A few weeks ago, Oregon State University instituted Juneteenth as an official holiday. I was going to take the day off anyway, but the fact that the administration made this decision meant a lot. And it has also become a federal holiday! The Senate voted unanimously to make this happen. Ted Cruz, Rand Paul, Tom Cotton, Josh Hawley – voted in favor of this day of celebration for Black-identified Americans to become a federal holiday. I’m still reeling.
The only celebrating Ralph and I have done so far is with food. He recreated the scrumdiddlyumptious Popeye’s crispy chicken sandwich right here at home – including the sauce! For dinner, we’re having fried chicken, collard greens, cornbread, and mac ‘n cheese, with red velvet cupcakes for dessert. Tomorrow morning, we’re having chicken and waffles for breakfast.
I did a search for the best movies to watch on Junteenth. Looks like we could go the fun route – Black Panther, Akeelah and the Bee, Undercover Brother, Dolemite is My Name – or a more serious route – Anita (Hill), I Am Not Your Negro, Emancipation Road, Harriet Tubman: They Called Her Moses. Ralph and I missed Loving Day last week, so watching Loving would be a good choice. Whether we go light or historical, the one movie I definitely want to watch is I Am Not Your Negro because I worship at the altar of James Baldwin.
The Medium article I read today is “I Wrote on Medium Every Single Day For a Year And Here’s Everything I’ve Learned,” by Khadejah Jones. Amazing. So of course now I want to do that. Do I follow through on that idea and abandon this blog (again)? Or do I hold off on writing an article a day for Medium until January 1, 2022? If I did both, I would probably hit that daily 2700+ mark to get to one million words in a year, along with writing in my journal and the writing I’ll be doing in my classes. My Intro to Fiction class instructor uploaded the course to Canvas today. One of the term-long assignments we have do to is keep a writer’s journal. One of the exercises we’re supposed to do in this journal is writing first thing in the morning, right after you get up. It’s better known as Morning Pages, made famous by Julia Cameron in the book The Artist’s Way.
This is where having ADHD is problematic. I want to do it all, but it’s (probably) impossible. I have a blog, a Tumblr page, an Instagram account, and a Poetizer page. That’s a lot of platforms to maintain, especially when I don’t even know the propose of half of them. I also have Imgur and Twitter accounts which I hardly ever post on, and a Facebook account that, to be honest, I use to get freebies or extra coins for the games I play on my tablet/smartphone. So I won’t even count those.
My goal right now isn’t producing polished pieces of writing (in case you couldn’t tell *groan*); it’s putting pen to paper or sitting in front of a glowing screen and banging out words on my keyboard.
Every day, the same time of day.
To get into the habit of writing consistently. That’s how I will start to improve.
I’m excited about the Intro to Fiction class. Looking forward to seeing what my Writing for Media class will be like.
I just read an interesting article on Medium entitled, “Lessons from Writing One Million Words,” written by Mason Sabre. I have a love/hate relationship with Medium. There are articles that I have enjoyed reading and learned something – win/win, right? If you post an article or use Medium for your blog, and people read your stuff, you can earn money. But Medium is a haven for listicles, and I feel that listicles fall under the click bait umbrella.
Anyway, I was intrigued by the title of this article. It reminded me of when I was in massage school (I had burned out on working in public education in northern New Jersey and declared, “Let’s move to Oregon! I’ll become a massage therapist!” We moved to Oregon. I’ve been working in higher education for twelve years. Never became an LMT), and one of my instructors said that after we completed 500 massages, we should send each client an apology because starting with Massage #501, we would have gained enough experience to know what we were doing.
Sabre sets a yearly goal of writing one million words. “One million words!” I thought. “That sounds like an impossible goal.” Sabre ends the article by saying, “2732 Words. That’s all you need to write every day to make it to one million words per year.”
I thought about NaNoWriMo, which has a word-count requirement of 1667 during November. For years, I have attempted to complete a novel in November, but I’ve never been successful, and one of the reasons is because of the word count. It’s hard to fit in when working full-time, and now that I’m pursuing a post-bacc degree in Creative Writing, my time is even more limited. I didn’t even try last year.
