One Rich Life
“Is reading silent in any sensible understanding of that word? Does it deepen the silence around us or break it up? When we read are we listening to the author, conversing with the author, or are we looking more directly into the author’s mind, seeing the author’s thoughts, rather than hearing her voice? How might one define silence in relation to the written, as opposed to the spoken, word?”
Sara Maitland
I’m on retreat, at the beach in Duck, North Carolina. Today is my last day here. We’ll head on home tomorrow, leaving the calming sound of the ocean right outside our door. It’s a great time to be here. There are few people about and the beach is almost always empty. The sand is covered with shells of all shapes, colors and sizes and the weather has been spectacular. We had one very windy, cold day and it was wonderful to cozy up inside, watching the sea as it crashed on shore. The rest of the time has been fairly warm, and sunny. The house we’re renting is tucked behind a dune and it’s pleasant sitting outside around noontime with only a light jacket needed.
This has been a much-needed break. Things at home have been great, but it’s a busy season and finding time to write has been touch and go, with thirty minutes here, 15 minutes there, and maybe an occasional hour without some sort of interruption.
Here I’ve been able to write for hours at a time. The phone doesn’t ring, I’m saving the laundry to do when I get home, and I’m not doing any cooking. I brought things I made a while ago and put in the freezer, like a good chili and a big container of delicious curried cauliflower soup. We do go out, too, but being here isn’t about the food, it’s about having time to just be, walk on the beach, take naps, and write.
Bill is rewriting a play that just had a successful reading last week at Live Arts, in Charlottesville. And I, of course, am working on my memoir. I’m not one for outlining. I usually just write and see what I get. But just a few weeks ago, an outline simply appeared in my head. Not being one who lets hits like that go, I wrote it all down. I can’t tell you how good it felt to finally have a focus.
I’m also not one for writing things in order and knowing how I wanted to start the book and end it, I wrote the first chapter, the last, and even the epilogue. I’ve pictured the thing as a loaf of sliced bread … Wonder Bread perhaps … I have the end pieces and now I must add slices in between. Many of them are already there, need rewriting, but I’ve also had other things come to me, now that I have a hint of where I’m going.
That doesn’t mean it won’t change over time. I’m well aware of how quickly things can change. Even the most up-to-date roadmap will not show all of the detours and side trips that weren’t in place when the map was printed. So I write on, trying to keep an open mind, as new ideas come to the surface.
I have also decided to set a deadline for myself. If there are huge numbers of people who set about writing a novel during the month of November, for NaNoWriMo, (National Novel Writing Month,) why in the world can’t I set a deadline for my memoir?
I’m not so good at keeping up my pace unless there is a goal. But, I am really good at procrastinating, often finding myself wasting time. So I figure, with a bit of scheduling, while still allowing time for a nap here and there, a book I can’t put down, or simply staring into space without feeling guilty, I should be able to do it by September 1st, of next year.
Wow! Did I just say that? Well, alwritey then. I guess I’m going to do it. It may not be a final draft, but it will be a draft of some kind. And if I don’t count December, because it’s an insane time of year, I’ll have nine months to do the work. That’s how long it took for my kids to cook in my belly. Mark needed a little extra time, taking ten months. So maybe when September rolls around and I’m not quite done, I can give myself another month?
Seriously, I want to try. I’ve told my sweet man, that I don’t want to go on any trips for the first few months of the New Year. If we’re all lying at the bottom of the cliff, as some are predicting, then we won’t be able to afford it anyway. A weekend fling here or there would be fine, but I need time to get my words working. Traveling for long periods of time just doesn’t suite when I’m trying to focus. But, if another retreat like this could be fit into the schedule, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Especially if I knew it would mostly be for writing time.
After this week of rest, relaxation, and writing, I’m ready to head back into the month of gift giving. I still have a list I need to tackle, but much of it is easy and homemade. But the best gift I’m giving this year is to myself … Nine months to finish growing my book. Wish me luck!
Are you finished gathering all of the Christmas gifts you are going to give this year? Most importantly, are you planning on giving yourself one? What will it be?
For me, being out in nature is one of my special needs.
Friend, writer, and teacher extraordinaire, Patti Digh wrote a great blog post a few days ago. Writing about her daughter, Tess, who was recently diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome she asks the questions, “What does Tess need to succeed? What helps her sit fully in her sun?”
