT- I need to reassure anyone that has made it this far into my ramble that the kids did get taught, and my family has not starved while I have wandered through the world for two weeks in this slightly oblivious, obscured, amorphous state.)
And again with the disclaimers in case any of you are worried that I may be in need of psychological help or medication: I am okay. My family is all fine. Allen -AKA- FGEB/BFF is okay and we will be together for a long weekend in May. My occasional MySpace guest-blogger and very most favorite Cousin B is recovering from a huge, dangerous, blood clot in his leg following a minor outpatient hernia surgery last week, but he’s okay too.
There has been so much occupying my mind and heart these last few weeks, that the not-writing right now isn’t a concern. I feel like a mama bird sitting on the nest, incubating a clutch of precious eggs that will hatch soon. The little birds that emerge will not be wrinkly and naked; they will be beautifully formed, with iridescent feathers in colors from a spectrum heretofore unperceived by the human eye. When they open their tiny golden beaks to sing, symphonies will break forth and the world itself will pause a moment on its axis to revel in the glory of their song.
But for this moment I must be still. Patient. Serene. I must absorb the sounds and colors that surround me. I must close my eyes to memorize the play of light as it dances through the prism of my heart.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
Knowing Doesn't Matter
It didn’t happen the way we wanted it to happen.
We didn’t want it to happen at all.
But even though we didn’t want it to-- we knew it eventually would.
We were intelligent people. Artistic. Witty. Gifted. We had the keys to intellectual knowledge at our fingertips and we used them. We read the papers, the articles, the textbooks, the websites. We educated ourselves in the way that we were taught to- we gathered information. We did our research. We asked all the right questions even as- deep inside- we knew the answers had the power to defeat us.
We knew.
But the knowing doesn’t matter when it tangles up with love. No level of scholarly education can intellectualize emotion or focus on statistics when our heart’s desire is finally, finally, Oh, thank you, God, finally! finally within our reach.
A few years is better than none, we tell ourselves;
…the sun came out and we were flying down the freeway with the top down…”Aah, I shrieked, “my hair!” “Your hair?” he yelled, over the roar of the wind, “Do you have any idea what this cut cost?”…
they will be good years.
“…Today I went shopping. With my partner’s ex-girlfriend. We bought a hat. Now, we’re slaving away cooking dinner together while he destroys the centerpiece and uses the flowers to decorate the hat so she can wear it to our wedding…”
We will laugh together,
“…and I wonder where Jerry Springer gets his guests?…”
we will love together,
“…‘now abides Faith, Hope, and Love. These three. But the greatest of these is Love.’ …”
we will build the kind of joy together that will live beyond the pain.
* * *
But nobody told us- not one article, textbook, or website- bothered to mention how much pain there would be to live beyond.
My sweet, funny, gentle friend David died of AIDS-related complications last week.
It didn’t happen the way we wanted it to happen…
We didn’t want it to happen at all…
But the knowing doesn’t matter when it tangles up with love.
I will be traveling to Minnesota for a memorial service in a few weeks. In the meantime, if you would, I ask that you please let me know that you were here. In lieu of any comments, please take the moment it would have taken you to write, and instead send out a prayer of whichever sort suits you best. A thought, a song, a meditation; simply send a moment of acknowledgement of David’s too-brief life.
Send it out to the farthest corners of the universe,
in to the minds of research scientists,
and send it extra soft-cushioned to my poor, darling, grieving Best Friend.
We didn’t want it to happen at all.
But even though we didn’t want it to-- we knew it eventually would.
We were intelligent people. Artistic. Witty. Gifted. We had the keys to intellectual knowledge at our fingertips and we used them. We read the papers, the articles, the textbooks, the websites. We educated ourselves in the way that we were taught to- we gathered information. We did our research. We asked all the right questions even as- deep inside- we knew the answers had the power to defeat us.
We knew.
But the knowing doesn’t matter when it tangles up with love. No level of scholarly education can intellectualize emotion or focus on statistics when our heart’s desire is finally, finally, Oh, thank you, God, finally! finally within our reach.
A few years is better than none, we tell ourselves;
…the sun came out and we were flying down the freeway with the top down…”Aah, I shrieked, “my hair!” “Your hair?” he yelled, over the roar of the wind, “Do you have any idea what this cut cost?”…
they will be good years.
