Books

There is no friend as loyal as a book.
Ernest Hemingway

I love books.  You might say I’m addicted to them.  I have a long list of books at Amazon ready to be purchased.  Right now they are mostly memoirs and books on writing.  I try to order only three or four at a time, but that’s very difficult for me.  They are as tempting as my favorite locally made chocolates or a quart of freshly picked, June strawberries from the farm down the road.  I often tell myself, “I’ll never have enough.” or “I’ll buy it now, because I REALLY NEED it. ”

I also tell myself that my addiction is harmless because books aren’t narcotics or contain alcohol. I’m not into buying diamonds, furs, or private jets.  I don’t need those things and I don’t have that kind of money.  If I did, I’d probably spend it all on books, with a healthy dose of traveling and clothes thrown in.

I’ve been told by those who frequent AA meetings that thoughts like that are called, “Stinking Thinking.” Well, I’m guilty.  And though I’ve known that I’m a bookaholic and do a lot of stinking thinking for a long time, I am in the middle of confirming it as official. We moved to this house almost two years ago.  In the frenzy of the move, my husband and I got rid of a lot of books.  I can’t speak for him, but for me it was difficult.  I chose books that I remembered as not being engaging … that no longer drew me and/or that obviously for one reason or another,  I never should have bought in the first place.  After the move and unbeknownst to me, Bill asked a friend who was helping us to unload all of the boxes of books onto our bookshelves.

I discovered a problem a month or two later when I was looking for one in particular, a favorite poetry book.  All of my books had been unpacked and in some cases packed in such a way that they were all mixed up and out-of-order. You might think I’m a bit anal, but I’ve always grouped genres of books together.  Poetry, Gardening, Nature, Novels, Memoirs, etc.  The only ones I keep in alphabetical order are the poets. There are too many to do otherwise.

So, as wonderful as it seemed to have all of my books unpacked for me, it was a nightmare. I had my work cut out for me.  Just after Christmas, Bill and I decided to finally get our downstairs “Tornado” room put together and unpacked.  It’s underground, where all of the bookcases are located, along with a TV, puzzles, games and a fireplace.  It’s cozy.  Warm in the winter, and cool in the summer.   A perfect place to ride out any storm.

It’s where one night last summer, while Bill was having a meeting of associates, we made everyone go when a tornado warning came across on our emergency weather radio, telling us to take shelter immediately.  We flew to the basement, glasses of wine and crackers and cheese in hand. We sat amongst unpacked boxes and moving rubble for about thirty minutes waiting for the tornado to hit or move on.  One friend laughingly realized she was a “Tornado Virgin,” never having gone through a warning before.   Thankfully, the tornado passed us by and we were safe. No damage had been done, except for the embarrassment of having everyone see the mess and the boxes still needing to be unpacked.  We swore we’d get the room organized.  Reshelving the books was mostly my job since most of them are mine.

Since Christmas I’ve been working a little bit at a time to get my precious tomes in order.  First, I did poetry.  Then came gardening, cooking, and books on using herbs as medicine.  I’m now at work on my books on religion and spirituality, which are many.  I know I could get it all done in one day, but I’m enjoying the slow pace.  Books feel good in my hands.  They smell um, booky. They are filled with wisdom and some actually seem to glow.  No, not like a kindle. Like a real book that’s offering itself to me.

I have discovered that I have many books that I bought and have never read.  As I place each one onto it’s new shelf, I flip through a few pages and immediatley want to sit down and read it from the beginning. There are others I consider to be “old friends” that I’d like to read again or that I simply could never part with.  I started out making a pile of books that I wanted to read for the first time.  I gave up.  There are too many.  And there are three more on their way through the postal system that will be added to the stack by my bedside.

I’m trying to be honest with myself.  I am an addict.  I need to get my problem under control.  Someone suggested that I start going to the library instead of buying books.  That’s all well and good for some, but I like to write comments in books and I’m afraid that wouldn’t do if it belonged to the library.  Maybe I just need to read faster.  Maybe if I stay up later than I normally do and get up earlier I can get them all read.

And just maybe I shouldn’t buy any more until I’ve read the ones I’ve already got … Ah yes, books.  They’re a problem.