Yesterday, I updated two blog entries and wrote a poem. Curious, I did a word count. I was surprised that I had written 1,122 words. If I include two pages of journal writing (by hand), that adds approximately another 400 words. So I created a Word Count spreadsheet. I’m trying to decide if I want to try and hit that 2,700+ daily goal, or if I just want to collect data, see how much I write every day.
Speaking of writing every day, one thing that Sabre discusses in his article is the importance of “showing up every day.” He doesn’t mean this literally – although if your schedule allows for you to write every day, that’s great. Or you may decide to write on weekdays only. Whatever days you choose, you have to keep the commitment you made to yourself – you have to show up whether you want to or not.
One of my poetry instructors shared the best idea with me. She has a document that she calls “The Document.” It’s a catch-all for phrases or bits of writing that she removed from pieces she’s editing or revising. She doesn’t want to get rid of that work because it might come in handy in other pieces of writing. So on those days where you show up even though you don’t want to, and feel like you have written crap as a result, don’t get rid of it – throw that stuff into your Document!
Since I’m in the process of reviving this blog, I want to use it to show up every day and write. I’m writing what comes to mind and publishing it without much editing. After a few days, I’ll come back to these posts, revise and refine. I’ll keep up with writing in my journal – here’s why:
Isn’t that beautiful? Also:
That is a fountain pen with a left-handed nib, Dear Reader! And the ink color is “Pearlescent Magenta Red – Silver,” so it shimmers. How can I resist using these lovely items?
(This is a homework assignment from my therapist. She asked me to write a poem about regret.)
I never took an African drumming class. I would have liked to have been in Samba Ja, this badass drumming group that ended all the parades in Eugene.
I didn’t listen to my intuition when I was 13 and swooned over Nat Geo articles, wishing I could do that for a living. Now I’m staring down 60, thinking I can become a photojournalist. I could have started so many years earlier.
I haven’t written consistently since I was a teenager. I still struggle with it, even now that I’m a Creative Writing major.
I didn’t leave my religion the cult I was in until I was in my mid-30’s – physically. Mentally, it still controls me far too much. I got baptized at 16 – one of the biggest regrets of my life. My family is still in the cult. And I’m not fighting to get them the fuck out. I wasted so much time trying to “be perfect as your heavenly father is perfect.” I never got the whole God thing, never felt any connection – but I’m not sure I regret that.
I let my friendship with Pam fall apart over religion the cult. There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t think about her. There isn’t a day that passes that I think about writing or calling her, but I know she wouldn’t respond, and if she did, it would be caustic. Rightfully so.
I regret pretty much everything I ever posted on Facebook and Twitter.
I regret not seeing Luther Vandross, Prince, or George Michael in concert. (Michael Jackson too, but, you know). I didn’t see my celebrity crush since 1995, Chris Noth, in any of the stage plays he was in, or visit his club, The Cutting Room.
I married my best friend, David, but I wasn’t in love with him. I was not a good wife. And I regret that because he deserved so much better. After we divorced, I dated three more David’s. Thanks to them, I can say “#MeToo.”
I regret not meeting Ralph sooner and that we couldn’t have children.
I wasn’t able to see my father, grandfather, and favorite aunt – I was her namesake – before they died. My mother was delirious when she died – she didn’t even recognize me. These are wounds which will never heal.
I never told my mother and grandmother to knock it off when they had arguments. I wish I had stood up for myself and shouted, “Shut up, both of you!”
I didn’t do more with interpreting.
I didn’t do more with theater.
I didn’t do more with interpreting for theater.
I missed my high school prom.
I didn’t vote for the first time until 2000. I was 39. I went to my first political protest in 2005. I regret becoming politically active so late in life.
I never ran a marathon, in London, or Tromsø. And now, I can’t run. I don’t regret hip replacement surgery. But the grief I feel, never having reached that goal . . . When I’m out driving, I see people running so effortlessly, and I cry.
