Perfection is Overrated

Is Perfection overrated? I think so.

A writer friend just sent me a download on the importance of being “Good Enough,” as opposed to being “Perfect.”

Long Story Short: If we fall victim to the whims of the Perfectionist in ourselves, we can damage the expression of our Creativity.

Example:

You write a stream-of-consciousness response to a few thoughts that you wish to convey. Your article is gritty and true.

Then you start fine-tuning it. You go too far. Instead of fine-tuning, you accidentally strip out the emotion.

Instead of capturing its essence, you pound it down to a shadow of its former self.

We need to encourage ourselves in our writing, and our lives, not look for the flaws.

Learning to recognize when we are Good Enough is not always easy, but it’s a good goal.

In fact, it’s a Good Enough goal.

Thanks, Nancy Harris.

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The Dream, Climbing Back to Creativity

The Dream, Climbing Back To Creativity

Yesterday I arrived at my destination just as dark fell upon a tiny beach village on the U.S. side of the Canadian border at British Columbia. I had driven north on a grey day (or a gray day or a grey dey- I was already contemplating poetry and prose- and listening to writer podcasts).

It didn’t begin to rain until I was almost there. I clasped the stirring wheel tighter and shut off the podcast, staring intently ahead. I couldn’t be foolish enough to let my guard down and turn this writer retreat into a disaster before it had even begun.

Slush began to form on the bridges, and sure enough, at the exit where I turned off, an ambulance was departing the scene of an accident (“wrecks”, they called them in the South, where they’re not so polite about the possible accidental cause of such an event). A police car’s blue light was lighting up the dusk, a white station wagon pointed face first into a gulley, its side peeled open by a little red something or other that lay wounded up ahead. See? You have to be careful when the weather turns.

I remembered that I had forgotten to bring coffee and blueberries so the light of a market lured me off track. The smartphone lady told me to return to the route. Recalculating. Suddenly I was surrounded by frosted donuts and sprinkled cookies and six-thousand calorie muffins and Talenti gelato (sea salt caramel). I waded onward to fruits and vegetables. Blueberries. Coffee. Fresh-ground Columbian breakfast blend. Tunnel vision to the checkout.

Checkout lady: Making smoothies?

Me: Um. Yes. As a matter of fact, yes.

Checkout lady: I thought those were too many blueberries for muffins.

Me: Mm. Right.

4:20 PM. I pulled up to the premises and parked. Poor lighting. Can’t see the office. No sign of life. Dug my arrival info out of my bag.

“Check-in time: 4 PM. In order that your unit be properly prepared for your arrival, we regret that early check-ins are not available.”

Called the phone number on the sheet.

“Thank you for calling Holidayland. If you are reaching this message, we are closed for the weekend. Our hours are 9 to 4, Monday through Friday. If it is an emergency- and ONLY IF IT IS AN EMERGENCY- call 000-0000. If it is not an emergency, leave a message.”

I put up my hood and got out of the vehicle. Pouring rain and wind blowing horizontal. Behind the fence I saw white pages taped to the inside glass of a door.

“If you have arrived after 4 PM and have not made arrangements for late arrival, call 000-0000.”

Rosemary answered the phone, and yes, she had been expecting my call. Key in a dropbox at unit 208. Everything’s ready. Warmth, fireplace, 3 bedrooms if you need them. (I don’t.)

I carried my groceries inside the spotless, cozy, home away from home. Freshly scented, vacuum cleaner tracks on the carpet. Put suitcase on a bed in Bedroom 2. Unpacked the basics and got sorted away, as I always do.

This time was different.

I was blocked. I was making an attempt to get back on the writer track, on my Nth edit of the manuscript, trying to find the key that was going to turn my memoir into something meaningful. If not, I told A.C., I would mark it fiction, add erotica, and upload to Amazon. Well I told him that with a wink but I wasn’t very convinced. He agreed. “Yes!”

So there I lay (lied? laid? Verb tense, my weakness), on a colonial sofa with some very cozy pillows behind me, checking my email and twitter notifications. I was a little bit frightened that it wasn’t going to work this time. (It had always worked before. Isolation, quiet and aloneness- as opposed to loneliness- always work for me.)