Art And War

I just finished reading a small but hugely important book.  If you are an artist, writer, or anyone who has a project of any kind in mind, but can’t seem to get started, this book is for you.

I’m writing a memoir. It took me a year to say that out loud or to write it down. It’s hard. I love the process.  I hate the process.  It comes in fits and starts.  Some days you’ll find me flying high above the treetops loving the world and everything in it. Other days, I might be floating underground on my way to the city’s sewage treatment plant. That’s how these things go and I know I’m not alone.

After reading Steven Pressfield’s, The War of Art, Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, I’m feeling oh, so much better. I’m confident I will finish my memoir.  It’s a kick in the butt for scared, lazy people like myself who can find a gazillion reasons why they shouldn’t begin what their heart is calling them to do.

It’s three books in one.  Book One is about Resistance in all of its manifestations: procrastination, self-dramatization, victimhood, fear and every other possible reason I can come up with to not sit down at the computer and start to write. It’s about those little voices in my head I call stink bugs, who tell me I’m not good enough. What this man has to say about them squashes them in their tracks and sweeps them away before the stink has a chance to rise into the air and get on your fingers.

Book Two, Combating Resistance, is about being a warrior set on wiping Resistance off the face of the earth. It’s about becoming a pro and keeping yourself from wandering off course. It’s the hard part. If you’re like me, tending toward being a peace-maker and conscientious objector, the militancy will make you wince.  But in that you might also recognized one more mask of that sly fox, Resistance.

Book Three, Beyond Resistance, is my favorite part. It brought me back from the realm of the warrior to my own inner knowing about what I need to do.  It’s about the magic of putting words down on paper and how that, in and of itself, can become very habit-forming.  It’s about growth and waking up.  It’s about healing. It’s about communicating with the Muse. It’s about being a visionary.

Do yourself a big favor.  Read this little book. 

Unseen Shoals

Fog over the South Fork Rivanna River Reservoir.

“We record unspoken experience in the mind and body, but unless we can story it out, experience remains inside us shrouded like fog hanging over water.  We may act on these unspoken tensions, but we act blindly.  We whistle bravely forward, a small, lost skiff, sounding a horn in the mist.  And often we crash upon unseen shoals.  Unarticulated experiences that are not allowed into the story can show up years later as trauma, disease, mental illness or a midlife crisis.  But when these same experiences  are shifted into language and successfully worked through in the healing power of story, they lay the groundwork for transformative personal development.”

Christina Baldwin,  Storycatcher, Making Sense of Our Lives through the Power and Practice of Story

I’ve found myself crashing into “unseen shoals” these past weeks as I begin to bring my hidden stories to light … the ones cached in deep mud at the bottom of the river.  The ones I really don’t want to live through again, but know I must in order to make sense of who I am and where I’ve come from.  I know the ending of my story will be a happy one. It’s how I retell the stories of what happened in the beginning and in the middle that will make it so. It is a painful and difficult journey.  For the time being those stories need a bit of protection before I share them.  I will keep writing here, sharing resources and timely stories that will balance out all the rest.

Christina Baldwin’s book from which I took the quote above, is powerful. I plan on rereading it as I move through the next months and bring to light more difficult times.  It’s a must read for anyone wishing to write memoir.

On Forgiveness

At The Heart Of The Matter, Joan Z. Rough, Copyright, 2005

This is what I do know:  until you forgive someone as close as a mother, you are at war with yourself, you continue to gnaw that leg of yours caught in a trap.  Why are you at war with yourself?  I think because to hold a grudge against another person you have to recognize in them a quality that you yourself possess but can’t admit to.

Mary Rose O’Reilley, The Love of Impermanent Things, A Threshold Ecology

I’m reading this book for the second time.  Although I loved it the first time around, I don’t think I was ready for it.  I was in the midst the final year of my mother’s life. I was gnawing on my own leg. Blind. Unable to see what was before me.

I refound this marvelous book a few days ago, going through one of those unpacked boxes left from our move over a year ago.  Still trying to purge, I was looking for books I could part with.  Books I could take to the library for their big sale in March. But this one will stay with me. Within it, the words speak to my heart and I am finding myself.