“…Today I went shopping. With my partner’s ex-girlfriend. We bought a hat. Now, we’re slaving away cooking dinner together while he destroys the centerpiece and uses the flowers to decorate the hat so she can wear it to our wedding…”
We will laugh together,
“…and I wonder where Jerry Springer gets his guests?…”
we will love together,
“…‘now abides Faith, Hope, and Love. These three. But the greatest of these is Love.’ …”
we will build the kind of joy together that will live beyond the pain.
* * *
But nobody told us- not one article, textbook, or website- bothered to mention how much pain there would be to live beyond.
My sweet, funny, gentle friend David died of AIDS-related complications last week.
It didn’t happen the way we wanted it to happen…
We didn’t want it to happen at all…
But the knowing doesn’t matter when it tangles up with love.
I will be traveling to Minnesota for a memorial service in a few weeks. In the meantime, if you would, I ask that you please let me know that you were here. In lieu of any comments, please take the moment it would have taken you to write, and instead send out a prayer of whichever sort suits you best. A thought, a song, a meditation; simply send a moment of acknowledgement of David’s too-brief life.
Send it out to the farthest corners of the universe,
in to the minds of research scientists,
and send it extra soft-cushioned to my poor, darling, grieving Best Friend.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time there was a mommy and a daddy. They lived in a house in the United States of America with their little girl. She was a wonderful little girl, and they were wonderful parents, and they decided that their family was such a happy one that their little girl should be a big sister. Within a few months they learned that the mommy was going to have a new baby, and they began to get a room in their house ready for the wonderful girl’s little brother or sister. Everything was just right.
But then one day the mommy felt that something wasn’t just right. She felt a pain in her tummy and went to the doctor. The doctor told the mommy that she would not be getting a baby after all. "In fact," said the doctor, "you will never be able to have any more babies at all."
The mommy and daddy were very sad.
Even though the doctor had told them they couldn’t get any more babies of their own, the mommy and daddy knew they were wonderful parents and still had lots of love to give another baby. Plus, they had a room all nice and ready. They called an Agency and asked if they had any babies who needed a wonderful family.
"Babies are hard to get," said the Agency Lady, "but if you want an older child, there are lots and lots of those to choose from." The mommy and daddy said that would be fine, and so they filled out forms in triplicate and got their fingerprints taken and had CPS come and look through all the cupboards in their house.
One day the Agency Lady called and said, "You are wonderful parents and we think you should come and look at pictures and see which older child you want." So the mommy and daddy went and looked through stacks and stacks of files. They found a picture of a little boy who was six years old. He lived far away across the sea in a country where there had been a war. The little boy had pretty brown eyes and black hair, and the wonderful mommy and daddy looked at each other and said, "This one is our little boy."
It took a long time for the little boy to come from the country across the sea to the United States of America. So long, in fact, that the mommy woke up one day while they were waiting for the boy to come and told the daddy that she needed to go to the doctor again. The doctor ran some tests on the mommy and looked at the results.
"But you told me I couldn’t get any more babies," the mommy said.
"Oops!" said the doctor.
So the wonderful little girl got not only a new big brother but a new little sister too.
And they both arrived within one little week!
The wonderful family lived very, very happily ever after.
* * *
Looking at my family- at my parents especially- now, I see that in the shadow of the shameful age of this nations worst racial strife and intolerance, they were among the first- certainly the first in the Midwestern towns my father pastored, to walk the talk of their belief. Not that they did it to make a statement- oh, no. They did it because it was he only thing to do. Yet, simply by looking at us together in a restaurant or in church, I’m sure people were forced to consider: "If they can do this in their home, why can’t we do it in the world?"
At least for a moment.
It’s really not a difficult concept. Just shut your damn eyes and live together in peace. Listen. Depend on each other. Open your arms. Nurture each other. Love every person for who they are. Don’t make any judgments based on anything but the beauty that shines from within; because believe me-- shine it will.
My parents humble me.
At the time, I didn’t see them as revolutionary; that came later. Because they were, after all, my parents. They were just like everybody else’s parents: they expected me to do well in school; they came to all my plays and concerts; they fed me three times a day, flipped the porch lights on and off obnoxiously if I sat too long in the driveway with a date, and fussed if I got home past curfew. And they did the same for the rest of us. They were simply my family. Maybe we looked weird to other people, but we didn’t see it. All we knew was that in the eyes of our parents- we were the same. Equal. As I grew, that extended itself until that’s the way I looked at the whole big, beautiful world.