Certainly these are questions that most anyone could one day wrestle with, if their own child or another family member is in need of special help in order to be successful in life. Unfortunately, we don’t ask those questions of ourselves and it is rare to hear them asked in the workplace by those who run the show. Whether or not we have a particular disability, we should all be asking ourselves these questions, as should CEOs if they expect the best work from their employees.
In reality, all of us have special needs. Introverts need quiet and solitude to do their work. Extroverts, on the other hand, need continuous interaction with other people in order to be comfortable in their world. And some of us have sensitivities that can bring us too our knees. Music that fills a room may be therapeutic to some and nothing but bruising noise to others. If on in the background, I find the garbled messages of a television anxiety producing when I’m trying to read or am doing any activity that requires my focus and attention.
On some days I write with music playing in the background. On other days even the gentlest of instrumental sound can keep me from my quest. I just turned off Yo-Yo Ma’s album, Obrigado Brazil, that I love and often exercise to, as I did this morning. But today in order to concentrate on writing this post, it is getting in my way. On another day I might find it just the ticket I need in order to write or paint. I never know, and I’m learning to listen carefully to what I need in any given situation.
As an introvert, I often need time to myself after I’ve been with large groups of people. I dislike small talk and would prefer to converse about life and philosophical issues. I do much better in intimate settings with only a few people at a time. For me, the perfect dinner party size is six people. Good talk and good food … there’s nothing better.
Should you decide to turn on lights or make noise while I’m trying to sleep, you’re toast. That’s why the only roommate I can tolerate is my love, Bill. He understands and goes out of his way in order to keep me from being awakened in the middle of the night and chopping off his head :-)!
I’ve spent years trying to come to grips with my introversion and sensitivities. Until just a few years ago, I thought that I was broken, intolerable to be around, and that most people thought I was a snob, elitist and/or beyond loony. Certainly my parents didn’t help, with their incessant complaining about my being too sensitive as a child. Of course, they were too, but hid it behind their iron curtains of denial.
These days, I try to be with people who tend to understand my kookiness. They are extroverts as well as introverts. And after a recent bout of overwhelm, I’m learning again to pay attention and ask myself what I need in any given moment. Knowing that everyone has needs of his or her own helps to keep me from feeling freakish about mine.
What are your special needs? Do you consider yourself to be extremely sensitive? An extrovert or an introvert? We’re all different, of course. But no one should suffer from feeling different and alone in what sometimes feels like a world gone out of control.
Big Ben
The Timex on my wrist, the old Seth Thomas clock on the wall that rings the hours, and the small, black electronic cube that sits on my nightstand beeping at six AM have been with me always. They not only denote the hour and the passage of time, they have been the enemy. I have fought with them constantly.
Stop the clock. I’ve run out of time. It’s time to eat, time to sleep, time to feed the dog, pick up the kids. Time is short, too long and are we there yet? Forever in a hurry, I was constantly running. But somehow I was always on time or even early getting to the places I was supposed to be. Why didn’t I have ulcers?
One afternoon while reading a good book and needing to be at an appointment in fifteen minutes, I caved in. Tired of rushing and feeling rebellious I kept on reading even as the clock ticked away. I finished the chapter, got in the car, and drove to my appointment. I was only five minutes late but I had been overwhelmed by anxiety on the way, thinking I’d be terribly late. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, my stomach churned filled with a load of worry stones, and I didn’t know what I’d been thinking.
Like a drunk who finally hits bottom and knows that the sauce will kill him soon, I knew that if I kept running the way I did, it would be the end of me. I’d crash the car, fall off a cliff and/or my heart would simply quit because it couldn’t keep up. My life was a train wreckwaiting to happen.
Changing my pace has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But somehow I’ve managed to slow the train, though it can still be easy to fall back into old habits if I’m not careful. I do still have occasional overly busy days, but if I’m feeling overbooked I reschedule an appointment or two for another day when things aren’t so hectic. I’ve learned to say no to the one more thing that will tip the scale sending me into overwhelm and yes to breathing deeply and taking whole days when I don’t have to go anywhere but stay here and tend to whatever I want and need to do. I love those days the best and manage to get to my writing with time to spare for a nap, to garden, or read. I still worry about being late once in a while, but I’m also beginning to trust that the clock does sometimes run slow and I’ll arrive in plenty of time without being frazzled.
