Do Not Hold Back

Six weeks ago, this Mama cardinal and her mate, set up camp in the tree outside my writing room window.


Together they built a small, compact nest that managed to withstand a few walloping summer storms with high winds. She sat patiently through the heat wave, beak parted. Occasionally she'd head out for a bite to eat, only to return to sit some more. She was very patient; a model of patience. And since I am most often impatient, wriggling out of yet another skin, I found myself sitting by the window to watch her. 


Every day I'd watch her sit. 


We sat together although she took no notice of me.


Fiscal matters, partisan politics, aging parents, litterbugs...none of this stuff was on her radar. 


She was nesting. 


Making ready for new life. 


Period.


It's been years since I adopted this small red bird as my official writing totem, my lucky charm.


A flash of red wings; I feel a charge: write. 


I bought a cardinal with my mother years ago. You can find these tiny birds in any floral shop. I didn't know that at the time. I remember holding it in my hand, so happy to have found it. 


Back home, I placed my bright red cardinal on the windowsill and wrote. That summer-into-fall was a prolific time. A full-length play flew out of me faster than I could get dialogue on paper.


It was a giddy time.


Mama hatched her chicks. Triplets. 


When I saw their necks reaching, mouths wide...


feed me feed me feed me feed me feed me


I thought, baby birds do not hold back.


A cardinal totem almost always reflects the need to assert the feminine aspects of creativity and intuition more strongly...They remind us that regardless of the time of day or year, we always have opportunity to renew our own vitality...


- from Animal Speak by Ted Andrews

I liked All Of It

Dear Ms. Jackson,


I liked all of it.


Sal 


Simple and to the point...Thanks, Sal!


- a student evaluation from a recent artist-residency

Something Inside

Two weeks ago I sat down and wrote forty-five handwritten notes to people who had come to my writing workshop at the library. 


On Friday, I wrote a dozen more to the students and staff at a school where I'd been the artist-in-residence for three and a half days.




When I told Claire about my morning at the kitchen table, writing letters, I asked, "Do you think people care? I mean, I love doing it, but do you think it matters? Am I crazy?" 


She said, "Mom. It's personal. That matters."


I had a faint hope, but no expectation of hearing back from any of my "library people" until I found a letter in my mailbox from a man I'll call Arthur. 


The first thing that struck me was his handwriting. 


A flourish of cursive.


I sat down and tore open the envelope. Nestled inside were two small sheets of paper that fit in the palm of my hand. The first page was about the workshop, how he'd enjoyed it but was used to much smaller groups. Me too. I read on, hungry, the truest word for how I was feeling, to hear more. On page two, his writing dropped down into the personal...


Memories are another thing. I rarely share those experiences with anyone but my wife - as some of those occasions in my life have been heart-wrenching and on occasion can be highly-emotionally filled and at times I've had to stop to keep myself from crying, but somehow, someway, there is always something inside of me that tells me to carry on - and put it down on paper."


This is the healing piece, the heart-wrenching, yet heart-opening aspect of writing. The act of seeing what lives inside you, what you love, what you fear, what has its talons in you. On the other side of the tears is freedom, connection, a lightness, a homecoming.


The handwritten note is still alive.


Thank you, Arthur, for sharing 


that something inside of you.

Waiting To Speak

I ran into my friend, S. when I picked Claire up from a Saturday cooking class. We leaned against the wall in the small classroom and waited for our girls to finish up. 


"How's the writing going?" I asked.
S. looked at me. Tired eyes.
"Well, I've had this character sitting at a kitchen table for the last ten years," she said. 
"Ten years?" I say.
"I can see her at the table. The window's behind her. Her fingers are wrapped around a cup of coffee. She's been sitting there so long the coffee's turned cold. Her fingers are numb and she doesn't even realize it. There's a man there too. He is coming down the stairs. He's about to walk through the doorway to the kitchen. You know how you can feel when something's about to happen? The man knows something's about to happen."
"What's about to happen?" I ask.
"I don't know. She hasn't told me yet." 
"Does she have a name?" 
"Nope. She hasn't spoken yet. I'm waiting for her to speak."
"Wow. Ten years? I wonder what she's going to say?"
"I don't know. Ten years is a long time." S. says.


The girls came over with tupperware containers full of cake and apple crumbly. We hugged goodbye. 


I keep thinking about the woman in the kitchen.


Ten years is a long time not to speak.


