There’s a new job in the mix these days, so for the first time in six months, I have to go somewhere to work (at least a few days a week). It’s a 30 minute walk to get there, so I’m back in the wonderful habit of walking to work, leaving lots of good time for thinking and podcast-listening (this morning, this one). The street I walk down is cheerful, mostly houses and old apartment buildings, not too bustling, but also not too quiet to be unnerving after dark. There are plenty of Christmas lights out. It’s good for my brain to be walking again, walking with a destination in mind. It’s one of the most satisfying things I know.
This evening, on my way back, I stopped in a small bookstore in our neighborhood. I slowly perused the shelves. I was the only one in the shop, so the shopkeeper chatted with me. I decided, on a whim, to buy myself a random book, whatever looked good. I picked this up.
After I left the bookstore, further down the road, I passed a newer apartment building. Condos, I’m guessing, boxy with big front windows. The building was three stories, with two units on each floor. Six big airy windows facing the street, belonging to six different people. In each window, I could see a big flat screen TV attached to the wall. In each window, the TV was on.
I mean, I watch TV too. Maybe not as much as the average person, but I watch my fair share (lately more than my fair share of this). But……….man did it make me feel sad. All of those little houses just the same, TVs just the same, life just the same.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Sunday, December 13, 2015
brain-knots
Yesterday we drove down to Pilsen to visit the National Museum of Mexican Art. It’s a lovely little museum (and one of the few free ones here). I’m still thinking about this exhibit and the Mexican Repatriation in the 1930’s, which I actually knew very little about. It’s a good time to learn.
Injustices like that, even things that happened long before my time, drag me pretty low. I can’t stop thinking about it. I always say that I’m meant to work on small causes and at small organizations because I do much better focused on my own piece of the world - what I can do right here and now. Otherwise I tie my brain into knots thinking about how systems got the way they are and how we can make them change. But Jacob says that my brain-knots are a good thing. Maybe they’ll lead me somewhere important one day.
It’s strangely warm out, and I’m flip-flopping between feeling very ambitious and very lazy. I went for a run, so that's good. The final paper due on Tuesday is looming and triggering some strong procrastination urges. I’m also thinking about a big bag of chocolate chips on the shelf and what I could make out of them right now. Actually, I'm wishing someone else would make and deliver some of these (right now).
Otherwise, my wacky and unpredictable life goes on. This has been a strange year full of surprises. It’s a good life. December is nearly half through, so I’m setting a small handful of goals for the new year, like I usually do. No more than 2 or 3. I’m trying to focus on things that do and will make me feel more like me. And I’m getting ready to wrap up this year in a blaze of writing, I hope, not least of all here.
Injustices like that, even things that happened long before my time, drag me pretty low. I can’t stop thinking about it. I always say that I’m meant to work on small causes and at small organizations because I do much better focused on my own piece of the world - what I can do right here and now. Otherwise I tie my brain into knots thinking about how systems got the way they are and how we can make them change. But Jacob says that my brain-knots are a good thing. Maybe they’ll lead me somewhere important one day.
It’s strangely warm out, and I’m flip-flopping between feeling very ambitious and very lazy. I went for a run, so that's good. The final paper due on Tuesday is looming and triggering some strong procrastination urges. I’m also thinking about a big bag of chocolate chips on the shelf and what I could make out of them right now. Actually, I'm wishing someone else would make and deliver some of these (right now).
Otherwise, my wacky and unpredictable life goes on. This has been a strange year full of surprises. It’s a good life. December is nearly half through, so I’m setting a small handful of goals for the new year, like I usually do. No more than 2 or 3. I’m trying to focus on things that do and will make me feel more like me. And I’m getting ready to wrap up this year in a blaze of writing, I hope, not least of all here.
Monday, December 7, 2015
a great writer.
Last week, while sitting at the closest Starbucks (shame) and trying to cram in as much work as possible, an older man crept up behind me holding his laptop. “Are you good with computers?” he asked. I smiled and cleared a spot at my table. “I’m ok,” I answered. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to meet and stammered through something about a spreadsheet. I finally realized that he wanted to copy a spreadsheet from one folder to another. “Oh, that’s easy!” I told him. “You won’t believe how easy it is.”
So I showed him: select the spreadsheet file, control+c, control+v. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. He went back to his table with the spreadsheet in the right place.
An hour or so later, as he was leaving, he came back to my table and told me I was kind. He gave me his business card. We talked about his wholesale flower business, how he had been in the neighborhood for 20 years, how his niece in Israel kept telling him, “Uncle Benny, you need a website.”
He asked what I did for a living, and I told him, "I’m a grant writer." But he heard, "I’m a great writer." And he didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, you’re a great writer! You can help me write things! Advertising, website. Give me your card. I will call you.”
And that was that. I gave him my card. Who knows if we’ll cross paths again, but whatever happens, he’s out in the world thinking I’m a great writer.
On an entirely different note, I can’t stop thinking about this piece on racial privilege. It says a lot of things that I’ve been trying to find my own way to say.
So it’s dark and has been for the past four hours, because it’s December. We hung up a single string of Christmas lights, which is helping. I’m starting some new work tomorrow, thinking about dusting off my bike to get there, thinking about how casual my business-casual can be. On it goes.
So I showed him: select the spreadsheet file, control+c, control+v. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. He went back to his table with the spreadsheet in the right place.
An hour or so later, as he was leaving, he came back to my table and told me I was kind. He gave me his business card. We talked about his wholesale flower business, how he had been in the neighborhood for 20 years, how his niece in Israel kept telling him, “Uncle Benny, you need a website.”
He asked what I did for a living, and I told him, "I’m a grant writer." But he heard, "I’m a great writer." And he didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, you’re a great writer! You can help me write things! Advertising, website. Give me your card. I will call you.”
And that was that. I gave him my card. Who knows if we’ll cross paths again, but whatever happens, he’s out in the world thinking I’m a great writer.
On an entirely different note, I can’t stop thinking about this piece on racial privilege. It says a lot of things that I’ve been trying to find my own way to say.
So it’s dark and has been for the past four hours, because it’s December. We hung up a single string of Christmas lights, which is helping. I’m starting some new work tomorrow, thinking about dusting off my bike to get there, thinking about how casual my business-casual can be. On it goes.
Monday, November 23, 2015
mix CDs.
I got a new computer this summer when my old mammoth laptop started dying, unprovoked, all the time. I had saved my music and pictures on an external hard drive, and when the new computer came, I never got around to transferring them. I have music online when I want it, or NPR, or the turntable. Still, 5 months later, I have no music on my computer.
It seems so strange when I think about just 5 or 6 years ago when the music I owned was so precious. I drove from Minnesota to Massachusetts in the summer of 2008, alone. I had a thick folder of CDs tucked into the passenger seat next to me, including various mixes I’d burned onto CDs to conjure up the right feelings.
When I lived in Massachusetts, on Cape Cod, I drove all the time. This was before podcasts were so much a thing, at least in my world. I listened to NPR sometimes, or the local classic rock station. And I listened to more mixes, burned onto CDs, to conjure up the right feelings. Broken heart mixes, wild and free mixes, independent lady mixes, etc.
And a few years later, I met Jacob. Within the first month we started seeing each other, I burned him a mix CD, carefully crafted to tell him that I liked him a lot, but not too much, because I was still a very cool and independent lady. Shortly after, he made me a mix. I can still tell you almost every song that was on the mix, not least of all I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend, which obviously said everything.
Awhile back Jacob subscribed to Apple Music, and he just added me onto his family plan this weekend. So now I have unlimited music at hand, whatever I want, whenever I want it. Today it dawned on me that the age of purchasing music, at least in my life, is done. Apart from the vinyl I pick up at Salvation Army, I’m not buying music anymore. I know that there are lots of ways to still make mixes (actually the youths know, I don’t really know), but suddenly I was grieving for those old CD mixes that soundtracked the emotional landscape of my 20s. So it goes, I guess. Every generation has to mourn the things that they watched disappear.
It seems so strange when I think about just 5 or 6 years ago when the music I owned was so precious. I drove from Minnesota to Massachusetts in the summer of 2008, alone. I had a thick folder of CDs tucked into the passenger seat next to me, including various mixes I’d burned onto CDs to conjure up the right feelings.
When I lived in Massachusetts, on Cape Cod, I drove all the time. This was before podcasts were so much a thing, at least in my world. I listened to NPR sometimes, or the local classic rock station. And I listened to more mixes, burned onto CDs, to conjure up the right feelings. Broken heart mixes, wild and free mixes, independent lady mixes, etc.
And a few years later, I met Jacob. Within the first month we started seeing each other, I burned him a mix CD, carefully crafted to tell him that I liked him a lot, but not too much, because I was still a very cool and independent lady. Shortly after, he made me a mix. I can still tell you almost every song that was on the mix, not least of all I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend, which obviously said everything.
Awhile back Jacob subscribed to Apple Music, and he just added me onto his family plan this weekend. So now I have unlimited music at hand, whatever I want, whenever I want it. Today it dawned on me that the age of purchasing music, at least in my life, is done. Apart from the vinyl I pick up at Salvation Army, I’m not buying music anymore. I know that there are lots of ways to still make mixes (actually the youths know, I don’t really know), but suddenly I was grieving for those old CD mixes that soundtracked the emotional landscape of my 20s. So it goes, I guess. Every generation has to mourn the things that they watched disappear.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
when I'm walking.
It snowed here yesterday, rain mixed with big, fluffy snowflakes. Today the temperature dipped into the 20s, so every tree branch is still coated. The powerful radiators in our building run sporadically, so the temperature in our apartment (completely out of our control) dips between quite cold and quite warm all day long.
Yesterday morning, when I woke up to the gray, slushy day, I found myself strangely sentimental for Washington, DC. I loved the walks on Capitol Hill, walking down to Eastern Market or to H Street on a Saturday morning. Especially when the weather was cold and wet.
I started walking when I lived outside of Boston. I lived a mile and a half from work, was very poor, afraid to bike in the city, and couldn’t afford to park or ride the bus every day. So I got into the habit of walking to work, regardless of the weather. It took me 30 minutes. I can call back the world of those walks instantly - the people I would see, the intersections, where I’d cross the road, the sushi shop I’d look into every day without stopping. I would always listen to music on those walks, though I remember one traumatic morning when I got out the door and realized that I had accidentally deleted the music from my iPod.
