about hope.

I wrote today. I cranked out 2,000 words in a sitting. Just the start of something. I thought about things I haven't thought about in a long time. And there's no escaping that feeling of having sunk deep inside of yourself. You try to come back out, but the dim light streaks hot in your path and it's too hard to open your eyes wide again.

Now seems to be the time to write about resolutions. New Year, new life, right? I make casual resolutions every year, mostly a dialogue with myself. I don't always write them down. I just say it to myself: I will be better in this way or that. For several years, my only serious resolution was to quit smoking, which I failed at more times than I care to remember. This is the first time in five years that I'm not making that resolution. Seven months smoke free, which is quite surreal.

I know a lot of people think resolutions are stupid, mostly because we don't often keep them. You know, we're all going to go to the gym and drink lots of water and eat only vegetables....but then.

be here.

Some while ago I read something, I can't remember where. A post on a blog or maybe an essay. It was about fear and this reassurance: Anything could happen, but it usually doesn't. I've been letting my brain chew on this thought for a few weeks now.

I carry a lot of fear around with me. I don't usually acknowledge it to myself, or even anyone else. I am afraid of losing things and people that I love, afraid of people dying or abandoning me, afraid of them abandoning themselves, afraid of change and the unknown and feeling out of control. Usually my fear is something I push back when it surfaces. But lately it has been fighting it's way through, sharp pricks and wet eyes. I am forced to confront it every day and I am confronting it now head on. I am tired of living with the constant expectation that something evil is just around the corner.

Over the weekend, I read a piece in the latest issue of Poets & Writers that was about writing as healing and discovery in the face of a spouse's death. I read the first sentence, "On the night my husband died..." and immediately the black hole opened up in the pit of my stomach. Death, there it is, looming over me and everyone else I love.

memories of a gorilla suit.

I can't remember what I ate as a child. I know I ate things, I know we had meals. There are pieces, mostly memories of melting cheese on chips and watching I Love Lucy. There's the sugar bomb cereal that none of the neighbor kids were allowed. They always wanted to sleep over for the breakfast.

I don't understand why I can't remember the meals, years and years of my life. What was I eating? In my adult life, I structure my entire day around what I'm going to eat and when. I love food and I love to make it. I will gladly devote my entire evening to buying groceries and making a meal. I read food blogs like it's my job.

Memory is a funny thing. The pieces that carry through, the things you remember, and the things that are lost. Years of life, significant acts, eating, all lost. In this moment now, you can't imagine a time when you'll forget. Can't imagine not remembering the feel of that hand or the way the Boston air smelled after a cold December rain. But you might forget.

global climate change.

Check out my newest post at the Friendly Atheist:

Understanding Christianity and Global Climate Change

mapmakers.

A few weeks ago, Anthony Doerr posted a recommendation for The Story and It's Writer at The Lit Pub. It's a beautiful piece on the precious place that books and stories hold in our lives.  Towards the end, he evokes the image of a map, across our lives, containing all the books we've read.

Imagine you could draw a map of all the experiences you’ve had in your life, and superimpose it over a map of all the books you’ve read in your life. Here you worried your daughter was failing out of school, here you gave a nun a stick of chewing gum, here you saw a man dressed as a referee weeping in a Honda Accord. And here a boy in an egg-blue suit handed you an ornate invitation to a party at Jay Gatsby’s, here you met the harpooner Queequeg at the Spouter Inn, here you floated a stretch of the Mississippi with a slave named Jim.

Since reading that piece, I've been thinking over and over all the maps in my life. I could do a layover of walks that I've taken, houses I've lived in, friends that I've loved, and so on. Lately I've been stuck on the map of music in my life.

I'll be honest: I'm one of those people who obsesses over a song. I play it over and over until I kill it good and dead. I think that makes music especially defining in the emotional and intellectual landscape of my mind. There are dozens of songs I can listen to and be instantly transported back to a different time and a unique set of emotions. There was Bon Iver, Skinny Love and heartache. There was Old Crow Medicine Show, Wagon Wheel and old friends. There was Blitzen Trapper, Furr and falling in love.

more listening.

risks.