What have you wanted to say for ten years?

A Really Good Thing

Elizabeth was a spotted dog for Halloween. Maybe that tipped us towards getting *Chewy. Hard to say. But I was up and out throwing tennis balls at 7:15 this morning in the sprinkling rain and cool fresh air. When the dog was running back to me, green ball in his mouth, tail wagging, I thought, this is a good thing.

Dogs get you up and moving. Babies do too. And other things like writing and walking. And work. Everyone has something that gets them up and moving. So, what gets you? A hot shower, a class full of kids, a saxophone, a cat, a calling? 

I've been reflecting lately on the timing of things, how they show up; a dog, a baby, a Dad, right when I seem to be on the verge of independence, whatever that means...a studio apartment with plant cuttings in jelly jars lined up on the window sill? My own bed? Traveling the world (without flying)?


Things to love keep showing up. This is a good thing. 


Before the bus stop, Claire and I walked Chewy for the third time. Walking and talking with my kid in the cool air is a good thing. 

The This Being Alive tribe definitely gets me up and moving. 


You're a really good thing too.


*Read Chewy 11/9/10

None Of Those Things

The word, retreat, sounds relaxing, doesn't it? It certainly can be. I've had some relaxing moments here, no one to tend to other than myself. No cooking, no cleaning, no feeding the cat. No bus stop in the morning with Claire. I mean, I've spent a week, writing, meditating, and spending time with other writers. How hard can that be? It feels absurd to say, this week has been a lot of work, but it's true. 


I'm shot. Whooped. Ready to go home, giddy about my own bed.


Here's a very short paper on what I learned on this retreat: 
Do the work. 
Relax. 
Be gentle with yourself.


Does it sound easy to you? It's not. I'm easily distracted; it's tough for me to settle down. This work can be funny, uncomfortable, light, squirmy, warm, deep, delightful, sad, lovely, scary, easy, dreamy, dopey, freeing, mysterious. 


And then, none of those things. 


You're tilting your head. 
What on earth is she talking about? 
I have no idea. 


Be gentle with yourself. 


*Read: Karme Choling

A Comforting Hand

Like roads and rivers and paths, I have always loved a good porch. It’s like the house, or place behind me, has my back, so I can sit in full openness to what’s in front of me. When I lean back, I lean in. Eyes open. Porches help me to expand and relax at the same time. Porches are places to sit and watch the world. 


A place to practice gathering yourself? 

Perhaps this is the message, the agenda-less agenda, of meditation. And this writing. The practice itself, whatever it may be, has my back. I can let my guard down when I feel this hand on my back. I can be gentle with myself. I can relax.


It's like my husband's hand, cupping my head; a comforting hand.

A Turn Of The Key

I've been thinking about practice and happiness and what a nice couple they make, most days. They're dependable, yet surprising. Practice doesn't mean you already know. Nope. That's why it's called practice. Doing the practice invites happiness to show up.

My daily practice is writing. It starts with a notebook, pen(s), and a quiet pocket of time. I don't have a plan. I do watch turkeys and people. I stare out the window frequently. I listen.

Some days my writing leaps right into whiny, fearful worries. But, usually, in the midst of the scribble, or the rubble, a glint of light seeps in. Then comes the shift in my solar plexus; a click, a turn of the key. I step out of the cage. I am released.

Inevitably, small mind hooks and reels me back in. I turn, retreating into my cramped, but familiar cell where the scurrying mind-mice keep busy, gnawing on small bones, infinite worries.

Next day, I begin again; pull out notebook, pen, find quiet pocket of time, write. Even the briefest time brings freedom and opening; it restores me, loosens me, releases me. It’s always the same, never the same.

Write, whittle, whistle, make wine. Pick a practice. Invite happiness. Then share yourself with others. The world needs you.

ps. today is my 201st daily post of This Being Alive. I am grinning from ear to ear. So this is a a grin-out, to you and the turkeys, who just this moment meandered by, no kidding. I love those damn birds. And you! Thanks for letting me share...

xo b

A Nice, Kind Boy

Today is a sorting and skimming through old journals day, which feels about right on this fall-ish August afternoon. There's a hint of something in the air.

In one, big book I found pressed leaves, faded red and yellow. And green. And this story, written by a first grader I met during last year's writer residency. I smiled reading it. Then felt a heart pang about how fast everything seems to go. And how tender it all is. And how kind people can be.