When I moved to DC, once we were in the city, I started walking again. The office was one mile away, for a few months, and then it moved another mile further. The two mile walk took 40 minutes. Eventually I started biking most days, but the walk was so centering that I’d still do it sometimes. I got out of the habit of listening to anything. I’d just walk and look around and think.
Yesterday morning, when I woke up to the gray, slushy day, I found myself strangely sentimental for Washington, DC. I loved the walks on Capitol Hill, walking down to Eastern Market or to H Street on a Saturday morning. Especially when the weather was cold and wet.
I started walking when I lived outside of Boston. I lived a mile and a half from work, was very poor, afraid to bike in the city, and couldn’t afford to park or ride the bus every day. So I got into the habit of walking to work, regardless of the weather. It took me 30 minutes. I can call back the world of those walks instantly - the people I would see, the intersections, where I’d cross the road, the sushi shop I’d look into every day without stopping. I would always listen to music on those walks, though I remember one traumatic morning when I got out the door and realized that I had accidentally deleted the music from my iPod.
When I moved to DC, once we were in the city, I started walking again. The office was one mile away, for a few months, and then it moved another mile further. The two mile walk took 40 minutes. Eventually I started biking most days, but the walk was so centering that I’d still do it sometimes. I got out of the habit of listening to anything. I’d just walk and look around and think.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
meditation.
For the last month or so, I’ve been meditating. I’ve been wanting to start meditating for years - I even took a class at one point. But it’s been a hell of a thing for me to make into a habit. I have an anxious and productivity fueled brain, and the act of sitting quietly and doing nothing doesn’t come easily. But over the last few weeks, I’ve managed to hit a stride. With any habit, the more momentum you build, the easier it is to keep going. The more you break down the initial I don’t want to feeling, the less that feeling rises up.
Anyway, it’s a tiny thing. I meditate 5 minutes in the morning and 5 minutes at night. I sit on the floor or in a chair. I focus on breathing in and out. I try to relax my muscles one by one. When I started doing this last month, the internal resistance was unreal. I would sit down, the little faux bell on my phone would ding, and I would immediately be filled with restless angst and annoyance and, sometimes, anger. Where did it come from? I don’t know. All I know is that I would suddenly be filled and overflowing with thoughts of this is stupid and ohmygod how long will these 5 minutes last? and I can’t sit here anymore.
First up, I realized pretty quickly that my shallow breathing habit wouldn’t cut it while trying to meditate. Actually, I realized I had a shallow breathing habit, which I don’t think I understood before. So I’ve been practicing this a lot, breathing deep into my belly. Which lead me to the discovery that, like most of my body, my core tends to be super tensed up all the time. So just learning how to relax that and actually be able to take deep breaths has been pretty groundbreaking for me. And now, after a few weeks, the wild and crazy angry feelings are starting to melt away a little. I actually look forward to sitting. The bell rings and I can let go of my resistance, or at least some of it.
So that’s something I’ve been up to lately.
It’s raining and cold and dark here. Bran muffins in the oven. Podcast on the iPhone. And tonight I’m writing.
Anyway, it’s a tiny thing. I meditate 5 minutes in the morning and 5 minutes at night. I sit on the floor or in a chair. I focus on breathing in and out. I try to relax my muscles one by one. When I started doing this last month, the internal resistance was unreal. I would sit down, the little faux bell on my phone would ding, and I would immediately be filled with restless angst and annoyance and, sometimes, anger. Where did it come from? I don’t know. All I know is that I would suddenly be filled and overflowing with thoughts of this is stupid and ohmygod how long will these 5 minutes last? and I can’t sit here anymore.
First up, I realized pretty quickly that my shallow breathing habit wouldn’t cut it while trying to meditate. Actually, I realized I had a shallow breathing habit, which I don’t think I understood before. So I’ve been practicing this a lot, breathing deep into my belly. Which lead me to the discovery that, like most of my body, my core tends to be super tensed up all the time. So just learning how to relax that and actually be able to take deep breaths has been pretty groundbreaking for me. And now, after a few weeks, the wild and crazy angry feelings are starting to melt away a little. I actually look forward to sitting. The bell rings and I can let go of my resistance, or at least some of it.
So that’s something I’ve been up to lately.
It’s raining and cold and dark here. Bran muffins in the oven. Podcast on the iPhone. And tonight I’m writing.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
having fun.
I’ve been thinking about something a friend told me last weekend, something her mother says. Fun is a new thing. We were talking about how we answer the question, What do you do for fun? We live in a time, place, generation, socio-economic status, etc. that makes room for that question.
I get bogged down in the philosophical questions of life. I mean, I get bogged. down. What do I do for fun? What is fun? What is the purpose of fun? What is the PURPOSE OF LIFE? Etc. Suffice it to say, I never know how to answer the question, What do you do for fun? I write, and though I’m trying to embrace some of Elizabeth Gilbert’s big magic, it still seems like a stretch to call writing fun. I read. I run (although not lately) (and it’s more the idea of running is fun than the actual running). Like every freaking person my age, I watch TV sometimes via Netflix and Hulu and Amazon and HBO. I cook and think about food. I go for walks.
It all feels pretty generic and vague to me. I’ve been having this urge lately to develop real, actual hobbies. I’ve spent the last 6 months working on my professional bio, but I don’t have a personal bio, and I don’t even know what it would say. I want to have specific interests, things I get really jazzed about, things I want to talk and talk about. Or maybe I already have them, but they’re not clearly defined in my own mind and I don’t own them as me.
I get bogged down in the philosophical questions of life. I mean, I get bogged. down. What do I do for fun? What is fun? What is the purpose of fun? What is the PURPOSE OF LIFE? Etc. Suffice it to say, I never know how to answer the question, What do you do for fun? I write, and though I’m trying to embrace some of Elizabeth Gilbert’s big magic, it still seems like a stretch to call writing fun. I read. I run (although not lately) (and it’s more the idea of running is fun than the actual running). Like every freaking person my age, I watch TV sometimes via Netflix and Hulu and Amazon and HBO. I cook and think about food. I go for walks.
It all feels pretty generic and vague to me. I’ve been having this urge lately to develop real, actual hobbies. I’ve spent the last 6 months working on my professional bio, but I don’t have a personal bio, and I don’t even know what it would say. I want to have specific interests, things I get really jazzed about, things I want to talk and talk about. Or maybe I already have them, but they’re not clearly defined in my own mind and I don’t own them as me.
Friday, October 16, 2015
distracting.
This is starting with me, standing in the middle of my apartment, saying outloud to myself, GURL stop your fucking around!
I finished all of my work by 5pm today, which isn't usual. I used to feel like I couldn’t work in libraries and coffee shops - I thought they were too distracting for me. But I've been diligently working in them the past few weeks, and it turns out that the opposite is true. When I sit myself down in a coffee shop and tell myself I’m working there until X time, I get a lot done.
We’re heading up to Wisconsin for the weekend, as soon as J gets home. Everything is done on my to do list, I washed the dishes, I packed a bag, and then I started pacing around looking for more THINGS I NEED TO DO. All the while ignoring that one last little thing on my to do list: write a blog post.
Anyway, I’m here here here.
I’m working on things lately like sitting up straight, getting my shoulders that are jammed up to my ears to relax, meditating, belly breathing. It’s hard to figure out how to make my body and my brain relax when they need to.
I picked up a used copy of one of Marcella Hazan’s cookbooks this week and read it on the couch last night. I know about her because of her tomato sauce and her smothered cabbage. It’s a good book to look through when winter is coming (ugh, I wish I and everyone else would stop saying that……….but I can’t). Anyway, I love being reminded how food and eating it can be full of rituals. I love having a way of doing things, something specific to who you are, however you define that. And I love simple food cooked with lots of good butter.
I finished all of my work by 5pm today, which isn't usual. I used to feel like I couldn’t work in libraries and coffee shops - I thought they were too distracting for me. But I've been diligently working in them the past few weeks, and it turns out that the opposite is true. When I sit myself down in a coffee shop and tell myself I’m working there until X time, I get a lot done.
We’re heading up to Wisconsin for the weekend, as soon as J gets home. Everything is done on my to do list, I washed the dishes, I packed a bag, and then I started pacing around looking for more THINGS I NEED TO DO. All the while ignoring that one last little thing on my to do list: write a blog post.
Anyway, I’m here here here.
I’m working on things lately like sitting up straight, getting my shoulders that are jammed up to my ears to relax, meditating, belly breathing. It’s hard to figure out how to make my body and my brain relax when they need to.
I picked up a used copy of one of Marcella Hazan’s cookbooks this week and read it on the couch last night. I know about her because of her tomato sauce and her smothered cabbage. It’s a good book to look through when winter is coming (ugh, I wish I and everyone else would stop saying that……….but I can’t). Anyway, I love being reminded how food and eating it can be full of rituals. I love having a way of doing things, something specific to who you are, however you define that. And I love simple food cooked with lots of good butter.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
belated.
In my mind, I still think we just moved. Life feels strange, like I’m in many places all at once. Truthfully, the last two months have felt like a lot of stress and a lot of everything has changed. I’ve let my stress level creep up higher and higher, and now I’m treading water in a place that’s a little too deep.
So I started writing my birthday list nearly a month ago, adding bit by bit, thinking about what I’ve done in the last year. But I dragged my feet in putting it up here. This one feels both monumental, but also…...not. I think, this is a big deal, and also I think, I feel the same. As of last Wednesday, I’m living in a new decade.
Last year looked like:
So I started writing my birthday list nearly a month ago, adding bit by bit, thinking about what I’ve done in the last year. But I dragged my feet in putting it up here. This one feels both monumental, but also…...not. I think, this is a big deal, and also I think, I feel the same. As of last Wednesday, I’m living in a new decade.