I wear neutral colors. I choose my words carefully. I'm a lover, not a hater. I'm soft-spoken. I want to keep the peace. I don't like much attention.

But when I get down to business, the things that I need to write and say are difficult. They're controversial, maybe even offensive. They might hurt people that I love.

That's the battle I've been fighting on a daily basis and right now, right here. I'm only dusting off the iceberg - I haven't even begun to chip away at it. What's the answer? I need to write, I know that I need to write. Something in my gut tells me that my writing will never be what I want until I can confront the demons and write the hardest things. The fear, instinct, knowledge, emotion - I'm left nearly paralyzed.

I had a conversation yesterday about the challenges as an artist to separate yourself from your work. It is still nearly impossible for me. The words are an extension of self. They are intensely personal. I don't know how to make the divide.

something completely different.

I'm now guest posting at Hemant Mehta's Friendly Atheist blog. My first post went up yesterday.  Check it out here:

Dissecting Rick Perry's 'Strong' Ad

If you're new to my site, check out the About section - and feel free to say hello!

push along.

It is a true thing: sometimes it doesn't really get easier. There are things that tug and pull at you, your emotions, your thoughts, and they just aren't going to go away. Do you know what I mean?

For me, it's smoking. I am slowly and calmly (sort of) trying to accept the fact that I will always want to smoke. Just over six months in the clear, but I still get the jealous, violent pang each time I see someone smoking. I will get better at ignoring the voices in my head, the ones that scream, It's raining, I'm tired, I have a headache, I feel emotional and I need to smoke.

And I will get better at pushing myself along. Towards goals, towards creative growth, towards greater empathy and love. One of the amazing and accidental purposes that this blog now has is this: on the days like today, when I'd rather gnaw off my own fingers than write, I can still say to myself, Just write something for the blog. As soon as I get that out, the spark is alive again and I can keep going. Thank you, internet gods, for that.

the notebook, continued.

Here's the deal:
Two months ago, I said I was going to finish the notebook. I only had seven pages left. More or less the moment I said those words, it became impossible for me to do it. I still wrote, finished two pieces, blogged, wrote in other notebooks. But something in me resisted finishing this notebook. I don't understand it so I can't explain it. I kind of lied a little, mostly to myself, and said it was done. Well, it wasn't.

I know this might seem insignificant - maybe it is insignificant. But it matters to me.

So today, holed up in Starbucks on my lunch break with an Earl Gray tea, I wrote the last seven pages. There, it's done. I want to throw it away something fierce, but I will not.

The notebook ended on this:

And now I'm staring at these last pages gripped with fear, fear of the beautiful words and the ugly words and myself. Just another face in another Starbucks scribbling things that seem so important. Well what is it? I will not throw it away. Keep on keep on. Stand in the long line and creep forward with each moment and word, stare out the window, look back and blink. 

***

funerals & clasped hands.

I walk by a funeral home every day. At least twice a week, there's a crowd outside, gathered after a funeral. I stare those people down. I can feel loss and death on that corner, underneath my fingernails, creaking in my elbows and knees. I dwell on those people, perhaps too much. The loss of another human being, a life, someone who was loved. I don't want to see, but I can't turn away.

In return, I also devote myself to beautiful things,

Such as this wonderful wire sculpture by Gavin Worth,

different kinds.

I read some beautiful writing today. The kind that makes your palms tingly. The kind that makes you unconsciously hold your breath. I live for those moments. I can't tell you why, exactly, other than this: in those moments there's a wholeness in the universe and myself that is complete. It is the closest thing I can imagine to the absolute. And I know it's real when I read something and say to myself, Someday I'll write like that.

There are different kinds of writing in my life.

There's journal writing, which I have done on and off since I was 13 or 14. It's self-absorbed fear and heartbreak and mad love.

There's notebook writing, writing practice. I've really only been doing it for the past 3 or 4 years. And even then, I've really only been dedicated to it for a year or less. This is usually where I plug in freewriting, make lists and let ideas gather some energy.