By eight o’clock, I was drifting off. Put on my playful puppy-printed flannel pajamas. (Why are flannel pajamas always playful prints? Why are there no sexy flannel pajamas? People in Canada get horny too, you know.) Went to bed. Of course I brushed my teeth and flossed and all that hygiene stuff that I wouldn’t want you to think I skipped over.

The next time I awakened, it was 12:30 and I was sweating. I peeled off the puppy pajamas and tossed them on the floor where they belonged.

Deep breath. Asleep again. The next time I awakened I realized that I had been dreaming the most amazing Technicolor dream. I didn’t dare open my eyes or I would lose the dream forever because that’s how I always lose my dreams.

I am normally a vivid and regular dreamer of dreams. Every night, great adventures. However, the past few months have been dream-free— maybe from too many awakenings or tossing and turning, but I missed my dreams. I felt uninspired.

This dream might be significant.

I kept my eyes closed and began to carefully recount the details, retracing my steps in the dream to recall as much as possible.

I had been attending some kind of weekend self-improvement course for women. The content is nebulous, but “Paris” was a factor, so it could have been about Survival or Art or even Beauty. No, not Beauty. There were four or five other women in my group and suddenly it was time to leave. I had four bags, all cross-body types. I lifted my laptop strap first, then, layered the next onto the opposite shoulder. It was made of brown velour. In the dream I fondled the fabric, remembering that I once had a brown velour dress in college, the one that I wore to the Janis Joplin concert for homecoming. Then I added the two other bags. Their weight was an encumbrance. I had the impression that they were filled with art supplies. I looked like Pancho Villa with all the straps across my front.

At the exit of the event, I was asked to reach into a box and draw a name. A winner was going to receive a trip to Paris. I did so and called out the name of a young woman who popped up smiling, long dirty-blond hair, not dirty-blue jeans. (Who decided that “dirty-blond” was a color for hair? Do people even say that anymore? Rude.)

My group of four or five found each other and set out for home on foot. It was a bright blue and green day and we wandered far and wide, oblivious to the miles, like pilgrims. Or the characters in The Handmaid’s Tale. Onward, finding our way.

Soon we came upon a roadblock on a hillside. Tall piles of dirt filled the road. I climbed up and looked around to the other side. A house was being demolished. Its contents sat piled up precariously on the side of the road. Asian antiques. Ducks, brass, ivory, calligraphy, cranes and more. All quivering on this delicate pile. I stopped and rebalanced a duck sculpture that looked like it might knock the whole pyramid down. We admired the antiques as we passed. Blue china. Plates and cups in porcelain. Vases. More tentative stacks, all assembled on the hillside. Fragile Beauty.

Workmen continued to add to the stacks, walking back and forth from the scene of the house demolition as we passed. When we got to the top of the hill, we looked back and saw that they had finished.

Suddenly, music vibrated against the hillside and its echo caused all of the Asian antiques to fall down into a broken mess. The workmen were cursing one of their midst who had found an old Donovan tape and couldn’t resist playing it. I don’t remember the song but Donovan brings to mind art and colors. “Colours,” “Mellow Yellow,” “Wear Your Hair Like Heaven,” “Try and Catch the Wind,” “Season of the Witch”. These were songs that meant something to me years ago. I hadn’t thought of Donovan in as long.

We turned around and now the scene changed to one of Art being created all around us.

An outdoor passage, the width of the Sistine Chapel, was filled with young men and old men—all men— creating Art in brilliant media. There were no canvases or brushes. The earth was the canvas and it was sparkling White and made of something magical and malleable.

I leaned back to look up and saw single colors being celebrated. No rich realistic Michelangelo mastery. Just wedges of pure color in abstraction. Royal blue was being spread into a graphic shape. Yellow pigment was being swirled into a sculptural scene marbleized with white as translucent as the Pieta. I was aware that there was much wet paint and I was admonished to step carefully. We were climbing and there were no stairs. The artwork composed the steps and risers, and each riser was taller than average. I had to strain to lift myself from one section to the next, as if I were suddenly Lilliputian.

I was marveling at how each artwork was more beautiful than the next. Crowds of others making their way and seeing my travel companions ebbing and flowing with the crowd. Nearer, farther. Together again.

The world was Art.