Last year looked like:
run another half marathonplan personal, creative projectsfill a notebook(try several notebooks!)streamline and actually implement workflow processing *productivity nerd alert*- start making homemade snacks every week
grocery shopping → bike (with some spankin’ new panniers!)(until a pannier got stolen, wah)- participate in one bike activity (volunteer, hang out, ride, class, etc.)
plan a spring-time adventure trip with Jacob (maybe probably here?)(Istanbul! Prague!)- stop comparing myself to everyone else
- read more fiction (goal: five novels) (somehow I only read one. sheesh!)
build a bike-friendly (minimalist) wardrobe- more cooking on the weekends/less cooking on weekdays
- make at least one pie each month
- can something (jam, tomatoes, apples, etc.)
continue buying investment clothing- watch a few classic films (that I haven’t seen)
complain lessgrow more plants (to eat & to enjoy)- sew or knit ONE THING to put on my body
give natural deodorant the college try- write letter(s) one day each month (just one!)
create a meal-planning system and stick to it (this is my current inspiration)BE DEBT-FREEmake this other blog into a thing I like/love/enjoy(or just delete it and turn it into a personal bizness website. HA!)- sew a set of cloth napkins + a tablecloth
- really really really get rid of plastic ziplock bags (and plastic takeout containers)
listen to one book on tapebe kinder to + less critical of everyone around me (esp. the ones that I love)- be confident
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
lessons.
For someone who lives for perpetual efficiency and self-improvement, it’s hard for me to make peace with the fact that life is basically about learning the same freaking lessons over and over again. Through every stage of life, you forget and you re-learn. It’s infuriating, but I guess it’s also human.
I’m coming up on a big birthday. It feels important, but in the context of everything else happening and changing, it feels like a blip that will come and go. And I’ve never been one for wild celebrations, especially not when I’m the center of attention. My current plan to ring in the big 3-0? Fresh flowers, take-out fried chicken, and a bottle of Prosecco (and hanging out with my manfriend-for-life). And the actual day will be bookend-ed by a flood of visitors, old friends who make me feel like myself, and that’s something to celebrate.
So I’m working on my birthday list*. I’m feeling pleased with my progress on last year. I started writing my new list before I looked back at this last year’s list, and I’m also feeling a little surprised/not surprised by how many things are coming back around again. I may be resolving to BE CONFIDENT until the end of time, or at least until I’m 100, after which I won’t care. But I think that’s good, actually. It’s good to see myself as I am and as I want to be, to see my own strengths and weaknesses clearly.
So I'm just working, learning lessons, thinking/overthinking on life, and listening to the wild chorus of end-of-summer cicadas just outside my window.
Also, I’m eating frogs today like a boss.
*Birthday lists gone by: 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011.
I’m coming up on a big birthday. It feels important, but in the context of everything else happening and changing, it feels like a blip that will come and go. And I’ve never been one for wild celebrations, especially not when I’m the center of attention. My current plan to ring in the big 3-0? Fresh flowers, take-out fried chicken, and a bottle of Prosecco (and hanging out with my manfriend-for-life). And the actual day will be bookend-ed by a flood of visitors, old friends who make me feel like myself, and that’s something to celebrate.
So I’m working on my birthday list*. I’m feeling pleased with my progress on last year. I started writing my new list before I looked back at this last year’s list, and I’m also feeling a little surprised/not surprised by how many things are coming back around again. I may be resolving to BE CONFIDENT until the end of time, or at least until I’m 100, after which I won’t care. But I think that’s good, actually. It’s good to see myself as I am and as I want to be, to see my own strengths and weaknesses clearly.
So I'm just working, learning lessons, thinking/overthinking on life, and listening to the wild chorus of end-of-summer cicadas just outside my window.
Also, I’m eating frogs today like a boss.
*Birthday lists gone by: 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
things-to-figure-out.
I’ve been putting off an update here because the longer time stretches and the more that happens, the more I lose sight of why I come back here. It starts to feel like this space is impossibly far away from my actual life. I’ve been living some sort of fairyland-crazy life the past few months. I’ve felt trapped beneath a mountain of work (with no end in sight), meanwhile there’s been a parade of friends and family and good food and beaches and moving to a new city full of new adventures.
I don’t feel just one thing. I feel everything. J and I were talking about the emotional life of characters (after a play we saw last weekend), and he said that actors have to channel the fact that humans are feeling a constant, tumbling flood of emotions. You aren’t just HAPPY or ANGRY. From second to second, different emotions are flowing through you, and every so often one emotion lands and sticks a bit longer. Good actors bring this emotional depth to their performances. Good humans (like me) acknowledge that we’re feeling a lot of things all the time.
I’m sitting in my living room right now in our (new) little corner of Chicago, as of three weeks ago. The sky is blue, there’s a tree outside this window, and a warm fall breeze is blowing. I can see the Sears Tower (I mean the Willis Tower). We don’t have a coffee table yet, so there’s nowhere to put my feet up. I’m sitting on the ugly-but-comfortable couch smelling a plum cake that I just pulled out of the oven.
There’s a lot going on right now. My to do list feels endless. Beside the things-to-do, there are things-to-figure-out. WEDDING. Finding freelance work. Finding friends in a new city. A project for the first actual class I’ve taken in seven years.
I don’t feel just one thing. I feel everything. J and I were talking about the emotional life of characters (after a play we saw last weekend), and he said that actors have to channel the fact that humans are feeling a constant, tumbling flood of emotions. You aren’t just HAPPY or ANGRY. From second to second, different emotions are flowing through you, and every so often one emotion lands and sticks a bit longer. Good actors bring this emotional depth to their performances. Good humans (like me) acknowledge that we’re feeling a lot of things all the time.
I’m sitting in my living room right now in our (new) little corner of Chicago, as of three weeks ago. The sky is blue, there’s a tree outside this window, and a warm fall breeze is blowing. I can see the Sears Tower (I mean the Willis Tower). We don’t have a coffee table yet, so there’s nowhere to put my feet up. I’m sitting on the ugly-but-comfortable couch smelling a plum cake that I just pulled out of the oven.
There’s a lot going on right now. My to do list feels endless. Beside the things-to-do, there are things-to-figure-out. WEDDING. Finding freelance work. Finding friends in a new city. A project for the first actual class I’ve taken in seven years.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
decision fatigue, etc.
I just automatically went through at least half a dozen steps. I opened up the link to my blog and signed in. I opened Google Drive and clicked on the folder where I keep daily writing and rambling. I opened a blank document. I named it 2aug2015. And all of the sudden I couldn’t even remember what I was doing or why. But I just came back to myself and remembered: OH YES, I’m writing.
I was thinking today about how the weight of making decisions is exhausting. It leaves me feeling drained the same way that talking to too many people drains me. Decision fatigue - actually, I’m certain that’s a thing. I think I read somewhere recently that you can be more productive if you eliminate unnecessary decisions. You can do things like wear the same outfit/style every day, or make the same breakfast every morning. Eliminating those choices gives you a little more capacity for making other decisions. And I think I understand that. For example, I love thinking about what to make for dinner, but if I’m overwhelmed in other areas of life, I just...can’t. I can make beans and rice or fried eggs on toast or I can order pizza. So while information and work are infinite, our decision making brains are not.
I read an article this morning from the New York Times blog about how walking in nature changes our brains. “Most of us today live in cities and spend far less time outside in green, natural spaces than people did several generations ago. City dwellers also have a higher risk for anxiety, depression and other mental illnesses than people living outside urban centers, studies show.” Yikes. It always floors me that simple physical activities can have such an influence over the mental and emotional state, something that seems so mysterious to me.
I was thinking today about how the weight of making decisions is exhausting. It leaves me feeling drained the same way that talking to too many people drains me. Decision fatigue - actually, I’m certain that’s a thing. I think I read somewhere recently that you can be more productive if you eliminate unnecessary decisions. You can do things like wear the same outfit/style every day, or make the same breakfast every morning. Eliminating those choices gives you a little more capacity for making other decisions. And I think I understand that. For example, I love thinking about what to make for dinner, but if I’m overwhelmed in other areas of life, I just...can’t. I can make beans and rice or fried eggs on toast or I can order pizza. So while information and work are infinite, our decision making brains are not.
I read an article this morning from the New York Times blog about how walking in nature changes our brains. “Most of us today live in cities and spend far less time outside in green, natural spaces than people did several generations ago. City dwellers also have a higher risk for anxiety, depression and other mental illnesses than people living outside urban centers, studies show.” Yikes. It always floors me that simple physical activities can have such an influence over the mental and emotional state, something that seems so mysterious to me.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
awake.
Let’s get into it.
Things feel big lately--big projects, big changes, big decisions. BIG IDEAS. I close out each day with a fair dose of mental fatigue and a wired brain that still can’t sleep. My old self, who used to crawl into bed at 10pm and wake up fresh and ready at 6:30am, now waits for J to get home from work and crawls into bed at 12:30am or 1:00am. And then crawls back out at 6:30am. This Cape Cod summer has been amazing. I’ve spent plenty of time at the beach (and have the white-blonde hair and tanned skin to prove it), I see and smell the ocean all around me, I’ve eaten a LOT of ice cream cones and clam strips and oysters…..but this summer has not felt anything like a vacation.
I’m navigating some combination of very excited and very scared right now, but I think it’s exactly how I should feel. I feel wide awake.
I’m writing a lot, and for the first time that I can remember (ever ever ever), I have projects that I’m working on. I have projects! Writing projects! I’m working on a couple different essays, and the ideas keep coming for more.
I’m finishing a notebook this week, one that I only started in May. I don’t know if I can even capture what an accomplishment that feels like.
I’m in the weeds of forming opinions, thinking critically about things, making decisions.
And I’m also taking in an embarrassing amount of Grey’s Anatomy, because I’m a person who watches crappy TV sometimes and enjoys it.
We have barely more than two weeks left here in Wellfleet. I can’t believe how it flew by, and I can’t believe how much it felt like things happened and changed. Chicago is waiting for us, and whatever else (grad school, new career, marriage, la la la). Like I said, things feel big.
Things feel big lately--big projects, big changes, big decisions. BIG IDEAS. I close out each day with a fair dose of mental fatigue and a wired brain that still can’t sleep. My old self, who used to crawl into bed at 10pm and wake up fresh and ready at 6:30am, now waits for J to get home from work and crawls into bed at 12:30am or 1:00am. And then crawls back out at 6:30am. This Cape Cod summer has been amazing. I’ve spent plenty of time at the beach (and have the white-blonde hair and tanned skin to prove it), I see and smell the ocean all around me, I’ve eaten a LOT of ice cream cones and clam strips and oysters…..but this summer has not felt anything like a vacation.
