Category: Writing

Remind Me

Remind me that I feel better when I do this.

Remind me that everything is improved with a trip outside.

Remind me that the world is more bright and lovely midday when I step into the grass rather than tuck my toes under on the couch.

Remind me that all I have to do – ALL I have to do – is to get out of the way. To be silent and wonder. To ask the question and wait. To not turn my somersaults of confusion and anxiety trying to twist myself into already knowing what I do not yet know. To not justify my every action when they are all wrong because the only right one is to listen.

Remind me that it cannot all be mine, but look at what is.

Remind me that I would be overwhelmed with more anyway.

Remind me that it is the space between: the cool air, the ghost outline of a mostly round moon in the afternoon, the pine needles oddly tinkling like the sound of icicles in the spring breeze, the new baby-green buds born on the old dogwood branches.

Remind me that those trees in my yard have been there long before my comings and goings, my doings and not-doings, and they’ll be there, watching, long after. They are neither joyed nor dismayed by the antics of people in their yard, just observant.

Remind me to be observant, too.

Remind me to rest my face in a half-smile so as not to frown as I concentrate. I want to smile at what I’m considering, because if I’m going to frown, I want to do it on purpose.

Remind me to ask people questions about their lives.

Remind me to not interrupt.

Remind me that the world is spinning, and the ozone, and gravity, and revolution, and isn’t that all amazing when I remember to not take it for granted?

Remind me to stop avoiding what is difficult, because hiding it behind my back just makes it harder to hold.

Remind me to be careful.

Remind me to be purposeful, because so often I am not, and I allow myself the ease of being carried on the momentum of how-things-happen, forgetting that I have options: agency or complacency.

Remind me that “one day” backwards is “day one”.

Remind me that my parents are proud of the adult I’ve become. Remind me that I don’t have to act childlike for them.

Remind me that there is no rush. But also remind me to do a little every day.

Remind me to spend some time cleaning out the dusty old notes, files, boxes, and unused things. Remind me to unclutter my head, too.

Remind me that I want to learn to garden. But that I can start with something familiar like lavender or forsythia, and wait to tackle vegetables another year.

Remind me to keep the pen moving.

Remind me I’ll miss it all when I’m gone: the quiet classroom, the chaos when it’s full. The young minds shooting thoughts out in every unorganized direction like fireworks. Too loud, too scary, too much, and my responsibility to reign all that flash and fire in and make it into a timed, bright show, on schedule and in order.

But I already know that when I look back, I’ll first remember all that color and light and beauty, and I’ll need to be reminded of the slog.

 

15 Minute Writer?


Who said that thing about needing to work 10,000 hours in order to be an expert in your craft? I thought it was a Renaissance painter, or someone romantic, but Google says it was Malcolm Gladwell, who is a very much alive and current journalist – does that make the quote less timeless?

Google also has many many links to articles debunking the statement. But whatever the origin or veracity of the measurement, the basic idea behind it is true: if you want to get good at something, do it. A lot. You know, practice makes perfect and all.

A writer in my prompt writing group opened her piece this past week, and I am paraphrasing: I am scared. Now to sit and do the thing that I think about all day. She was referring to writing. And I was right there with her. The idea of writing is a constant on my mind – a tangle of desire and fear, need and doubt.

Part of the doubt and fear comes from the fact that the writing idea is jockeying for position with other desires and needs: running and/or yoga, cleaning, organizing, feeding myself, showering, and perhaps most loudly, sitting passively and consuming entertainment via a screen. And this long list only gets its turn on the agenda when the children are sleeping or otherwise occupied. All in all, I have 2 to 3 hours per day to do with what I will. And I have been very grateful this summer as I have realized how rich I am with time compared to last summer, when my responsibilities included all of the above PLUS a newborn with no set schedule. The fact that Cole naps consistently and reliably, and Maya is at school three days a week, has afforded me possibility and autonomy that seemed a distant and unattainable luxury not so long ago.