I had such a solid Yoga practice, and I let it go. I doubt I can get it back.
My mother was right – she said I would be sorry that I didn’t keep up with my piano lessons.
I never joined a choir. I think I would have enjoyed that.
I never took ballroom dance lessons.
I wasn’t careful with the money I inherited. I feel like I let my mother down.
We lost all of our belongings in a fire in the RV we drove cross-country when we moved from New Jersey to Oregon. I lost all of my family photos, and I have a few items of jewelry my mother and grandmother gave me.
I’m intrigued with the experience of flow in writing. I did a lot of journaling when we were in Mexico; the trip was such an adventure, I wanted to capture every detail possible. I felt that at times, I could write forever – the ideas were coming in an endless stream and I couldn’t physically write fast enough. Today, I’ve had that experience twice: once when I was working with my writing partner, and once when I did my Morning Pages entry for today (at 6 p.m. Yeah).
I’ve decided to write about flow for this blog entry – but beyond that, I don’t know what I’m going to say. In situations like this, I rely on the experts and write something more “academic” than personal. So I did a Google search for “writing flow” and the hits aren’t what I expected, although the results do make sense. Most of what I found discusses how to write in a way that your ideas flow logically, so that your reader isn’t left in a cloud of confusion, trying to figure out what you were trying to say. But that’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking about the visceral experience of the mind-body connection, where you almost feel as if you’re taking dictation. The ideas are traveling from your head, down your arm, into your hand and out onto the page (or on the computer screen). It’s not the same as “being the witness,” however, where you feel as if you’ve stepped outside your body and are observing how you react to a situation. No, you’re very much there when you’re in the flow of writing. You have to be.
I was going to say that the only other thing I can compare this to is the flow of running. On reflection, however, that is completely different. For me, running is a meditation. Being on the Yoga mat yields similar results. I haven’t read up on this, but I believe the flow that comes from running and Yoga is related to rhythmic breathing and repetitive large-limb movements.
Today, June 16th:
So much has happened since I started this entry. We’ve been to Mexico three times. I’ve had bilateral hip replacement surgery and can no longer run. I’m not sure I can do anything beyond Chair Yoga. I’m a Creative Writing major at Oregon State University. And I still struggle with flow. I was hoping that taking writing classes would help with this, but it hasn’t – not yet, anyway. No, I take that back – I struggle with getting started. Once I get going, I do get into a state of flow. This has been my experience for the last two writing classes I’ve taken, Intro to Poetry and Poetry Writing. Starting next week, I’ll be taking Intro to Fiction Writing and Writing for Media, so I’ll have more data. Based on the writing I do during our Corvallis Creative Writers Meetups on Saturday mornings, I struggle with the 10-minute writing prompt we do for a warmup. After that, when we’re working on whatever our current projects are, I’ve been using that time to work on my poems for class. A couple of times, I’ve tried to add to my Law & Order fan fiction, but that just feels so stilted and . . . I can’t think of a word to describe it – awkward, maybe? I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t feel like I know what I’m doing.
I use ProWritingAid for a grammar check. They hosted this awesome Crime Writers Week series of webinars, and I was able to attend two of them. Pretty sure the rest are archived somewhere on the website or on YouTube. Last week, ProWritingAid sent this “$49 for $8,000 worth of great stuff for authors!” Well, Dear Reader, I caved. There are two items (from the package of 60 – 60 tings, mon!) that I believe will help me with my lack of flow. One is a self-paced course on writing surprise plots. The other is a self-paced course entitled, “The Criminal – Short Story Plot.”
I need to do some research on flow – how can I make it happen consistently? Are there exercises you can do? Does mindfulness meditation help? Stay tuned because I want to figure this out!
This is a blog post in my Drafts folder from 2018.
I received an email this afternoon, announcing this upcoming training:
It was accompanied by this explanation from the person who sent the email:
“Please see below for information and a registration link for this upcoming 2-hour session entitled “Beyond Cultural Competence.” The session is intended to help White faculty learn skills, strategies, concepts, processes and tasks that support effective mentoring of faculty in underrepresented racial/ethnic groups.”