I’m navigating some combination of very excited and very scared right now, but I think it’s exactly how I should feel. I feel wide awake.
I’m writing a lot, and for the first time that I can remember (ever ever ever), I have projects that I’m working on. I have projects! Writing projects! I’m working on a couple different essays, and the ideas keep coming for more.
I’m finishing a notebook this week, one that I only started in May. I don’t know if I can even capture what an accomplishment that feels like.
I’m in the weeds of forming opinions, thinking critically about things, making decisions.
And I’m also taking in an embarrassing amount of Grey’s Anatomy, because I’m a person who watches crappy TV sometimes and enjoys it.
We have barely more than two weeks left here in Wellfleet. I can’t believe how it flew by, and I can’t believe how much it felt like things happened and changed. Chicago is waiting for us, and whatever else (grad school, new career, marriage, la la la). Like I said, things feel big.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
clarity.
What a whirlwind lately. The claims on my daily allotment of hours are swimming in my head. It’s good (it’s good!) but also leaves me feeling like I can barely scrape out 30 minutes to sit down and write here.
Since last weekend, I’ve been thinking about this interview with Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn for On Being. I’ve listened to it a handful of times. I tried to explain it to J last night: it’s so heartening to hear from people who have made lives out of art for the purpose of being better people in the world.
Towards the end of the interview, Abigail talks about her experiences as a sensitive, empathetic child - how she often felt darkness because she was so attuned to the feelings of other people who were feeling darkness. And now, she's realized that her music can be a container for those feelings, that she can feel them deeply but also let them go.
Right now, my writing isn’t so much a container for feelings as a place where I’m forced to confront them. But I think that’s the first step in the right direction.
At any rate, it’s a kickass interview and worth a listen. It's a bit of clarity in the madness.
Since last weekend, I’ve been thinking about this interview with Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn for On Being. I’ve listened to it a handful of times. I tried to explain it to J last night: it’s so heartening to hear from people who have made lives out of art for the purpose of being better people in the world.
Towards the end of the interview, Abigail talks about her experiences as a sensitive, empathetic child - how she often felt darkness because she was so attuned to the feelings of other people who were feeling darkness. And now, she's realized that her music can be a container for those feelings, that she can feel them deeply but also let them go.
Right now, my writing isn’t so much a container for feelings as a place where I’m forced to confront them. But I think that’s the first step in the right direction.
At any rate, it’s a kickass interview and worth a listen. It's a bit of clarity in the madness.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
iced tea.
One happy surprise of working at home is that I can make (and drink) gallon after gallon of sun tea.
Although I am still working, and still staring at a computer screen most of the day, I feel a little more connected to the world around me here. Cubicle walls are isolating and demoralizing. So I sit in this brown chair in the morning (where I’m also sitting now), and I drink coffee and write, and this room is cool and a little dark. The sun is hitting the front of the house, rising over Route 6, and coming through the windows across the living room, and the big window on the front door. The stairs, directly behind the front door, are practically glowing in the morning when the sun comes in.
Eventually I make my way to the dining room table, spread out my piles of papers and notes, turn on my computer. The room gets lighter, lunch passes by, and around 1pm, the sun starts to hit the windows in the dining room, the ones facing west. So I get out a giant mason jar (or the kickass glass pitcher I just picked up at Atlantic Spice Company) and I fill it up with cold water and tea (right now a rotation of earl grey, gunpowder green, or spearmint). It sits in the sun there for a few hours and gets golden. Meanwhile I drink two or three or four glasses of the iced tea I made yesterday while I work in the afternoon.
I love having rituals. I also love iced tea in the summer, on the Cape.
An important note:, all of the above teas are wildly good with a splash of saffron and cardamom lemonade concentrate in them. We came back from Turkey with quite a haul of saffron, and I’ve been sitting on it, saving it up for something really special. This is the perfect way to use a little bit.
Although I am still working, and still staring at a computer screen most of the day, I feel a little more connected to the world around me here. Cubicle walls are isolating and demoralizing. So I sit in this brown chair in the morning (where I’m also sitting now), and I drink coffee and write, and this room is cool and a little dark. The sun is hitting the front of the house, rising over Route 6, and coming through the windows across the living room, and the big window on the front door. The stairs, directly behind the front door, are practically glowing in the morning when the sun comes in.
Eventually I make my way to the dining room table, spread out my piles of papers and notes, turn on my computer. The room gets lighter, lunch passes by, and around 1pm, the sun starts to hit the windows in the dining room, the ones facing west. So I get out a giant mason jar (or the kickass glass pitcher I just picked up at Atlantic Spice Company) and I fill it up with cold water and tea (right now a rotation of earl grey, gunpowder green, or spearmint). It sits in the sun there for a few hours and gets golden. Meanwhile I drink two or three or four glasses of the iced tea I made yesterday while I work in the afternoon.
I love having rituals. I also love iced tea in the summer, on the Cape.
An important note:, all of the above teas are wildly good with a splash of saffron and cardamom lemonade concentrate in them. We came back from Turkey with quite a haul of saffron, and I’ve been sitting on it, saving it up for something really special. This is the perfect way to use a little bit.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
complicated.
Last night, I wrote:
I’m sitting in the dining room, where I’ve been sitting all day, staring at a computer screen, working. It was overcast and rainy this morning, but the sky is clear now. The cool air is still blowing, though, and so the window is only open a crack. I’m sitting in the big armchair now, in the corner of the room next to a window that the sun blasts through at this time of day. Richard says that his father used to call this the Florida window.
I’ve been trying to write about religion lately (although not here). I’ve been thinking about it all the time, turning any of dozens of topics over in my head, raking through memories, thoughts, fears, etc. I wish I could approach it objectively, more logic than emotion, but I can’t. So I just do my best, make sense of what I can, think, write. I’m listening to NPR, listening to the coverage of today’s Supreme Court decision, listening to coverage of the funeral in Charleston. I’m listening to representatives of socially conservative organizations expressing disappointment and fear of the consequences of legal same-sex marriage. I remember what it’s like to believe that God says being gay is a sin. I remember what it’s like to believe that. It twists my stomach into a knot. And I’m listening to President Obama’s eulogy at the funeral in Charleston. I’m crying at the song, Amazing Grace. It's making me feel hopeful and safe. All this on a Friday night, on a sandbar, in a sunny armchair.Life is complicated, people are complicated, I am complicated. It can’t be any other way.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
unplanned.
Today slipped by leisurely, and I did almost nothing I planned. I believe this is how summer is supposed to feel. Working from home reminds me somehow of being in school. No matter what, I always had the nagging feeling that I should be studying something. Now I have the nagging feeling that I should be working, at least just a little.
One of my goals for this summer was to practice spontaneity, and in that vein, I had told myself that each week I’d set aside at least 4 hours to do nothing. Unplanned hours, no to do list, free to spend my time however I want in that moment. Its a little bit trickier in practice - I’m terrible at leaving time unstructured. But somewhat by accident, I spent the entire morning drinking iced tea and reading a book on the front lawn. I had an impromptu lunch with a friend. J and I went to the beach and then made a side trip to the nearby pond, jumped in, and swam around with the fishes. I made brownies, I made dinner, I made more iced tea. I dutifully delayed every task on my to do list to another day. It begs a fundamental question that I rarely ask: what constitutes the value of my day? Is it the number of things I’ve checked off the list? Is it my productivity? Or is it the time spent with people I love, the time spent talking and thinking, the easy feeling of being totally at rest? Well, all of those things, I think.
Today is just another day. But it felt full and good.
An aside: I’m really enjoying The Rumpus’ Make/Work podcast these days. I’ve listened to Episode 29 twice this weekend.
One of my goals for this summer was to practice spontaneity, and in that vein, I had told myself that each week I’d set aside at least 4 hours to do nothing. Unplanned hours, no to do list, free to spend my time however I want in that moment. Its a little bit trickier in practice - I’m terrible at leaving time unstructured. But somewhat by accident, I spent the entire morning drinking iced tea and reading a book on the front lawn. I had an impromptu lunch with a friend. J and I went to the beach and then made a side trip to the nearby pond, jumped in, and swam around with the fishes. I made brownies, I made dinner, I made more iced tea. I dutifully delayed every task on my to do list to another day. It begs a fundamental question that I rarely ask: what constitutes the value of my day? Is it the number of things I’ve checked off the list? Is it my productivity? Or is it the time spent with people I love, the time spent talking and thinking, the easy feeling of being totally at rest? Well, all of those things, I think.
Today is just another day. But it felt full and good.
An aside: I’m really enjoying The Rumpus’ Make/Work podcast these days. I’ve listened to Episode 29 twice this weekend.
Monday, June 15, 2015
screen time.
I’ve always struggled with writing under circumstances that feel less than ideal (to me). I have a hard time writing in coffee shops and restaurants, on the bus or the train, when I have a few minutes in between meetings or projects. And of course, when I feel zapped of energy (creative or otherwise), it seems impossible. But the fact that these words are on the page right now means that, It’s impossible, is a lie.
I finally listened my way through the Invisibilia podcasts last week/end, and I really loved them. But I particularly can’t stop thinking about the episode about computers and whether they are changing our human-ness. I can’t even remember the context of the line, but at some point, one of the producers acknowledges that in the times we live in, the reality is that most of us spend the majority of our days in front of computers or other screens. And suddenly I realized (with a little horror) that I spend the majority of MY day starting at a computer. My job requires it. And when I’m done with that, I write or do other work on the computer. I’m doing it right now. I don’t know that I feel unequivocally terrible about this, but I feel sort of shocked that it’s only just now dawning on me that most of my waking hours are spent staring into the void of a screen.
Most of my books got packed into a cube and shipped across the country last month, but I brought a small stack with me to Wellfleet, intending to read each one. They were carefully chosen. In the two weeks since we arrived here, I’ve read at best 10 pages, which isn’t really the pace I was aiming for. If I substituted even one hour of screen time each day with one of those books, I would be blowing through that stack. Meanwhile, I have the nerve to think I’m somehow different than the rest of the masses, looking at their computers and tablets and phones.