I wrote this poem back in 1993 in the heat of my war with time. I’m so grateful that battle is over.
The Clock
A tranquil pool reflects
As only water can
The confection of moon
Star lanterns
Show the way down
To the mouth of a cave
A tattered moth
Hands me her flame
Tells me to wait
Just inside at the edge
For a ferry to deliver me
To the middle of night
Aboard the vessel
The oarsman leers
With eyes that glow
In burning sockets
His mouth overflowing
Knots of squirming eels
I hold the flame closer
Easing my fear
A solitary owl hoots
At the sight of land
I am lifted to shore
By rigid talons
Left on the sand
Where a porcelain clock
Elephant high
Stands guard
Naming the hours
As they race around
An eroding track
The clock strikes twelve
Spilling sleeping cuckoos
Severed hands
Frantic numerals gather momentum
Left without time
Lifting the flame to possibility
I ignite the ticking sky
jzr, 1993
Bryant Park, New York City ... a lovely place to sit and read.
A while back I wrote a post about my love and addiction to books. I absolutely love everything about them: the feel of them in my hands, how when I fall asleep while I’m reading, they settle down oh so gently over my heart, staying open to the page I last read. And their sweet smell often reminds me of the first library I ever went to.
About a year ago my husband bought a Kindle. Wearing my high and mighty jeans, I asked him why in the world he would do such a thing. He advised me that when traveling it would be easier and weigh much less to carry his Kindle in his pocket downloaded with several books rather than to lug along a suitcase stuffed with reads he might not even get to. Being who I am and stuffed into those very tight, judgemental pants, I said, “Well yeah, I get that but I know I will never enjoy reading a book on an electronic gadget. It looks and feels awkward and it isn’t soft and floppy like a well-worn book.
A few months later after trying to find a comfortable way to hold the Kindle in bed, he gave up. It fell out of his hands several times onto the hardwood floor as he was falling to sleep. He also didn’t like not knowing how far along in the book he was. He missed that comforting bookmark that let him know immediately where he was in the story without having to open the pages. So, off the Kindle went to a friend at Christmas time who still hasn’t used it. I didn’t say a word.
At work on my memoir, I’ve been reading loads of books in the same genre. One of the things successful writers tell the rest of us is to read, read and read some more. It helps immensely with developing our own style and finding our own voice. It can also be very inspiring and we may find ourselves writing immediately after reading a piece that is very moving. I’ve found that works particularly well when I’m writing poetry. Often when I feel stuck, all I have to do is go to one of my favorite poets and read several of their pieces. I’ll be off and writing in no time at all.
However, my read list on Amazon is most often way out of hand and pricey. Especially if I have 20 books lined up on it. I could go to the library but lately the books I’ve been looking for aren’t available. So when I saw a review written by another writer about a new memoir and it sounded like something I’d enjoy, I took Amazon up on their offer for me to download it for free on my iPad.
A few weeks ago when I went to New York, I not only took along a few books that I was in the middle of reading, I also took my iPad. On the train ride back home, I found that I’d packed those books I’d had little time to read away in my luggage and couldn’t get at them. But tucked away in my purse was my iPad with a downloaded book on it.
I’m sweating and getting a bit uncomfortable because I do have to tell you that I’ve changed my mind about reading books on electronic gadgets. People like me who are considered by some to be outspoken (: and use words like never and always, don’t like to be found out. And here I am telling on myself.
I turned the iPad on and started reading. I read the entire five and a half hours I was on the train. I didn’t quite finish the book, so back at home I put it on top of the stack next to my bed and finished it off several nights later.
I’m still breathing and the world did not end. I still love real books the most and prefer to read those. But, I really do get the point about how much easier it is to read a book on a Kindle, Nook or iPad while traveling. Especially when they’re free. And if they’re not the price is usually much lower than the newly published hardcover edition.
So the next time I go off on another travel adventure I’ll download another book or books to take along. You also need to know that I’ve traded in those tight high and mighty jeans for a pair of light summer sweats that tend not to embarrass me as much.