I read the description … … … … … …
several times … … … …
as well as the explanation …
…
…
(This went on for some time)
… and I thought, “What the fuck does this mean?!?! Are black and brown people allowed to attend this training?”
So, I emailed the sender and said, “What you’re about to read will be the goofiest question you will ever receive from a fellow professional, but, are black and brown people allowed to attend this training?”
Turns out the answer was no.
No.
Here was the sender’s reply:
I think they’re gently suggesting that black and brown folks not register—I think they want White folks to do our work without oppressing our colleagues of color with our white fragility J. Granted they were much more diplomatic, but that’s what I’d be thinking if I were sponsoring it! Does that make sense?
Yes. And no. Basically, black and brown people are being excluded from this training so that white people can learn about how to work better with black and brown people.
This is what I added today:
I understand the part about White fragility and the need for White people to do their own work. I get it. I know that if Black and Brown folx are there, White people will censor themselves. They won’t be honest. Because they don’t want to hurt our feelings. This infuriates me, though. We refuse to talk about the elephant in the room: people of all shades talking about race. I don’t know when this will happen. Anywhere.
During or after worship, a Friend may ask the group to hold someone in the Light. The person may be sick, dealing with difficult life circumstances, struggling spiritually, working to serve others or setting out on a new path in the world.
To hold a person in the Light, imagine them being held in God’s loving presence and offer prayers and love for them. Holding an individual or a group of people in the Light is often part of our practice of prayer.
Being an atheist, however, that experience is different for me, especially as it relates to my work as an advisor for students with disabilities.
One of my new advisees is a young man whose beloved sister-in-law is dying of an extremely rare form of cancer. When he came in for his orientation, I thought it would be best to focus only on the accommodations this student needs. “I’d be doing my job,” I told myself. “After all, I’m not a therapist.”
I walked him through the orientation. Once we were done, he thanked me for my time, and there was a pause as I thought, “Wait. I can’t just talk about accommodations and let this man walk out of my office. I wouldn’t be doing my job. After all, I’m a human being.”
So I said, “So, how are you doing?”
What followed was an incredibly intimate experience of connection in the here and now. Often, when I’m having a discussion with a student and there are a few seconds of silence, I feel uncomfortable and quickly fill it with questions or provide solutions. But with this student, the silence took on a quality of holiness. I said very little, actually.
That is what holding someone in the Light is like for me. And it has changed the way I interact with students. It’s so easy to “stay in my lane” and be problem-solution focused. But now, I make sure that at some point during a discussion with a student, I stop taking notes, put my pen down, look across the desk at my fellow life traveler and ask, “So, how are you doing?”
I started this blog entry earlier this year. It’s still a work in progress.
I have to start this entry with the tragically funny “2016” by the comedy team of Tom and Hubert.
I think many of us can relate to Tom’s shock when being told that David Bowie died. That seemed to kick off the unbelievably long list of beloved celebrities who left us in 2016. This list in this video stops at December 9th, however. Had it been filmed on the 31st, there would be several additional names of celebrities whose deaths left us as gobsmacked as Bowie: we lost George Michael, Carrie Fisher, and Debbie Reynolds in the space of several days. We were glad to see the end of 2016.
I don’t really follow celebrities. I have from time to time, but for the most part, I don’t have the time or the inclination to do so. When celebrities started dying left and right, however – musicians especially – I started thinking back over the course of my life. The first time I saw Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” music video, or Prince in”Purple Rain.” Star Wars. Harry Potter (Alan Rickman). All treasured memories.
Here’s the strange thing, though. I was a George Michael fan when Wham! took the world by storm and afterwards when he went on to have a successful solo career. But I wasn’t a FAN – do you know what I mean? And yet, out of all the people we lost in 2016, his death hit me the hardest. I’m trying to make sense of it.