But oh well. It's Monday, it's rainy, and I'm tired from staring at my screen all day. Every day is the same matter: making the best of the circumstances we're in. And awareness counts for something.
I finally listened my way through the Invisibilia podcasts last week/end, and I really loved them. But I particularly can’t stop thinking about the episode about computers and whether they are changing our human-ness. I can’t even remember the context of the line, but at some point, one of the producers acknowledges that in the times we live in, the reality is that most of us spend the majority of our days in front of computers or other screens. And suddenly I realized (with a little horror) that I spend the majority of MY day starting at a computer. My job requires it. And when I’m done with that, I write or do other work on the computer. I’m doing it right now. I don’t know that I feel unequivocally terrible about this, but I feel sort of shocked that it’s only just now dawning on me that most of my waking hours are spent staring into the void of a screen.
Most of my books got packed into a cube and shipped across the country last month, but I brought a small stack with me to Wellfleet, intending to read each one. They were carefully chosen. In the two weeks since we arrived here, I’ve read at best 10 pages, which isn’t really the pace I was aiming for. If I substituted even one hour of screen time each day with one of those books, I would be blowing through that stack. Meanwhile, I have the nerve to think I’m somehow different than the rest of the masses, looking at their computers and tablets and phones.
But oh well. It's Monday, it's rainy, and I'm tired from staring at my screen all day. Every day is the same matter: making the best of the circumstances we're in. And awareness counts for something.
Friday, June 12, 2015
your local library.
A few days ago I dropped J off at work in the evening and then drove up the road to the local library, the first time I've been there since we got back. When I lived here years ago, I would be at the library multiple times a week. I lived in a crowded house full of people, and the library was a quiet, peaceful escape. This particular library has amazing books, and always an incredible selection of new books. There’s a wall of great movies. Back then, before I had an iPhone or iPod or any device, I would still check out a pile of CDs every week to listen to in the car while I drove around the Cape. And there’s a small performance space at the library - an airy room with a grand piano and art hanging on the walls. I would practice and play the piano back then, and the librarians kindly allowed me to come in and play that beautiful piano when the room wasn’t being used for something else.
But my clearest and most profound memory at this library is one particular aisle in the stacks, towards the back of the library, against a wall. There are three shelves of poetry (where I first read Mary Oliver - a local here, so well represented). There’s a shelf of essays and a shelf of literary criticism. There’s a shelf of athletic guidebooks - I once checked out a marathon-running guide from that shelf. And finally, there are two shelves of writing guidebooks - nonfiction, fiction, children’s literature, poetry, and so on. I can distinctly remember standing in front of that shelf, back when I had only the inclination that maybe I wanted to write, and picking up Writing Down the Bones. You know by now that this book is basically one of the great love stories of my life (thus far). I checked it out, and not long after, I went to Newcomb Hollow with a black and white composition notebook I had bought at the Staples in Orleans.
But my clearest and most profound memory at this library is one particular aisle in the stacks, towards the back of the library, against a wall. There are three shelves of poetry (where I first read Mary Oliver - a local here, so well represented). There’s a shelf of essays and a shelf of literary criticism. There’s a shelf of athletic guidebooks - I once checked out a marathon-running guide from that shelf. And finally, there are two shelves of writing guidebooks - nonfiction, fiction, children’s literature, poetry, and so on. I can distinctly remember standing in front of that shelf, back when I had only the inclination that maybe I wanted to write, and picking up Writing Down the Bones. You know by now that this book is basically one of the great love stories of my life (thus far). I checked it out, and not long after, I went to Newcomb Hollow with a black and white composition notebook I had bought at the Staples in Orleans.
Monday, June 8, 2015
walking, unnerved.
I hadn’t realized how much I’ve come to take for granted my ability (in a city) to walk everywhere. It feels natural and obvious, and there aren’t many obstacles. Even when we traveled last February to Prague and Istanbul, we never really questioned each other - we would walk everywhere. Three or four miles was nothing. If I could see my way there on the map, I was fairly sure my legs could get me there.
There isn’t a highway in Wellfleet, exactly, but there is a main highway-like road. Route 6, the path through the center of the entire Cape. In Wellfleet, the speed limit is 45 MPH (although cars certainly drive faster). The house we are staying at is perched right on this car-filled non-highway. To get into town or to the post office, I have to walk a short distance on the sandy/grassy shoulder, all the while listening to the near constant hum of cars passing me. It’s surprising to me how it unnerves me. The difference between 30 MPH on the city streets of DC and 45 (really 50, or 55) MPH on Route 6 is great. The cars are fast and inhuman. I feel like an alien or an ant or some other creature trapped where I don’t belong, looking out of place and small.
It’s hard to ease into the rhythm of walking with that constant rush of traffic at my shoulder. I walked to the post office today in the beautiful sunshine and salty air, but I felt unsure. What ordinarily would have given me a burst of energy, gratitude, and life, instead gave me a burst of uncomfortableness.
There isn’t a highway in Wellfleet, exactly, but there is a main highway-like road. Route 6, the path through the center of the entire Cape. In Wellfleet, the speed limit is 45 MPH (although cars certainly drive faster). The house we are staying at is perched right on this car-filled non-highway. To get into town or to the post office, I have to walk a short distance on the sandy/grassy shoulder, all the while listening to the near constant hum of cars passing me. It’s surprising to me how it unnerves me. The difference between 30 MPH on the city streets of DC and 45 (really 50, or 55) MPH on Route 6 is great. The cars are fast and inhuman. I feel like an alien or an ant or some other creature trapped where I don’t belong, looking out of place and small.
It’s hard to ease into the rhythm of walking with that constant rush of traffic at my shoulder. I walked to the post office today in the beautiful sunshine and salty air, but I felt unsure. What ordinarily would have given me a burst of energy, gratitude, and life, instead gave me a burst of uncomfortableness.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
work.
All my life I have moved away from places and never returned. Houses and schools and streets become faded, blurry, then mythic and dreamlike. I don’t know that I even want to go back to disturb their perfection. Once I got the idea to pull up the street view on Google Maps for a street I lived in on when I was 11 years old. There was a corner with a shady hotel and a man who sat out front and sang, and there was a sour-smelling Chinese restaurant that we never ate at. I pulled up the street view and everything looked so small and artificial - not at all how I remembered.
But Wellfleet is something different. I lived here for three years, and I left, but somehow this place has got inside of me. The mythic and the dreamlike mix with the reality. I leave and come back, and leave and come back. I’m not blind to its imperfections, and I know why I left. But I can’t stop coming back. Right now it feels like I’m here, and I’m not here, and I’m on vacation, and I’ve never left. I can’t even attach a word to the feeling, some complicated mixture of homesickness and loneliness and familiarity and relief. I have the space I need here, space inside my own head.
I have been writing, though not as much as I mean to, and not here. Last month was emotional and heavy. I spent my time being anxious about work and moving, or trying not to be anxious about work and moving. As always, my worries accomplished nothing, and I’m on the other side, and everything seems so clear and simple now. And now I’m in Wellfleet, and I have work to do.
But Wellfleet is something different. I lived here for three years, and I left, but somehow this place has got inside of me. The mythic and the dreamlike mix with the reality. I leave and come back, and leave and come back. I’m not blind to its imperfections, and I know why I left. But I can’t stop coming back. Right now it feels like I’m here, and I’m not here, and I’m on vacation, and I’ve never left. I can’t even attach a word to the feeling, some complicated mixture of homesickness and loneliness and familiarity and relief. I have the space I need here, space inside my own head.
I have been writing, though not as much as I mean to, and not here. Last month was emotional and heavy. I spent my time being anxious about work and moving, or trying not to be anxious about work and moving. As always, my worries accomplished nothing, and I’m on the other side, and everything seems so clear and simple now. And now I’m in Wellfleet, and I have work to do.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
chaos.
I’m awake right now, and writing here, because I can’t fall asleep. I can’t fall asleep because I found a cockroach in the kitchen, and although it isn’t my first, I am still wildly afraid of them. So I’m waiting for J to come home and inspect all the cupboards for me so that I can fall asleep and not dream of cockroaches marching into my bed.
Our apartment was broken into last week, and while I know rationally that it won’t happen again, that the reasons it was possible for someone to get in have been fixed, it just occurred to me that I haven’t tried to fall asleep here alone since that happened.
Our schedules (really, J’s schedule) can be wacky. I wake up early. Rehearsals and shows and meetings tend to happen late at the theatre, so J often works late. When I first moved here, it took some adjusting - being alone often at night, eating dinner alone, sometimes going a week or more only seeing each other for a few minutes. It isn’t ideal, but also plenty of people manage worse. There are people who work actual night shifts, or people who are deployed, or are on call. We manage.
Our apartment was broken into last week, and while I know rationally that it won’t happen again, that the reasons it was possible for someone to get in have been fixed, it just occurred to me that I haven’t tried to fall asleep here alone since that happened.
Our schedules (really, J’s schedule) can be wacky. I wake up early. Rehearsals and shows and meetings tend to happen late at the theatre, so J often works late. When I first moved here, it took some adjusting - being alone often at night, eating dinner alone, sometimes going a week or more only seeing each other for a few minutes. It isn’t ideal, but also plenty of people manage worse. There are people who work actual night shifts, or people who are deployed, or are on call. We manage.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
holy hour.
I’m testing out this idea of a “holy hour” that I learned about here, but I guess it originally comes from Robin Sharma, a self-help/productivity guy that I know nothing about. But being who I am, I love schedules, routines, and personal challenges. The last few days I’ve only managed a holy fifteen minutes, but this morning I’m pulling off forty-five, which feels like I’m on the right track.
The idea, at least as far as I see it, is to divvy up that hour between exercise, learning, and writing about goals. I’ve been doing it between stretching, reading a book, and writing about anything I want. It’s a mini creative/personal growth day embedded in the normal routine of the day. I like it.
I really petered out on my original challenge this year of reading a chapter of Writing Down the Bones every day, and then writing from it. I’m about halfway through. All it comes down to is momentum - when we went on vacation, I let it slip, and I lost the months of winding up.