Do I feel my absolute best when I am writing? Yes. Do I long for the process when I am not doing it? Not exactly. I’m too tired. The only thing I long for is relaxation, the end of the day, quiet, sleeping kids, and perhaps American Ninja Warrior. See? Even in my downtime I can’t handle plot or story. Just pure mindless repetition.

The leader of my prompt group, Nancy Peacock, wrote in a Facebook post, ” I can only write a few hours each day…” and I add phrases like this to my long list of “Why I don’t write today” – because I cannot give the time it deserves.

It is a common issue I observe with myself: If I cannot give it my all, I will give nothing. If I cannot do the project in its entirety, I will do nothing. Even when it is so obvious that just a part of the whole would be a big improvement in my life. I can’t make it to the gym for an hour class? Then would only running one mile and dedicating 15 minutes be worth it? Better than nothing. I cannot deep clean the bathroom with a toddler underfoot, but I could at least wipe the toothpaste off the counter, right? Better than nothing. That’s going to have to be my new mantra: better than nothing. Of course I can’t give anything my all – heck, Maya is watching The Lego Movie and I’m batting Cole’s hands from the keyboard as I write this – so neither the kids nor this post is getting my full attention, but hey, I wrote this, and it’s better than nothing!

Perhaps the problem is that I have it in my head that I can only be writing when I can dedicate a string of hours, uninterrupted. So therefore, never. Perhaps if I see the process as something that CAN be done in starts and fits – in 15 minute increments, then maybe I can build something. A daily practice, small bits of flash fiction, pieces of a larger story, a familiarity with my characters…something; anything is better than nothing.

A Letter to my Son about Pursuing Passions


Dear, darling Coltrane,

I have brought you to a writing workshop put on by the North Carolina Writers’ Network at the Chapel Hill Public Library.

You have been mostly good so far, looking around, hanging in the Ergo. A few grunts, paci in, paci out. But just moments ago, as everyone settled in quietly for ten minutes of writing, you threw up all over me. Thanks a lot, bud. A nice, clear, “UURP!” and the wet sound of spit-up as it spilled out across my thigh.

I have used my lovely scarf from Bangladesh, a gift from my treasured former student, Ipsita, to dab it as best I can, but there is a clear wet spot. And now, I stand at the side of the room, rocking and swaying, displaying my soiled jeans for the room. Though, mercifully, no one is really looking; their eyes are directed at their pages, absorbed in the immediate world they are creating. I’ve left the scarf dangling long, uneven, in an attempt to cover the damp stain. I think it’s working.

Your eyes are red-rimmed. You are so tired, my dear. GO TO SLEEP! STOP EMBARRASSING ME! And now you are digging your fingers into my lips – your little arm extended fully in this reach for my face. And you laugh as I feign to eat your tiny fist. Bells. Music. An angel’s song – your laugh. SHHHHHH!

Now you are trying to put your paci in my mouth. Is this a new milestone? Are you feeding ME!? Six months old, this guy.

Oh good. Now you are trying to poop. You’ve been making a strong effort all day, to no avail. Will now be your big breakthrough? Timing, my man. Really.

Your lips purse, thinning at the edges and pushing out in the middle as though the rosebud center of your mouth is being drawn by a thread. The shape of your face triangulates in the labor; it flushes with red. Brows bow to each other, eyes look past me, faraway.

Oh good, relax. Nothing. A fruitless endeavor. I’m sorry your tummy’s not feeling good, baby.

Minutes go by; I’m swaying and listening to writers share their momented stories – unedited, fresh, and I glance down to see the whites of your eyes. Thank you, beneficent son, the familiar fluttering of your eyelids signals baby sleep. Strong at 7pm, not so much at 4am. But right now, right on schedule, 7:15pm, you nod out and I can sit, still involuntarily swaying in my chair, to write this – not the prompt given, but something I’ll tell you when you are three, like Maya, and wanting to hear stories of your own babyhood.