Adrian is my friend. He is a nice, kind boy. I met him in kindergarten. We like to wrestle. He came to my house. We had fun.

By John

Washed Clean

I could write about my pecan thing. I keep them in a jar in the freezer. I lay them out, oh, maybe five or six pecans at a time, in the palm of my hand, three or four times a day. This has been going on for awhile.

Then there's Alyssa, the third grader. The girl with her hair pulled up in blue butterfly clips except for one yellow strand that hangs over her eye. We were all writing, the whole class, something about what we'd learned. Brian, the boy with round glasses read and then Alyssa stood up and read, "I learned I was afraid of things."

I think that's one of the bravest sentences I've ever heard.

I am afraid of things. I'm sure I could write one of those little books, 1001 Things to Be Afraid Of. It would help people focus on a whole slew of things to worry and be fearful of...sitting in a plane on the tarmac for six hours, being stuck in an elevator, Lou Gehrig's disease. How about having your body completely covered in bumps, not one smooth place for your lover to lay a hand. Losing the house. Losing your mind. Dying. The marriage going sour. Getting lost and never being found....the wheels of the car falling of...See? It's easy once you get started.

And then there's this; that none of this writing makes a damn bit of difference. That much of it will never see the light of day. That the idea of getting published is so far-fetched I should get rid of my computer, all notebooks and pens, and stop. Stop the ranting and all the dark, shadowy stuff too. Who wants to hear it anyway?

But I can't/stop. I gotta write. I gotta write until I come clean. I need to keep writing until I get washed clean, yea, washed clean like muddy feet under the hose on a summer day. Yea, like that.

Prepare Your Article

My friend, Susan, received a list of directions [see below] for a paper she is presenting in Orlando this summer. Her paper will be published in a book called "Proceedings of the 6th International Conference of Social and Organizational Informatics and Cybernetics."

Come again?

Susan is a doctoral candidate in Education Technology. I think that's right. In her free time, she teaches 7th grade German, two ESL university courses, plays the organ at church on Sundays, builds websites, travels, writes...You get the picture.

And here I was thinking that teaching a yoga class and food shopping constituted a very full day. That doesn't include making dinner, okay?

Occasionally, she sends me stuff like this because it makes my head spin and she thinks that's funny. Actually, it gives me heart palpitations. I would need night school to decipher this list. Susan, on the other hand, could do this with her eyes closed.

1) Prepare your article in single-spaced, double-column format, on letter size paper (8.5”x11” / 21.6 cm x 27.9 cm)

2) On the first page, the distance from the top edge of the paper to the top of the first line of type (the title) should be 0.79” (2.0 cm)

3) On the second and subsequent pages, the distance from the top edge of the paper to the top of the first line of type should be 0.59” (1.5 cm)

4) The left and right margins should be 0.75” (1.9 cm.)

5) The width of each column should be 3.22” (8.2 cm)

6) The distance between the two columns of text should be 0.55” (1.4 cm)

7) The distance from the top edge of the paper to the bottom of the last line of type on the page should be no more than 10” (25.4 cm)

8) Use full justification.
and so on...

I need to go lie down now.

Talking To Paper

Talking to paper is talking to the divine. It is talking to an ear that will understand even the most difficult things. Paper is infinitely patient. It will receive small fragment after fragment of a large network you are working on, without you yourself knowing it. It will wait decades for you to put together the first faint traces of your own code, a code you might have understood as a small child but which you are now gathering on a new level of understanding. The white paper is waiting. Each time you scratch on it, you trace part of yourself, and thus part of the world, and thus part of the grammar of the universe. It is a huge language, but each of us tracks his or her particular understanding of it.

- Nina Holzer

A Walk Between Heaven and Earth

Displaced Writer/Space Wanted

Why is it that when I try to do something, say writing, Claire decides it's time for a conversation? How come, said daughter, doesn't go to her father with news of her scratchy throat? He can practice his saxophone for two hours straight without one interruption; I sit down to write for twenty minutes and you'd think I had left the family for another life far, far away. Tuscany, anyone?

Okay, so I've moved to the living room and Michael walks in, like right now, and says so sweetly, "Remember this shirt, honey?" and turns to show me two green handprints on the back of his white t-shirt, with child-like drawings of saxophones on the front; a Claire masterpiece from some years back. Am I upset with my kid and husband for wanting to engage in conversation with me? Not at all, except when I'm writing.