It is disturbingly similar to the feeling of not wanting to run. I paced around the house for nearly half an hour after work last night, debating whether I was going to run: do I feel like it? do I have time? is there anything else I need to do? etc. etc. It’s all brain games and monkey mind. Somewhere in Writing Down the Bones (or probably in many places), Goldberg says to let your brain continue with whatever wacky thing its doing, but tell your body to keep going through to the physical action. Pick up the pen and notebook, sit down, start scratching the pen across the surface. It’s a physical act, just like putting on running clothes, finding my headphones, walking out the door. Tell your body go and then let it go.
There’s the bell, friends. Its time to make breakfast and pack my bag and get on with the other day. But this is good, isn't it?
The idea, at least as far as I see it, is to divvy up that hour between exercise, learning, and writing about goals. I’ve been doing it between stretching, reading a book, and writing about anything I want. It’s a mini creative/personal growth day embedded in the normal routine of the day. I like it.
I really petered out on my original challenge this year of reading a chapter of Writing Down the Bones every day, and then writing from it. I’m about halfway through. All it comes down to is momentum - when we went on vacation, I let it slip, and I lost the months of winding up.
It is disturbingly similar to the feeling of not wanting to run. I paced around the house for nearly half an hour after work last night, debating whether I was going to run: do I feel like it? do I have time? is there anything else I need to do? etc. etc. It’s all brain games and monkey mind. Somewhere in Writing Down the Bones (or probably in many places), Goldberg says to let your brain continue with whatever wacky thing its doing, but tell your body to keep going through to the physical action. Pick up the pen and notebook, sit down, start scratching the pen across the surface. It’s a physical act, just like putting on running clothes, finding my headphones, walking out the door. Tell your body go and then let it go.
There’s the bell, friends. Its time to make breakfast and pack my bag and get on with the other day. But this is good, isn't it?
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
why?
Enough, friends. Here’s to the dance I hate, the one where I don’t write and don’t write and don’t write until it feels absolutely impossible, and also the ONLY THING THAT CAN SAVE ME.
The heat from the winter writing frenzy still feels fresh and nearby. It feels like that was a few weeks ago that I was writing like mad, but it was three months. It’s amazing how time unmarked by intention can be so fleeting, and also so forgettable.
But I’m not here to whine and complain about myself and my weak sense of ambition, which I could easily do. As always, I have my reasons for doing what I do (and not doing what I…..don’t do). Including writing. Blah blah blah. WHATEVER. I’m writing now today here and the future is ahead of us.
So much change is on the horizon, it makes me dizzy - and also excited and hopeful. I’m thinking about:
-the person you are vs. the person you try to project
-finding the sparks
-being spontaneous
-being honest
-being transparent
-being sensitive (and being cool with it)
I also really really love the sentiment that women should refuse to wear shoes they can’t walk a mile in.
But I’m not here to whine and complain about myself and my weak sense of ambition, which I could easily do. As always, I have my reasons for doing what I do (and not doing what I…..don’t do). Including writing. Blah blah blah. WHATEVER. I’m writing now today here and the future is ahead of us.
So much change is on the horizon, it makes me dizzy - and also excited and hopeful. I’m thinking about:
-the person you are vs. the person you try to project
-finding the sparks
-being spontaneous
-being honest
-being transparent
-being sensitive (and being cool with it)
I also really really love the sentiment that women should refuse to wear shoes they can’t walk a mile in.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
steam.
Everything feels off limits right now. Things need to be written about, but they can't be written, or I can't write them. A friend told me last week that I'm a private person. I know this, but I also forget. I so value the transparent, genuine people in my life - I forget that I am not always like that myself.
I think about all the creators - the people who choose to make something out of their lives and experiences. We put a slab of ourselves on display. We sing it, we write it, we paint it, we draw it, we photograph it. Private and public mix. But so often, at least in my experience, these creators can be intensely private people. Still, something inside stirs them to use their private lives as some sort of fuel for their art.
I went through a brief phase where I thought I wanted to write songs. I didn't think I was going to be a musician or anything like that, but I felt strongly that the best way I could express myself was by writing rhyming lyrics and putting them to a tune. I wrote a handful of mediocre-to-bad songs that I strummed out alone, on a guitar, late at night. Incidentally, most of these songs were tied to heartbreak, which has a way of bringing out the mediocre poet in all of us.
I can't tell you where this is going. I haven't been writing and its making me feel crazy. Its making me think of terrible analogies to describe my crazy feelings (which I have written and deleted just now). Its making my shoulders tight and my fists balled up and I can't sleep and when I do have crazy dreams filled with alligators and college acquaintances. So I decided to show up here tonight and let out some of that steam.
More to come, friends. Big things, too.
I think about all the creators - the people who choose to make something out of their lives and experiences. We put a slab of ourselves on display. We sing it, we write it, we paint it, we draw it, we photograph it. Private and public mix. But so often, at least in my experience, these creators can be intensely private people. Still, something inside stirs them to use their private lives as some sort of fuel for their art.
I went through a brief phase where I thought I wanted to write songs. I didn't think I was going to be a musician or anything like that, but I felt strongly that the best way I could express myself was by writing rhyming lyrics and putting them to a tune. I wrote a handful of mediocre-to-bad songs that I strummed out alone, on a guitar, late at night. Incidentally, most of these songs were tied to heartbreak, which has a way of bringing out the mediocre poet in all of us.
I can't tell you where this is going. I haven't been writing and its making me feel crazy. Its making me think of terrible analogies to describe my crazy feelings (which I have written and deleted just now). Its making my shoulders tight and my fists balled up and I can't sleep and when I do have crazy dreams filled with alligators and college acquaintances. So I decided to show up here tonight and let out some of that steam.
More to come, friends. Big things, too.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
it felt impossible.
Between a dose of jet lag and one particularly nasty cold (J is kindly referring to my cough as an “old-man-death-rattle”) my sleep patterns have been wacky this week. That means that it's 6am and I’ve been up for about an hour and a half already. I tried to lull myself back to sleep, but instead wound up reorganizing my Pinterest boards on my phone, in bed, while Ratcat slowly tried to claim my entire pillow.
So I’m up, mercifully coughing a bit less this morning, and chugging a hot mug of my healing tea, only this time I’ve boiled it down into a near syrup that tastes like fire. After more than a week of vacation, there’s too much work waiting at the office (the kind with deadlines fast approaching), so I’m rallying the best I can to get my butt into my cubicle today.
We went on a vacation last week, which I realize I only barely mentioned in passing. It was the first time in four years that J and I have taken a vacation just for us. It was also his first time out of the country. I’m still digesting it, but I’ll have more to say at some point. It was wonderful, expansive, challenging, and definitely not relaxing (but we didn’t mean for it to be). When I sort the slew of knots in my brain, I’ll tell you more.
Leading up to the trip, I let myself succumb to being overwhelmed, which generally has more to do with my own state of mind than the actual circumstances of my life. I can always find something to feel overwhelmed about (anxious brains are excellent at that). While I felt overwhelmed, it felt impossible to write. I wish I had powered through, pushed through, but I didn’t. I gave in. So I haven’t done any freewriting in exactly 18 days. Writing that out now, it doesn’t seem so bad - there have been many much longer hiatuses in my history. But I’ve been writing more intensely in the past months than I have in a long time, or ever, so 18 days feels like……..I’ve been holding my breath?
So I’m up, mercifully coughing a bit less this morning, and chugging a hot mug of my healing tea, only this time I’ve boiled it down into a near syrup that tastes like fire. After more than a week of vacation, there’s too much work waiting at the office (the kind with deadlines fast approaching), so I’m rallying the best I can to get my butt into my cubicle today.
We went on a vacation last week, which I realize I only barely mentioned in passing. It was the first time in four years that J and I have taken a vacation just for us. It was also his first time out of the country. I’m still digesting it, but I’ll have more to say at some point. It was wonderful, expansive, challenging, and definitely not relaxing (but we didn’t mean for it to be). When I sort the slew of knots in my brain, I’ll tell you more.
Leading up to the trip, I let myself succumb to being overwhelmed, which generally has more to do with my own state of mind than the actual circumstances of my life. I can always find something to feel overwhelmed about (anxious brains are excellent at that). While I felt overwhelmed, it felt impossible to write. I wish I had powered through, pushed through, but I didn’t. I gave in. So I haven’t done any freewriting in exactly 18 days. Writing that out now, it doesn’t seem so bad - there have been many much longer hiatuses in my history. But I’ve been writing more intensely in the past months than I have in a long time, or ever, so 18 days feels like……..I’ve been holding my breath?
Saturday, February 7, 2015
editing.
I have never been great at editing my own work, surprisingly, considering I work as a writer. Once the words in my head get onto the page, I have the urge to fling them off. I never want to look at them again. I want to forget that I was so bold, or foolish, as to take my thoughts and put them down for everyone to read. It’s not the most healthy feeling, and a little tricky to manage when writing seems to be your work.
Up until four or five years ago, I used to throw away everything I wrote. I would fill up notebooks, and bit by bit, I’d tear out the pages and throw them away. I blogged on and off, and usually wound up deleting the blogs shortly thereafter. The urge to write has always been there, but the courage to lay the writing bare and let others see it has not. That’s why the first rule of this blog, for my own sake, was:
That was the task in front of me today, and I’ve done an epic job of avoiding it. I made phone calls, I ran errands, I even resorted to an afternoon nap. So the day stretches into evening now, permeated by the blues because I’ve spent the entire day avoiding the thing I want to/have to/hate to do. But there’s still time left today.
Up until four or five years ago, I used to throw away everything I wrote. I would fill up notebooks, and bit by bit, I’d tear out the pages and throw them away. I blogged on and off, and usually wound up deleting the blogs shortly thereafter. The urge to write has always been there, but the courage to lay the writing bare and let others see it has not. That’s why the first rule of this blog, for my own sake, was:
I will not delete. Once I put it out there, it's out there. Yes, I am afraid that I'll sound stupid, silly or wrong. Well sometimes I am stupid, silly and wrong. I apologize now for being any of those things, but even still - I'm not going to delete it.But I’m trying to stretch myself a bit further these days, trying to do something more than the rambling and freewriting. It is hard as hell. I keep telling myself that I will get better at it only by doing it, but its so easy to feel like it will never come out right, ever, because I don’t know what I’m doing. I have to suppress a lot of feelings in order to make myself reread and think critically about what I’m writing. Like I said, I’ve never been great at editing my own work.