When I was in my mid 20’s, I saw “Rebel without a Cause” for the first time. My god, James Dean! I was blown away by his performance. I watched “Giant” soon after that, probably the same week. After that, I couldn’t find any more of his movies. It didn’t make sense. How could such a phenomenal actor have only been in two movies? I happened to bring this up during one of my daily phone conversations with my mom, and she told me that James Dean was killed in a car crash when he was 24. I still remember my reaction. My eyes filling with tears, I said, “He died at 24!? But Mom, I’m 24!” I thought about what he could have gone on to achieve, had his life not been cut short, and I grieved for someone who had died years ago. Read everything I could find on him. Watched the few television appearances he made.
Fast forward to August 1997. Princess Diana was killed in a car crash. Again, someone taken in the prime of life. Someone who had given so much to the world, and still had so much more to give. Diana and I were only six months apart in age, so again, her death hit hard. I’ve lost track of the number of biographies I’ve read and movies I’ve watched about Diana’s life in the years since her death.
George Michael was 53 when he died on Christmas Day. I’m 55. I didn’t realize we were that close in age. That gave me pause. The manner of his death – and that the coroner was called in to investigate further – became a story that I followed. I mean, who dies of heart failure at 53, right? And within the next few days, stories of his philanthropic work were reported in the news. He never wanted anyone to know. He just gave quietly. Gave millions, in fact. He was a generous, kind man – not a pampered pop star. I heard also about the tragedies he suffered in his life. He had serious bouts of depression. I could definitely relate to that.
I saw his last music video, “White Light” …
Saying this ain’t the day that it ends There’s no white light And I’m not through I’m alive , I’m alive And I’ve got so much more That I want to do with the music
Not exactly the best song to listen to the day after he died.
A few days later, I was at work, and decided that I wanted to honor his memory by doing a tribute to the man and his music. I loaded up a playlist on Spotify with everything George Michael had ever sung, and started listening.
Of course, the good memories came flooding back – “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go,” “Everything She Wants,” “Faith,” “I Knew You Were Waiting for Me,” “Father Figure,” and so on. My knowledge of his discography was quite limited though, so there were many songs I was hearing for the first time. I was working away at my desk, doing my thing, the music playing in the background. Occasionally something interesting would wander into the present moment, but for the most part, I wasn’t really paying attention. When I heard “Jesus to a Child” for the first time, I looked over at my second monitor to make note of the song, so I could listen to it again later. I liked the chord changes.
And then it happened – the moment that started my grieving process in earnest. George Michael sang a lot of cover songs – a lot of them – including Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” As soon as that song came on, it crashed into the present moment, forcing me to stop working. I looked at the monitor, horrified. Thinking, “My god! What have I done?!” I started to cry. His voice was so heartbreakingly beautiful, so poignant, so packed with emotion, that I don’t think I will ever be able to listen to it again. “How did I not know?” I asked myself. “How did I let all of these years go by without realizing that this man had the voice of an angel?” Listened to my George Michael Spotify playlist in the car for weeks. Had to pull over to the side of the road and weep the first time I heard “My Mother Had a Brother.”
And, as it had with James Dean and Princess Diana, so began my pilgrimage to George Michael. The news articles. The videos. The interviews. His sexuality (emotionally gay, retro heterosexual: interesting). His smooth dance moves. The few times he acted in skits or had a recurring role in a television show. He played all the instruments on “I Want Your Sex.” He called his Twitter followers, “My Lovelies.” He adored his fans, and they him. And there was the occasional, “Damn! That is one beautiful man!” thrown in. I’m not ashamed to say it (well, maybe a little).
I saw the hundreds of grief-stricken fans who paid their respects at one of George Michael’s homes. So many musicians who acknowledged the contributions he made to music. Adele in particular was devastated, and the version of “Fastlove” she sang at the Grammy Awards … nope. Not listening to it a second time. Members of the gay community who expressed their appreciation for someone who understood what they were going through – they didn’t lose a pop idol, they lost a good friend. I feel as if I lost a good friend as well.