Rare Books

Last week I decided to google myself just for the heck of it. Low and behold, there I was on Amazon, with what they say is a page of my own. Clicking on that, I found that there were 7 copies of a book I had published in 1982, available from various book dealers, starting in price from $17.50 to $158.00.  Since then 1 book has sold and there are only 6 remaining.  In 1982 I sold those 59 page books for $6.95 plus shipping and handling and upped the price on the last two printings to $7.95.  I’ve written a rare book!  I AM a writer!  But this is something I never expected!

While living in Vermont, I raised my own sheep and agora goats so that I always had a good supply of luxurious natural fibers. Back in the early 80’s, shortly after having moved to Virginia, I began teaching the spinning of wool and mohair fibers into one-of-a-kind yarns to be used in knitting or weaving projects.  I also taught natural dying using local plants, like golden rod, pearly everlasting, walnut hulls, twigs and leaves.  These plants can yield lovely muted colors … soft, buttery yellows, gentle greens, occasional oranges and red depending on the plants and mordant used.  Walnut hulls give a lovely brown.

One year while showing my work at a local craft fair, I was approached by a woman who told me that her mother-in-law would be visiting for the summer from Australia. She did a craft called locker hooking, which I had never heard of.  She described to me a process of using fleece, right from the sheep’s back, to make sturdy rugs. It was difficult for me to envision the work from her description but waited with bated breath for Marj Boyes to arrive.

When we finally got together she showed me her beautiful rugs and a coat she had made for her daughter-in-law using the same technique.  She had learned it from John and Patricia Benson, neighbors in Victoria, who learned it from their son, Brian, who had seen it demonstrated in Ireland.

I had never known anything like it and fell in love with this new use for the bags of wool I had hauled with me from Vermont.  I arranged for her to do some teaching and the craft quickly caught on among locals interested in rug hooking and those who were raising sheep.  I made a number of rugs and vests myself and began to call myself a hooker!

closeup of a small wall hanging

Just before Marj went back home to Australia, I told her that she needed to write a book on how to do this type of rug hooking. She said no, but why didn’t I do it?  Oh, my gosh!  Who me?  What do I know about writing a book and with two kids about to enter their teens, would I have the energy or the time to deal with anything else?  But the seed had been sewn and in a few months the idea began to sprout tiny green leaves somewhere in my brain.  I began doing some research trying to find the origin of this work and found a few mentions here and there, but it was sparse and mostly unknown.  I started writing what I knew and came up with a title:  Australian Locker Hooking, A New Approach to a Traditional Craft.

My husband became my editor.  We argued about grammar, spelling, but remained married and best friends.  My writing tools were an old electric typewriter and White Out, since home computers were not yet available. We designed the book together, he doing the photography and some of the drawings.  My children paced in the background feeling as though they’d been abandoned by both of their crazy parents.

We decided to include with the book a locker hook, which is the tool needed to do this craft.  Since they were not available in the USA, I found a manufacturer in England and imported them. We found a printer and we were off to the races. The finished book was in my hands in early 1982.

Because I was a spinner and weaver and subscribed to many weaving and spinning magazines, I knew my market well.  I ordered a printing of 3,000 books which I immediately began selling through inexpensive ads in national craft magazines.  I began writing articles, teaching classes and demonstrating whenever I had the opportunity. We went to Seattle to a conference of the Hand Weavers Guild of America where I began selling the books wholesale to spinning and weaving shops across the country and to a few shops in other countries.

In 1983 I reprinted another 2,000 copies and then again in 1985 and ‘86.  I was getting tired of being a mail order house and wanted to spread my wings into the field of nature photography. I contacted a number of publishers to see if they might like to take the project over, but they all declined saying that the trend wouldn’t last and that it was just too small a project to get involved with. I let the whole thing die a natural death giving several people permission to use some of my material knowing that they would be generous keepers of the craft.  I went on about my life, making photographs, paintings and exhibiting the results.

This is what I’ved learned:

Do your best. Believe in what you do. Release any attachment to outcome.  Stand tall. Count every blessing. Always say thank you. Check yourself out on Google once in a while … you never know what you’ll find!