That was the task in front of me today, and I’ve done an epic job of avoiding it. I made phone calls, I ran errands, I even resorted to an afternoon nap. So the day stretches into evening now, permeated by the blues because I’ve spent the entire day avoiding the thing I want to/have to/hate to do. But there’s still time left today.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
on the horizon.
Tonight, I’m thinking about:
-the smell of roasting potatoes, in hot oil, in the oven
-how early I can reasonably “get in bed to read” (i.e. fall asleep)
-whether or not it would be weird/creepy to wear a ski mask at home to keep my nose warm
But mostly, I’m thinking about the potatoes. I tried to write for half an hour, hungry, while the potatoes roasted in the oven. I managed to write a random string of words with “potatoes” inserted every so often. Sometimes an evening needs to be simple and sometimes a comfort as simple as roasted potatoes can consume you.
I’m reading essays lately, and I generally love or hate them - I don’t often feel indifferent. I’ve read a handful that I loved, and two or three (including this one) that I’m still thinking about hours/days after reading. That helps me remember what writing can do.
J and I saw a play on Sunday night, mostly because we had free tickets, even though we were both tired from a weekend of travelling. When we walked in and I realized that the show was three hours long, I almost bailed. I’m so glad I didn’t. It was riveting and so well done that I’m still turning it over in my head.
We spent the weekend in the mountains, or near to them, and it felt good. I’m an ocean person forever, but I still love to breathe mountain air sometimes. A group of us tried to find a trail that was supposedly near a mountain lake, and after an anxiety-filled drive down a winding, icy road, we found…...no trail. But we did get a moment of beauty at the foot of the lakeshore.
And soon we’re leaving the country, just for a week, but on a real vacation, planned just for us. And then spring will be coming - flowers, sun, and change on the horizon.
-the smell of roasting potatoes, in hot oil, in the oven
-how early I can reasonably “get in bed to read” (i.e. fall asleep)
-whether or not it would be weird/creepy to wear a ski mask at home to keep my nose warm
But mostly, I’m thinking about the potatoes. I tried to write for half an hour, hungry, while the potatoes roasted in the oven. I managed to write a random string of words with “potatoes” inserted every so often. Sometimes an evening needs to be simple and sometimes a comfort as simple as roasted potatoes can consume you.
I’m reading essays lately, and I generally love or hate them - I don’t often feel indifferent. I’ve read a handful that I loved, and two or three (including this one) that I’m still thinking about hours/days after reading. That helps me remember what writing can do.
J and I saw a play on Sunday night, mostly because we had free tickets, even though we were both tired from a weekend of travelling. When we walked in and I realized that the show was three hours long, I almost bailed. I’m so glad I didn’t. It was riveting and so well done that I’m still turning it over in my head.
We spent the weekend in the mountains, or near to them, and it felt good. I’m an ocean person forever, but I still love to breathe mountain air sometimes. A group of us tried to find a trail that was supposedly near a mountain lake, and after an anxiety-filled drive down a winding, icy road, we found…...no trail. But we did get a moment of beauty at the foot of the lakeshore.
And soon we’re leaving the country, just for a week, but on a real vacation, planned just for us. And then spring will be coming - flowers, sun, and change on the horizon.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
surprised.
I rediscovered the magic of setting my music to shuffle today. I started with this song and hit shuffle and all afternoon I’ve felt a constant state of pleasant surprise. There are so many ways in life to find yourself in a pattern, even a rut. When songs that I’ve forgotten about, forgotten I loved, forgotten the times and emotions and people I loved them with, when those songs suddenly fill the space around me, I’m able to blink away the film of repetition and daily life. Its the reason that unfamiliar experiences and new places always give me a spark of creativity and life. I crossed a long list of chores off, one by one, but each one felt easy and light.
I did a few minutes of freewriting this afternoon after skipping it for two days, which is the longest I’ve skipped since I started doing it every day at the beginning of this month. I didn’t plan to skip (actually, I planned not to skip even though I knew I’d be tempted). At any rate, the muscle felt a little creaky, but it was ok. Life happens. Intentions aren’t always kept.
I went to a concert on Friday night and was struck by my own distraction at the people around me. Part of it was being annoyed by the handful of annoying people, including the bro who kept inching backwards until he had me more or less pinned between his sweaty back and a wall. But there are so many stories to watch unfold in places like that, gathering places, places filled with all sorts of people. It’s like sitting at the airport or riding the Metro or laying in the park. How can you do anything but watch people being their people-selves? Especially at something like a concert, when there are all kinds of expectations built in. There are people on dates. There are people with no sense of rhythm trying to figure out how to move their bodies to a beat. There are people who have drunk a lot, and people who are drinking a lot, and people who aren’t drinking a thing. There are people who are so excited and people who are so indifferent.
Anyway, I loved the show and I listened and listened and while I was listening, I watched people.
I did a few minutes of freewriting this afternoon after skipping it for two days, which is the longest I’ve skipped since I started doing it every day at the beginning of this month. I didn’t plan to skip (actually, I planned not to skip even though I knew I’d be tempted). At any rate, the muscle felt a little creaky, but it was ok. Life happens. Intentions aren’t always kept.
I went to a concert on Friday night and was struck by my own distraction at the people around me. Part of it was being annoyed by the handful of annoying people, including the bro who kept inching backwards until he had me more or less pinned between his sweaty back and a wall. But there are so many stories to watch unfold in places like that, gathering places, places filled with all sorts of people. It’s like sitting at the airport or riding the Metro or laying in the park. How can you do anything but watch people being their people-selves? Especially at something like a concert, when there are all kinds of expectations built in. There are people on dates. There are people with no sense of rhythm trying to figure out how to move their bodies to a beat. There are people who have drunk a lot, and people who are drinking a lot, and people who aren’t drinking a thing. There are people who are so excited and people who are so indifferent.
Anyway, I loved the show and I listened and listened and while I was listening, I watched people.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
eavesdropped conversation.
I’ve been doing so much freewriting lately that I start to worry I’ll never be able to make a thing whole. I worry that all I have in me is a lifetime of rambling and abstract thought. I worry that the more I try to actually finish something, the less capable I’ll be. But I also know that those fears mean that I’m on the right trail.
Last night, J and I went to a reading at Politics & Prose, Scott Timberg on his new book, Culture Crash: The Killing of the Creative Class. I have a swirl of thoughts on his talk and on the subject of the book, enough that I can’t seem to sort them out just yet. It’s important stuff. But after the reading, we wandered down the street to look for dinner. We passed a middle-aged man and an older woman, I guessed his mother, having a disagreement. It was immediately clear that there was some mental illness in the mix of the heated conversation. I couldn’t follow the whole thing, so I don’t even know what the argument was about. Whatever it was, he was yelling and begging her to just come home with him. At some point, I have your credit cards, you dumb bitch, hit my ears and I bristled.
We stepped into a restaurant, but there was a 45 minute wait for a table, so we headed back to the street, finally deciding we’d just drive home. We passed them again, the same conversation, the same elevated voices, almost frozen in time. We stopped in the CVS on the corner and the older woman walked in behind us, followed by the man, still screeching, Just come home with me!
Last night, J and I went to a reading at Politics & Prose, Scott Timberg on his new book, Culture Crash: The Killing of the Creative Class. I have a swirl of thoughts on his talk and on the subject of the book, enough that I can’t seem to sort them out just yet. It’s important stuff. But after the reading, we wandered down the street to look for dinner. We passed a middle-aged man and an older woman, I guessed his mother, having a disagreement. It was immediately clear that there was some mental illness in the mix of the heated conversation. I couldn’t follow the whole thing, so I don’t even know what the argument was about. Whatever it was, he was yelling and begging her to just come home with him. At some point, I have your credit cards, you dumb bitch, hit my ears and I bristled.
We stepped into a restaurant, but there was a 45 minute wait for a table, so we headed back to the street, finally deciding we’d just drive home. We passed them again, the same conversation, the same elevated voices, almost frozen in time. We stopped in the CVS on the corner and the older woman walked in behind us, followed by the man, still screeching, Just come home with me!
Monday, January 12, 2015
sheboygan-ed.
Phew. I have the blank-page sweats. I’ve already written a bit today, and when I opened this new page, it seemed huge and so freaking white and empty. So I’ve been indulging in one of my weird procrastination-hobbies, which is reading old writing that I’ve mostly forgotten I wrote. My Google Drive is buried years deep in draft after draft of ramblings. It’s a weird little game, reading something you wrote that you don’t remember writing. I don’t know how to describe the feeling. Sometimes I hate the self that was writing, and sometimes I want to high-five her. Either way, it’s weird that she’s me.
I walked in the door tonight and I didn’t wash the dishes that are still in the sink from this morning; the pot with oatmeal caked on the bottom, the french press with soupy grounds in the bottom, the small stack of plates and bowls and coffee mugs and spoons. We don’t have a dishwasher and we have a small sink and no counter and it really doesn’t take long for a few dishes to grow into a mountain. Usually it drives me nuts. I wash dishes what feels like a million times a day. It seems like the chore that will never never never never never end (because it won’t). And in my weird way, I have a hard time concentrating on other important things when there’s disorder around me, dirty dish mountain included.
Not only are those dishes still sitting in the sink, but I ordered takeout. It’s Monday night, it’s so rainy and cold, J is out of town for the night for a meeting, so I’m here alone with my Monday blues and no one to reign in the bad choices. We made a new year’s pact that we would stop each other from spending too much money on food and/or eating way too much a) ice cream, b) popcorn, and c) cheese late at night. I decided we should have a code word that means PUT DOWN THAT PIZZA ROLL or YOU DON’T NEED TWO GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES or whatever might be appropriate in the situation. We decided Sheboygan would be the code word, and we’ve already successfully Sheboygan-ed at least three late night pizzas and some ice cream. My point is, J wasn’t here to Sheboygan my mountain of Indian takeout. So I got home, pushed the three buttons (or whatever it takes) to order Indian food, brazenly ignored the dirty dishes, and I sat down and wrote.