Recently, Dad moved into our guest room, which for many years has been my writing room, or as I fondly refer to it, my studio apartment. All my stuff is up there; files, books, notes stuck to my bulletin board, big sheets of paper taped to the closet door for me to write on. Am I feeling put out? Displaced feels more like it. It's time to re-arrange and find a new writing space for myself.

I'm a writer. For better or for worse, this is what I do. But when I say, I'm writing. I'll be with you in a little bit, my family doesn't always get it. It's not their fault. I can be wishy-washy; I need to be clearer. Stating what I need without feeling like I'm being not nice is a daily practice. Can you say, co-dependent?

It's not about the room, although believe me, I'm going to find a new one. But for now, the dining room table has been working out fine. It's more about being willing to value my work and claim my space. Ding ding ding.

I was going to write about my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Aiosa, and her glossy black hair and the way the tiny white flakes of dandruff stuck to her dark clothes. I was going to write about her smile, the gap between her two front teeth, the way she taught us French, writing long white sentences in her elegant cursive on the blackboard.

I'll start here, then write what I remember.

In This Moment

This afternoon I hosted a Scratching on Paper writing workshop at my house. It was an intimate gathering of nine people, plus myself, nestled in my living room in front of the fireplace. Today was one of those spring days, just cool enough for a fire, daffodils in full bloom be damned.

I tell people; all you need is a notebook and pen, no experience necessary. So, everyone arrived with notebooks and pens. And a willingness to *lay aside their occupations and preoccupations and listen with attention and care to the voices speaking in their own center. And we did just that. The new writing that was birthed by the group was a wild mix of funny, tender, strong, heartbreaking; all of it humming with life.

Of course there's always one apron wringer in the group who says they don't know how to write and then blows us all away when they read to us. Writing with others creates a connection between people that's way different from say, your run of the mill cocktail party. It's a mystery that I never tire of. And though I have no scientific proof, I'm certain this kind of gathering raises the vibrational frequency of the planet. So, here's a shout-out to John, Susan, Sharon, Ann, Michele, Sarah, Gail, Gillian, & Scotty!

After a few simple introductions around the circle, we jumped in with this writing prompt: In this moment...

In this moment I feel completely happy that this small group of people decided that three hours on a Saturday afternoon spent writing in my home was a worthy thing for them to do. I know that this happiness is directly connected to the little card beside my bedside lamp that says, do what you love.

All my gnashing of teeth about trying to fit into some kind of conventional way of working in this world is finally waning. Is it any wonder that the muscles in my shoulders and back have pained me for so long? - I've been foolishly pushing the proverbial boulder up the mountain and getting pummeled by it every time. I think I'm finally ready to leave the boulder to its own life, at the bottom of the mountain, and start walking up with my hands free, hanging by my side.

Can I get an amen?

* Read "Disarm Yourself"

Morning Glory

It's only when people begin to shake loose from their preconceptions, from the ideas that have dominated them, that we begin to receive a sense of opening, a sense of vision.

~ Barbara Ward

I could wax eloquently about how thoughtful it was that she took the time to email me a thank you note for coming to speak to her class. How her initial reaction was, who is this lady and did she say we're gonna write? And how when I said we'd be writing, she thought she might throw up. Okay, she didn't say that, but think mega roller coaster ride and how your stomach does that weird thing. How it just so happened, that once we got going on that cold *Sunday afternoon, she began to feel differently. About the writing. And herself. It was still a roller coaster ride for her, but now it had shifted into the good kind. Anyway, there will be no waxing. After I read her beautiful email, I promptly burst into tears; cracked open by this person's reaching out, and by her writing.

It was a happy sob-fest; a heart-opening, moving stuff around inside me, kind of thing. I believe it's good to cry outside, so I sat on the back porch steps and listened to the birds. It was a Wednesday gift; a moment of gratitude for the way people come together, [often in the oddest moments, and least likely locations,] and connect.

The good news is, I let myself have it, instead of tapping the tears down and getting up to empty the dishwasher. I sat on the paint-worn porch steps and put my head in my hands. And like any good crier, I spread my fingers out so I could see what was going on around me. And then I noticed the shoots popping up out of the ground in my garden. Which led me to get my trowel and shovel and ball of twine. I weeded and shoveled. I moved things around. I brought the clematis up front and dug up the big purple flower and moved it to the back. I tucked some morning glory seeds into the ground and climbed up on Mom's rickety old ladder, attaching twine to the house for the vines to travel up.