“Well, Cole,” I’ll say, “that year I stayed home with you, and I tried every day to shape my life to be the writer I knew I could be. So I didn’t miss the workshop, despite not having baby watching arrangements. Maybe I would just stand in the back and listen, but I wanted to be where the writers were. And you threw up all over me. Thanks a lot, buddy!” You will laugh at how gross babies are. And I will be proud that I showed you that I showed up to be who I wanted to be, even when inconvenient.

I love you,

Your Mama

End of April, End of ABCs

No, I did not finish strong. And my next post will be about all the changes in my life that have distracted me from TAKING 5 MINUTES A DAY TO WRITE, but I do not want to make excuses about not writing – that is the habit I was trying to break through participating in the A to Z Challenge.

However, I did take the haiku off the blog and into my classroom this past week, and my students wrote some really amazing and beautiful pieces. We spent a chilly but lovely morning outside, trying to leave our preoccupation with our selves back in the classroom, and going to the blade of grass to learn about the grass. Yes, I did have teenagers down on their knees in the morning dew, coming nose to nose with nature. Yes, there were also teenagers glancing at the trees and sky between texts and snapchats from their dry bench seats or from just inside the hallway doors, where the breeze couldn’t touch them. Oh well, their loss. The idea has been planted.

So, to wrap up my April month of haiku, I will share here all the true-to-haiku pieces I wrote that chilly April 28th morning with my Creative Writing class during my last week of work.


(Some have assigned categories)

About the Sky:

Blue, unwritten page

Pale edges touching trees.

Unmarred indigo

About Grass: (I gotta say, my kids did a much better job with this one than I did)

Shaken with the wind

Vibration of life, grass blade

Proud, vertical shoot

About a Living Thing (trees):

Verdant harmony

Song of hunter and chartreuse:

Spring’s voice, sung in green.

About Moisture:

Rain’s breath on the wind,

still reminder of past storms

cools this morning air

Connection of Place: Between Mountain and Sea in North Carolina

The sound of ocean

Communicated through leaves

Shaking in the wind

Free Choice:

Afternoon warmth

Announced by the morning’s rays

When the wind is still

 

Adios, April, it’s been real. I am pleased with my efforts toward self-discipline and consistency. Though I have not reached the apex quite yet, I am moving in the right direction.

A to Z Challenge: This month, I will be writing a haiku (sometimes a senryu – same syllables, not marveling at nature) each day save Sundays for the 26 letters of the alphabet as part of the blogosphere’s A to Z Challenge.

 

April 2: Between days: insomnia

B

Black windows reflect –

me. The light, on, shows only

inside. Uncurtained.

A to Z Challenge: This month, I will be writing a haiku (sometimes a senryu – same syllables, not marveling at nature) each day save Sundays for the 26 letters of the alphabet as part of the blogosphere’s A to Z Challenge.

It’s Just Words

This morning, as I drove Maya to Nana’s house, she asked me (as she does 4,987,003 times per day) to tell her a Hero and Baymax story (formerly an Anna and Elsa story), and I said, “Not right now, honey, I’m listening to a story on the radio right now. I will later.”

And her reply? “Mama, it’s just words.”

I am not exactly sure whether she was referring to what I was listening to (like the radio story was just words, not something to prioritize over the fictional adventures of the Big Hero 6 characters), or whether she saw through my excuse to try and avoid the exhausting task of coming up with a plot and moral off the top of my head countless times per day. I know that she would be just as happy if I kept things simple and occassionally told the same story over and over, but I feel the need to make each story meaningful, if not always complex.

(Now that I write this, I realize that I really should get a few plot lines down and repeat them with slight variation – it would benefit me because I would not feel constant creative strain, and her because she would hear those roles and lessons over and over, just as she likes to reread her actual books over and over.)

Her words caught me. I was already scolding myself internally for turning down my darling daughter’s request for a story – I mean her desire to hear a thing which I value and love so much is the highest of joys to me, but I wanted to be passive, to just listen. (To be fair, I had not yet had any coffee, so words and I had not come to a fluent agreement yet this day.)