I walked in the door tonight and I didn’t wash the dishes that are still in the sink from this morning; the pot with oatmeal caked on the bottom, the french press with soupy grounds in the bottom, the small stack of plates and bowls and coffee mugs and spoons. We don’t have a dishwasher and we have a small sink and no counter and it really doesn’t take long for a few dishes to grow into a mountain. Usually it drives me nuts. I wash dishes what feels like a million times a day. It seems like the chore that will never never never never never end (because it won’t). And in my weird way, I have a hard time concentrating on other important things when there’s disorder around me, dirty dish mountain included.
Not only are those dishes still sitting in the sink, but I ordered takeout. It’s Monday night, it’s so rainy and cold, J is out of town for the night for a meeting, so I’m here alone with my Monday blues and no one to reign in the bad choices. We made a new year’s pact that we would stop each other from spending too much money on food and/or eating way too much a) ice cream, b) popcorn, and c) cheese late at night. I decided we should have a code word that means PUT DOWN THAT PIZZA ROLL or YOU DON’T NEED TWO GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES or whatever might be appropriate in the situation. We decided Sheboygan would be the code word, and we’ve already successfully Sheboygan-ed at least three late night pizzas and some ice cream. My point is, J wasn’t here to Sheboygan my mountain of Indian takeout. So I got home, pushed the three buttons (or whatever it takes) to order Indian food, brazenly ignored the dirty dishes, and I sat down and wrote.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
one single, ridiculous thing.
It’s a tornado in my head right now, and it’s brutally cold outside, and everything inside of me feels like its floating, like I’m jumping the second the elevator goes down. I can’t settle. I can’t sit still. I can’t start. I can’t blink.
So here is one single, ridiculous thing on my mind:
J and I took a nice meandering walk last weekend with the purpose of dropping my bike at the shop to get the derailers adjusted (I talk like I know bike things). After dropping it off, we walked down to a doughnut shop to buy two extremely overpriced doughnuts (but nutella + bacon + doughnut = good). Then we lamented the fact that a tiny $3 doughnut doesn’t even barely start to fill the breakfast hole, so we walked to the market and wound up with two empanadas. Finally, when my bike was finished, we picked it up and walked slowly home.
Those are my favorite days with him, the slow ones without a plan, the space to just talk and talk. I take it as a good sign that after four years, he’s still my favorite person to talk to.
So here is one single, ridiculous thing on my mind:
what will I have for dinner tomorrow night?I love quiet Fridays, and honestly, I don’t much mind spending them alone when I get the chance. It feels so good in my little introvert brain to be able to take a breath, to see the weekend stretching in front of me, to mark the passage of time. I need a lot of space and time (sometimes too much, I think) to be able to find my center, to get everything aligned again.
J and I took a nice meandering walk last weekend with the purpose of dropping my bike at the shop to get the derailers adjusted (I talk like I know bike things). After dropping it off, we walked down to a doughnut shop to buy two extremely overpriced doughnuts (but nutella + bacon + doughnut = good). Then we lamented the fact that a tiny $3 doughnut doesn’t even barely start to fill the breakfast hole, so we walked to the market and wound up with two empanadas. Finally, when my bike was finished, we picked it up and walked slowly home.
Those are my favorite days with him, the slow ones without a plan, the space to just talk and talk. I take it as a good sign that after four years, he’s still my favorite person to talk to.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
rules.
For the first time that I can remember (ever, I think?) I gave up on a book before I had finished it last night. I told myself I’d just skim a few pages and then start reading again, which turned into flipping the pages, not skimming, getting to the last page, letting the book close, and telling myself, Done. I gave the book a solid 75 pages of effort, and it just wasn’t a book I wanted to finish.
I’ve always felt like I can’t quit reading a book. I’ve felt like it would hang over me, forever and ever, and I would wonder if I missed something amazing. But here I am, feeling absolutely no guilt. Sometimes I can hardly believe the rules and parameters I place on my own life that just don't need to be there. Why? I don't know. But I do what I want!
J is working a lot this week, which usually means that I’m spending a bit more time alone and in my own head. Sometimes that makes for beautiful space, stretching out in front of me, and sometimes it makes for a claustrophobic room that’s packed with thoughts demanding my attention.
There doesn’t seem to be much else urgent or worthwhile to say tonight. It’s very cold and windy, and I’m thinking about how many layers I can wear tomorrow and whether I have the resolve to ride my bike when the wind chill is below 0. I’ve just finished my favorite solo-lady dinner of sardine toast and I’m listening this podcast and laughing to myself at their big words and pretentious literary jokes (which I love, by the way).
This new year has felt full so far, like I’m diving deep into life, into my own head.
It’s good.
I’ve always felt like I can’t quit reading a book. I’ve felt like it would hang over me, forever and ever, and I would wonder if I missed something amazing. But here I am, feeling absolutely no guilt. Sometimes I can hardly believe the rules and parameters I place on my own life that just don't need to be there. Why? I don't know. But I do what I want!
J is working a lot this week, which usually means that I’m spending a bit more time alone and in my own head. Sometimes that makes for beautiful space, stretching out in front of me, and sometimes it makes for a claustrophobic room that’s packed with thoughts demanding my attention.
There doesn’t seem to be much else urgent or worthwhile to say tonight. It’s very cold and windy, and I’m thinking about how many layers I can wear tomorrow and whether I have the resolve to ride my bike when the wind chill is below 0. I’ve just finished my favorite solo-lady dinner of sardine toast and I’m listening this podcast and laughing to myself at their big words and pretentious literary jokes (which I love, by the way).
This new year has felt full so far, like I’m diving deep into life, into my own head.
It’s good.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
momentum.
I want to tell you what J’s face looks like right now. He’s sitting in the corner in the working chair (which doubles as Rat’s napping chair). It’s gray outside and late in the day and we have one light on. Dark shadows are falling across his face. He’s trying to write something and his eyebrows look angry and his mouth is twisted into the shape of a baby that has just eaten a slice of lemon. He is quiet and staring intently at the screen of his computer and there is dramatic music playing softly and filling the room. He is taking breaks to diligently dust the keyboard with the corner of his sleeve. All this to say that creative, soul-baring work is hard, no matter who you are and no matter why you are doing it.
I started my new year’s writing challenge yesterday. It’s simple and easy enough and the only matter left is for me to follow it through. If you want to join in (or find your own version) here it is:
I started my new year’s writing challenge yesterday. It’s simple and easy enough and the only matter left is for me to follow it through. If you want to join in (or find your own version) here it is:
- Each day, read one section of Writing Down the Bones. These sections are usually no more than 2 or 3 pages long.
- Immediately after reading the section, freewrite for at least 5 minutes. The freewriting can be triggered by something in the reading, or an exercise she suggests, or it can be whatever it wants.
- That’s all.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
quitting.
Today is the story of how I quit Facebook, which is a fairly short story. I’ve been thinking about it for awhile. I love to see pictures of my nephews and reminisce about the past, but it’s hard to get those good things and nothing else. The real estate that it all claims in my head is precious. I don’t want it filled with people who aren’t really in my life or people who I just want to spend my time judging. So I deactivated my account this morning.
I may have been thinking about it for awhile, but only decided just yesterday that I would actually do it. I feel both relieved and suddenly in the dark. Oddly (I’m embarrassed to admit) the thing I feel most anxious about is the terrible pictures of me that might wind up in the world that I won’t be able to filter out. The fact that my anxiety lies there tells me everything, and definitely tells me that I made the right choice. For all the incredible usefulness of social media, I am prone to brutal comparison and self-criticism and I struggle with being my true self rather than the glossed over version. I’m not here with some manifesto against social media or Facebook, but only that it is the right choice for me to leave it for now.
For someone who doesn’t have children, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about (and struggling with) how I would choose to raise children in this world. I feel strongly that technology and those devices we chain to our bodies do strange things to little developing brains. But I also know full well that, though I may fantasize about escaping into the woods to live and die quietly off the grid, that wouldn’t be right (for me). I care too much about the world and what happens to it next.
I may have been thinking about it for awhile, but only decided just yesterday that I would actually do it. I feel both relieved and suddenly in the dark. Oddly (I’m embarrassed to admit) the thing I feel most anxious about is the terrible pictures of me that might wind up in the world that I won’t be able to filter out. The fact that my anxiety lies there tells me everything, and definitely tells me that I made the right choice. For all the incredible usefulness of social media, I am prone to brutal comparison and self-criticism and I struggle with being my true self rather than the glossed over version. I’m not here with some manifesto against social media or Facebook, but only that it is the right choice for me to leave it for now.
For someone who doesn’t have children, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about (and struggling with) how I would choose to raise children in this world. I feel strongly that technology and those devices we chain to our bodies do strange things to little developing brains. But I also know full well that, though I may fantasize about escaping into the woods to live and die quietly off the grid, that wouldn’t be right (for me). I care too much about the world and what happens to it next.
Friday, January 2, 2015
this is the one.
I don't quite know where to begin after the frenzy of writing last month. It feels a bit like that first run the week after you just ran a race. Now what are you running for? But I also feel at ease. It feels comfortable and safe here, like this is my place, like I beat down the pillows and turned up my favorite music and now, on a quiet Friday night, this is where I want to be.
I'm not setting resolutions this year. I still have my birthday list to work on, and I'm going to set the goal of reading at least two books each month again, and I'm hammering out the details of my little writing challenge. I'm planning to do another race in the fall. J and I are going to break the sugar-shackles this month (after eating an absurd number of cookies this week). And my soul-mate-ladyfriend is doing a year-long project with me that's about reflection and action and change. That all feels like a good plan for the year.
So tonight, I'm curling up with Bob Dylan, winter ale, and a phenomenal book.
And what else?
The new year has begun. This is the one.
I'm not setting resolutions this year. I still have my birthday list to work on, and I'm going to set the goal of reading at least two books each month again, and I'm hammering out the details of my little writing challenge. I'm planning to do another race in the fall. J and I are going to break the sugar-shackles this month (after eating an absurd number of cookies this week). And my soul-mate-ladyfriend is doing a year-long project with me that's about reflection and action and change. That all feels like a good plan for the year.
So tonight, I'm curling up with Bob Dylan, winter ale, and a phenomenal book.
And what else?
The new year has begun. This is the one.
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