Call me a Pollyanna, but I still do.
There are very few things that truly frighten me, but one of those things is the inexplicable fact that there are still people on this planet in the year of our Lord 2008 who can somehow justify to themselves that it is right to make distinctions based on genetic difference rather than character. There are some people who have the power to conjure enough fear of melanistic diversity to ruin individual lives, thwart fractions of our society, and change the course of a nation.
Oh, come on, people. Forty-four years after the wonderful mommy and daddy went to the Agency, we have to be better than this!
Just shut your damn eyes, and--
See.
But then one day the mommy felt that something wasn’t just right. She felt a pain in her tummy and went to the doctor. The doctor told the mommy that she would not be getting a baby after all. "In fact," said the doctor, "you will never be able to have any more babies at all."
The mommy and daddy were very sad.
Even though the doctor had told them they couldn’t get any more babies of their own, the mommy and daddy knew they were wonderful parents and still had lots of love to give another baby. Plus, they had a room all nice and ready. They called an Agency and asked if they had any babies who needed a wonderful family.
"Babies are hard to get," said the Agency Lady, "but if you want an older child, there are lots and lots of those to choose from." The mommy and daddy said that would be fine, and so they filled out forms in triplicate and got their fingerprints taken and had CPS come and look through all the cupboards in their house.
One day the Agency Lady called and said, "You are wonderful parents and we think you should come and look at pictures and see which older child you want." So the mommy and daddy went and looked through stacks and stacks of files. They found a picture of a little boy who was six years old. He lived far away across the sea in a country where there had been a war. The little boy had pretty brown eyes and black hair, and the wonderful mommy and daddy looked at each other and said, "This one is our little boy."
It took a long time for the little boy to come from the country across the sea to the United States of America. So long, in fact, that the mommy woke up one day while they were waiting for the boy to come and told the daddy that she needed to go to the doctor again. The doctor ran some tests on the mommy and looked at the results.
"But you told me I couldn’t get any more babies," the mommy said.
"Oops!" said the doctor.
So the wonderful little girl got not only a new big brother but a new little sister too.
And they both arrived within one little week!
The wonderful family lived very, very happily ever after.
* * *
I told my class during a discussion recently that my family must have looked like the United Nations getting out of a car. There was my dad, blue-eyed and blonde-haired with a red beard; my mom, auburn-haired with brown eyes; my brother, the black haired, brown eyed boy mentioned above; my surprise sister, with curly brown hair and blue eyes, and me, the wonderful green-eyed blonde. For a few years our varied palette became even more colorful when we had a foster brother and added one of African descent to the mix.
Looking at my family- at my parents especially- now, I see that in the shadow of the shameful age of this nations worst racial strife and intolerance, they were among the first- certainly the first in the Midwestern towns my father pastored, to walk the talk of their belief. Not that they did it to make a statement- oh, no. They did it because it was he only thing to do. Yet, simply by looking at us together in a restaurant or in church, I’m sure people were forced to consider: "If they can do this in their home, why can’t we do it in the world?"
At least for a moment.
It’s really not a difficult concept. Just shut your damn eyes and live together in peace. Listen. Depend on each other. Open your arms. Nurture each other. Love every person for who they are. Don’t make any judgments based on anything but the beauty that shines from within; because believe me-- shine it will.
My parents humble me.
At the time, I didn’t see them as revolutionary; that came later. Because they were, after all, my parents. They were just like everybody else’s parents: they expected me to do well in school; they came to all my plays and concerts; they fed me three times a day, flipped the porch lights on and off obnoxiously if I sat too long in the driveway with a date, and fussed if I got home past curfew. And they did the same for the rest of us. They were simply my family. Maybe we looked weird to other people, but we didn’t see it. All we knew was that in the eyes of our parents- we were the same. Equal. As I grew, that extended itself until that’s the way I looked at the whole big, beautiful world.
Call me a Pollyanna, but I still do.
There are very few things that truly frighten me, but one of those things is the inexplicable fact that there are still people on this planet in the year of our Lord 2008 who can somehow justify to themselves that it is right to make distinctions based on genetic difference rather than character. There are some people who have the power to conjure enough fear of melanistic diversity to ruin individual lives, thwart fractions of our society, and change the course of a nation.
Oh, come on, people. Forty-four years after the wonderful mommy and daddy went to the Agency, we have to be better than this!
Just shut your damn eyes, and--
See.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)