But it felt like she was calling me out from a much more abstract and deep place. ‘Don’t be afraid of telling stories, mama, it’s just words. One word in front of another. One foot in front of the other.’ A piece of encouragement, a gentle nudge, a reminder from the universe, delivered through my toddler’s voice.

There is much to writing that is daunting: the sharing, the promotion, the business of publishing, but when it comes down to it, the raw bones of it, it’s just words, and that is where I am happy and in love.

Just go back to the words, mama. One foot in front of another.

Mountains

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I just read a blog post called “Climbing Mountains” on infertility which spoke to me. Even as I sit here, growing larger with my second bun in the oven, it was written in a way that A) helped me to find empathy on a deeper level than I had before B) felt so universal, and C) opened my eyes to new gratitude.

The writer is Suzy Krause of Suzy Krause and the Skyscrapers and Coffee + Crumbs.

Some of the piece hit a very personal note with me – seemingly articulating my own challenges, though of a very different variety:

If I could tell myself one thing…[i]t would be that no matter how this all turns out, this time of wanting and waiting and hoping is so valuable. That’s all. It’s a life lesson for all stages, no matter if what you’re waiting for is a baby or a partner, or a job, or a train. This is an opportunity to grow, to learn, to experience joy that’s not dependent on life’s circumstances…

I hadn’t known when I started this climb how long it would take, or how hard it would be. Or I how much I would learn and grow and stretch and be changed. Or how beautiful the view would be from up here. But as I sat there, I decided this moment was well worth the journey. That’s the thing about mountains, I guess. People wouldn’t go through all the work to climb them if there wasn’t something amazing at the end.

Transitions

My student teacher started today. I am so grateful.

I was talking with him yesterday about his plans for the week, and he was so full of energy, life, creativity, and ideas. My first reaction was to beat myself up for not bringing that kind of passion lately. Though I don’t think I have been slack or doing a poor job, he is just so full-to-the-brim with vitality and verve.

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Then I realized that I am so grateful that he is here right now to bring that idealism and that creativity to our classroom. I am here to help funnel that energy into productive lessons. He is bringing the newness; I am bringing the experience. It’s a good balance. And one that I need so badly right now.

Maya comes with me to work on the weekends
Maya comes with me to work on the weekends

This is a time for major transition for me, and that’s okay. Spending my outside “free” time working on new ideas for school is just not my truth today. It has been, and maybe it will be again, but it’s not right now. This experience with hosting a student teacher has granted me time: time to take care of all of the necessary, logistical, and professional things that are required of me. The gift of not having to use my outside time to take care of nuts and bolts, which must come before creativity, but often does not!

And if I get those things taken care of, then maybe I can use some of these gifted days to find my creative thought again, though they may be less of the teaching variety and more geared toward the new version of my life. One with two kids, no day job, new ventures, a possible new home.

It’s time to put my creative energy toward this new portrait, and also toward my own writing – in a journal, on the blog, in some stories. Our story is changing and I am so ready and so excited.

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I would like to remember how I built some of my favorite lessons and apply those habits and skills to my new writing life. I have felt proud, energized, and successful in those moments of inspired teaching and planning, and I would like to continue to experience the joy of that kind of satisfaction and productivity.

Inspired by Khaled Hosseini - I wrote a lesson plan on the back of my book mark for "And the Mountains Echoed"
Inspired by Khaled Hosseini – I wrote a lesson plan on the back of my book mark for “And the Mountains Echoed”

I will have about a month of teaching left after my student teacher wraps up his tenure here, and I have no doubt that in these meantime weeks, I will find my most favorite, most cared for, most loved, most thoughtful lessons to share with my classes before I officially exit this building.

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View when I leave work in the winter
My view when I leave work
View when I leave work in the spring

 

Who knows exactly what’s next, but I embrace this changing chapter.