Months – months!!!! – after George Michael passed away, the ME was finally able to determine a cause of death. Yeah, he died from a heart attack – years of depression, drinking, and drugs took this beautiful person away from us way too soon.
More months have passed now. It’s been a while since I’ve listened to any of the 100+ songs on my George Michael Spotify playlist. He has been buried next to his mother; his family and ex-boyfriend are fighting over his estate. Life is back to normal. I’m at the age where this sort of thing is going to happen more and more – I think, who’s next? Who will be the next “star” or “celebrity” to pass away, causing this grieving process to begin all over again? I don’t know. But in the meantime … Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou, you were greatly loved, and will be greatly missed. Rest with the angels.
I don’t know if I’ve ever addressed this in another blog entry, but I’m a huge fan of the Law & Order franchise. My favorite incarnation is what I call “Old School L&O,” which is the original series (seasons 1-5, especially season two, lovingly referred to as “The Big Daddy Era,” when Paul Sorvino played Detective Phil Ceretta, partner to the much-loved Detective Mike Logan).
I read an article about shows shot in New York City, in which it was stated that one of the characters of Law & Order is the City itself. That always stuck with me, because it’s true. Of course you can enjoy the show if you’ve never been to New York City, but if you know the greater NYC area, it definitely adds to your appreciation of the series. Same thing with The Sopranos – having lived in Bergen and Passaic County made watching the show a lot more fun.
I believe there are other shows that have “characters” which, like Law & Order, are not actual people. I’m thinking in particular about the gloriously delicious series Broadchurch. I have described Downton Abbey as “Masterpiece Theater on crack” in order to warn people who haven’t watched it. I think Broadchurch is even worse. It’s The BBC on crack – yes, I’m trying to be funny, but I’m also quite serious. One episode and you are hooked, like put on a tourniquet and start tapping your inner arm for a fat, juicy vein hooked.
There are two “characters” in the show in addition to the cast: the location, and the soundtrack. The story takes place in the fictional town of Broadchurch, which is located in the Dorset West Bay area of the UK. It. Is. Gorgeous. Stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. Like the Pacific Northwest coast on crack (apparently I will be referring to crack several times in this blog entry).
The main plot revolves around solving the mystery of who killed young Daniel Latimer, the eleven-year old son of Beth and Mark Latimer. One of the Latimer’s best friends, DS (Detective Sergeant) Ellie Miller is assigned to the case along with DI (Detective Inspector) Alec Hardy (more about the actors who play these characters in a bit.) As is the case with any small town, everyone has secrets, and the residents of Broadchurch have much they need to keep hidden, for a variety of reasons.
I believe the location for the series is crucial to the plot for several reasons. The story is as dramatic, stark, and arresting as the coastline. The beauty of the area is in direct opposition to the ugliness of the secrets that threaten to (and actually do) tear families and lives apart. Just when you think the scenery can’t be any more exquisite, a camera shot of the cliffs or the shoreline leaves you breathless. Just when you think you’ve figured out whodunit, another tidbit of information confounds you even further. The story and location work hand in hand.
Your Honor, Defense would like to enter into evidence Exhibit 1A:
And then there’s the soundtrack. It is beautiful and haunting – lingering in the viewer’s mind like the intimate touch of a lover. The soundtrack was written by Icelandic composer Ólafur Arnalds, who perfectly captures the mystery and darkness of the story and characters with a string quartet, piano, a smattering of electronic instrumentation thrown in (and in the case of one song, a bass drum loop that is absolutely sick!).
There are two songs with lyrics – and here’s what is so unique (and fun, and delicious) about this soundtrack, and why I consider it to be an important character in the show. The titles of the songs are, “So Close,” and, “So Far.” Chris Chibnall, the writer for the show, penned the lyrics for both songs, with the goal of leaving clues about Danny Latimer’s killer!!