I never know when I'm going to receive this sense of opening, sense of vision. But I know enough to trust that it's going to keep showing up, if I just spread my fingers out wide enough to see.

* read "Two by Four-ness"

Like Breathing

It's been over three weeks now since I began writing, This Being Alive. It takes three weeks to seal a new habit, right? Seal?

Begin. Start. Make a go of. Just do it. No matter what.

Like breathing.

This little gem from Abigail Thomas' book is one of many quotes I have stuck on the bulletin board over my writing table. It reminds me all the time to drop my shoulders and just write. The stories always tell themselves.

"I didn't start writing until I was forty-seven. I had always wanted to write but thought you needed a degree, or membership in a club nobody had asked me to join. I thought God had to touch you on the forehead, I thought you needed something specific to say, something important, and I thought you needed that all laid out from the git-go. It was a long time before I realized that you don't have to start right, you just have to start."

~ from A Three Dog Life by Abigail Thomas

So, maybe for you it's taking up judo, or baking bread, or trusting yourself. Here's to starting, and then staying with it. Just because.

Thanks for reading...support a writer and share this with a friend.

xo bets

Call Me Bubbles

I spent the day with over a hundred seventh graders and frankly, I'm flipping exhausted. Five periods, forty minutes a pop. This was my friend, Susan's Intro to German class so the name tags read Wolf, Eva, Heinz, Bruno. Some students wrote their English names as well, Michael, Rital, Achim, and others chose aliases for themselves; Lulu, Sir Peter, Mr. B, Klappy. Lulu was a cute boy with dark brown hair. One kid wanted to be called Bubbles. Okay.

What was my objective? To light a fire, the tiniest spark, under these kids. To help them find their own voice, through writing, with some improv stuff tossed in for the sheer fun of it.

Each class had forty minutes to make something happened. I said, "Write a name on your paper. No Lady Gaga, no video game heroes, no Sponge Bob. Now let's write, The first thing you should know about me is..."

Then the kids stood up in lines of five and we got to meet their characters.

Bruno stood up and said, "Hello, My name is Maggie. I like to juggle."

There was guy who carried a cat in his suitcase, the lady who watched Jeopardy on television every night, the man whose name was Shark Bait.

I asked them what came to mind when they heard the word, writing. We made a quick list, then went around the room shouting out a word (although a lot of these kids spoke so softly I could barely hear them.)...imagination, stupid, sentences, adventurous, stinky, poems, nervous, essay, discovery, boring, freedom. There were no wrong answers. I mean, let's face it, writing can be very stinky. But for me, it's always about freedom. And that's why I go to schools and jump around classrooms like a mad hatter to write with kids. And teachers too.

Writing is my cure for feeling weird. And I'm thinking that's a really useful tool to pass on to a group of seventh graders. Or seventy year olds. It works with anyone.

But here's the thing I'm thinking right now as I type this. There are people out in the world who still believe that teaching is one big cake walk, with summers off.

I just want to say, You're kidding, right?

As The World Turns...

Today marks the one week anniversary of This Being Alive. In lieu of sounding completely corny, logging in every day to write has made me feel very alive. Three days this week I raced out the door to pick Claire up at the bus stop because I spaced out the time; I was so involved on my computer and jotting things down in my notebook that I simply lost track. Losing track when I'm writing is a happy place for me.

I want to shout out to my friend, Susan Featro, the techie queen, who emailed me directions to get my photo of snowdrops on the post page, rather than floating around in space. That's why you are getting snowdrops revisited. Thanks, Susan. You can expect more questions, no doubt.

Here's to Penny Ross, artist extraordinaire and one of the shiniest people I know, for figuring out how to get her beautiful smiling photo on the followers section. She wrote me and said, "I don't want to be a shadow person." You can find her next to my husband, Michael Collins, who talked her through the process via email. He's the guy with the clown nose. Don't ask.

To top off the week, my friend, Anne Walker, made this an international blog by becoming a follower from Melbourne, Australia. I would love to see more faces, more countries. No kidding, we could all hold hands and sing, It's a small world after all! It's the six degrees of separation thing; send this on to someone you know, and they can send it on to someone else...right? Here's to the land down under! I love you, Anne, and all the rest of you who have logged on to This Being Alive. I can't thank you enough.

It is my intention to write about this sweet, ordinary life, every day. I hope you'll tune in.