Exhibit 1B, Your Honor:
The missing piece I yearn to find
So close
Please clear the anguish from my mind
So close
But when the truth of you comes clear
So close
I wish my life had never come here
So close
I must digress to talk about fellow Icelander Arnor Dan, the artist who performs both songs. His voice is packed with tender, tortured emotion. I am listening to “So Close” right now with my super-duper use-only-for-transcribing headphones on, and I am almost 100% certain that in between verses, he’s whispering the words, “so close.” It’s barely perceptible, but it’s there. And it’s sexy as hell. The other thing about Dan’s performance that sends me over the edge is that he doesn’t care about the “don’t let them hear you breathe” rule of singing. This is something I find fascinating (and sexy as hell), and I think it’s because I’m asthmatic. Proper breathing escapes me with activities I dearly love, such as running and swimming (proper breathing can be a challenge in general when I’m having an asthma attack, come to think of it). So I love to hear singers breathe. It takes me into the realm of “the human voice as instrument,” which is an important switch for me to be able to experience, being that I play physical instruments, which I feel can be limiting in appreciating using one’s voice as an instrument.
I have to discuss a few members of the cast, which is an amazing collection of talented actors who deliver powerful performances, many of which were captured on the first take. David Tennant, the beloved tenth Doctor Who, plays DI Hardy. Arthur Darvill, another Doctor Who alumnus (Rory Williams, one of the eleventh Doctor’s companions), plays Reverend Paul Coates. So that’s a fun connection. Olivia Colman, who plays Ellie Miller, blew me away. There is one scene in particular in the second series where the viewer sees Ellie step into her power, and Colman commands the scene as a force of nature. Beautiful and terrifying all at once, I watched it with tears streaming down my face and laughing at the same time, shouting “You GO, girl!!”
The Americans, who don’t think anyone can do it better than they, have come out with a US version of this show called Gracepoint. It’s probably unfair of me to even mention this, because I haven’t watched it, but I’ve heard it doesn’t hold a candle to the BBC version. Why can’t we just admit that when it comes to crime drama, the Brits have it all over us?
Suffice it to say that having just completed binge watching series two, I can hardly wait for series three. The second series ended with the major plot and subplots resolved (somewhat) while leaving viewers wanting more. In the meantime, I will have to satisfy my cravings by listening to the soundtrack, entertaining fantasies of being a lone figure with a story to tell and secrets to hide, walking along the shore in Dorset …
I wouldn’t exactly call myself a fan, but I do like Julia Cameron’s books. The Artist’s Way was so good, I’m going through it again, this time with two friends. Currently, I’m reading The Prosperous Heart. The setup in Cameron’s books is a 12-week series of exercises or activities, with the goal of unleashing one’s creativity, embracing gratitude, etc.
In the book I’m going through at present, there are five activities one must complete every week, and I’ll address three in this blog entry. Morning Pages is something I’ve been doing for several years now, and can’t imagine my life without it. Writing three pages longhand first thing in the morning helps keep me sane (well, approaching sanity, anyway). So I was very comfortable with that requirement over a 12-week period.
“Do nothing for five minutes, once in the morning, and once in the evening.” Being so driven to always be doing something, I really struggled with this. It has been such a challenge to stop the busyness of a morning or evening to sit down and do nothing! “What is the point?” I thought. I’m in Week 10, and I’m just now starting to see the benefit of this exercise. I was actually able to settle into silence the other morning, and it was lovely. I’m beginning to want to sit for longer than five minutes, which is something I didn’t expect to happen.
I thought the third activity would be a no-brainer: twice a week, go for a 20-minute walk in nature (that was the easy part) and be open to any epiphanies or aha! moments (*record scratch*).
I love to walk, but I really, really resisted this. For me, walking is exercise, and exercise is Fitbit activity trackers and Runkeeper exercise trackers on my phone and I gotta have tunes when I exercise and … and … but being open to anything creative or spiritual? Not when I’m exercising.
And then this morning, it happened! I was walking along (and yes, I had my Fitbit clipped to my sports bra, Runkeeper and Pandora running on my smart phone), when out of nowhere, this question popped into my head:
WHAT IS ONE THING YOU COULD DO THAT SCARES YOU TO DEATH?
Because, you know, it’s all about “feel the fear and do it anyway.” That’s the kind of attitude that will help you grow in leaps and bounds as a person. So they say …
Now, this question was posed to me before the spider web incident on Wilson Street [Facebook post after I got back home: I love going for a walk through my neighborhood, but this morning’s walk … I almost walked into two spider webs that were connected by the trees on either side of the sidewalk. Granted, the spiders were the size of electrons, BUT STILL. I got off the sidewalk and continued walking in the street. *shudders*] …
Anyway, the answer that came back – immediately – was this:
Reserve time at one of the piano studios at LCC, and get Bach’s Inventions back under your fingers again.
Where on earth did that come from? Even more amazing was the feeling of missing playing the piano, the craving to sit down and practice! Which is just … astounding.
So, I think that in time, I am going to swear by doing nothing for five minutes, and going for 20-minute walks for inspiration as much as I do Morning Pages. Because this stuff works!
My writing partner, Bobbi, recently wrote a lovely piece about a childhood memory, centered around her grandparents, baking, and banana ice cream. After she shared it with me, we had a discussion about the creative process – her essay was the result of a very short guided meditation (for want of a better term) that a writing instructor did with her class, and how she was able to build from that, which was amazing enough. But even more amazing was that she, like many of us, did not have a Beaver Cleaver childhood – and yet she was able to put this sweet memory on paper.
I, on the other hand, scoffed at my ability to do something similar to this. I’m a adult child of alcoholics, and by and large, we ACOA’s don’t remember our childhood. There are years – years – that just aren’t there in my memory, and what I do remember, I’d rather forget. Bobbi challenged me to let go of those painful memories and what comes with it – resentment, anger, sadness, depression, being stuck, embracing victimhood – and instead, focus on the good that happened in my childhood. This blog entry is my attempt at doing just that.
Many of us who have attained a certain age (ahem) lament that today, most children are not experiencing the fun, carefree childhoods we had. For example, they never go outside and play!! They’re inside, in their rooms, or on the couch, eyes glued to a glowing screen. The only “exercise” they’re getting is overexertion of their finger and hand muscles as they play a mind-numbing amount of video games. Whenever I overhear or have this conversation, I think, “Well, that’s one thing about my childhood that was good.” I was out and about with my neighborhood partners in crime.
This is a list of some of the things I remember doing and experiencing:
Lightning bugs (you might call them fireflies): My cousins and I used to collect them in jars after it got dark, and watch them light up. There was something magical about cool summer evenings being pitch black and then – right there! Did you see it? A tiny bright light, and then more, and more, until it seemed as if the stars had lowered themselves down from the sky just to dance in front of you.
The ice cream truck: At 52, I still get excited when I hear the childlike songs of an ice cream truck. I remember my mom giving me money before going off to work. “A whole dollar!! What could I get with that?!” I would think excitedly. My favorite ice cream was the rainbow flavored sherbet that had – gasp! – a gumball at the bottom of the cone-shaped container!! It was like two goodies in one. I never go out into the street when the ice cream van comes around. I should, next time – I’d probably be shocked at the prices, though.
Riding my bike: Oh, the adventures I had riding my bike with friends in the neighborhood. And there wasn’t a helmet among the group of us either. E.T. was a magical, classic movie for many reasons, but how many of you were simply thrilled at the bike chase scene because it tapped so clearly into your childhood memories? That moment when Elliott, his brother and friends come skidding up, one by one? And you felt like, “Aw yeah, shit’s about to get real!”
War: Well, card games in general, but War in particular. One day, a bunch of kids in the neighborhood played a huge game of War. I can’t remember how many decks of cards we used, but as I was the only one in the group who could shuffle cards efficiently, I do remember having to shuffle deck after deck. We were so excited, waiting for that moment when every single one of us would put down the same card, thereby calling simultaneous wars. And when it happened? Sheer pandemonium and terror, as we each placed our three cards, saying, “I-de-clare” and then bam! “War!!”
Can’t for the life of me remember who won that round, though.
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