A fast moving rush of water suddenly appeared in the midst of all this art, pouring from a huge opening in the wall. It was like the rivers I’ve floated in the caves of Central America, sharing the same waterways that were once part of the sacred Mayan underworld. I suddenly had the impression that the water was healing but that I had to stay on the “right” side of this flowing water.

Then I was awake, amazed that I had dreamed of all this Creativity and Art.

I remembered that Royal Blue and Yellow—the primary colors in the Dream—are colors that I never use. Maybe I’m supposed to dare to go places in my writing that I haven’t dared to go before today.

The Beautiful Asian Antiques that were being saved from the demolished house and later collapsed? Maybe I’m supposed to save the best bits of my writing and be careful to use them properly and not be distracted by other influences.

Time to write.

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Time to Write

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Writer 2.0 Podcast

When is listening to a writer podcast as important as sitting down to write?

When it’s A. C. Fuller’s Writer 2.0, a podcast dedicated to writing, publishing and the space between.

I met A. C. Fuller at the 2015 Pacific Northwest Writers Association conference by attending his presentation on editing, and later, at his book launch for The Anonymous Source.

His conference presentation was excellent. I’ve dug out my notes this morning as I prepare to embark on yet another self-imposed writer retreat for a week of manuscript mutilation – better known as editing. …but A.C.’s podcast is what I want to share today.

Just a few quick notes to say that this writer podcast is just what you need to fill the space between writer conferences. Writer 2.0 presents interviews with writers, publishers, editors- everyone and everything to do with writing.

I’ve been listening during my treadmill walking on rainy days and, in addition to its valuable content, this podcast makes the time fly.

Example: Yesterday I listened to Emma Scott on Breaking into the Romance Genre, and Blog Your Book with Nina Amir. Besides presenting a concise interview on the headline topics, there’s always subsidiary information on writing and publishing methods that have worked for those being interviewed. Their personal opinions. Insider info. How to’s. Methods worth applying to your own project. Etc. You get the picture.

A. C. Fuller is an excellent interviewer and I guarantee you won’t be bored. No slog time here.

Podcasts vary in length from 20 minutes to under an hour. Do keep your notepad handy because you’re definitely going to want to take notes.

I’ve got to get packing, but do add Writer 2.0 to your podcast subscriptions.

http://acfuller.com/writer-2-0-podcast/

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How Do You Want to be Remembered?

Write down ten things that you want to be remembered for or ten characteristics that you want to be remembered for. Ten “totally you” remembrance criteria.

Do this before you read any further so that you’re not influenced by the ten criteria that I’m going to share regarding my own life.

“How do you want to be remembered?”

Write the answers spontaneously, without digging too deep.

They don’t have to be complicated. No long paragraphs. Just phrases. Even a simple list.

Got it down?

Now look at #1. This shows what you value most in your life. Is #1 materialistic or is it spiritual? Is it self-centered or does it focus on others? If you’re truly altruistic, maybe your first choice is even related to a worldview.

Move on to #2 and #3. Ask yourself the same questions.

#4 and #5. Are you seeing a pattern here?

Use your list as a means of self-examination. If these are the things that you want to be remembered for, they’re probably also a good view of your current values.

Are these values that you’re proud of?

Are you practicing the traits that you value in others?

Can you see room for improvement?

When you examine them, do you see items that are superficial­­–– like wealth or external beauty?

Do you see any obvious weaknesses or omissions? I found something significant missing from my own ten ways.

I would like to be remembered

  1. As an individual who wasn’t afraid to love deeply.
  2. As a good mother.
  3. As a teacher who loved her students and tried to make learning meaningful and fun.
  4. As a kind woman.
  5. As a risk taker.
  6. As a writer who loved language and wasn’t shy about sharing her sensitive side.
  7. As one who shared- thoughts, meals, resources, books.
  8. As a lover of nature- flora, fauna. All things outdoors.
  9. As one who loved learning and pursued it to the very end.
  10. As a gardener who created beauty in her outdoor surroundings.

Did you notice what’s missing?

Friendship.

I regret that I have few persons that I can call “friends”. I could make the excuse that it’s because my parents discouraged me from having friendships. As a child, I never learned how to nurture friendships- just as I never learned how to love my siblings.

And while I learned, as an adult, how to love my siblings, it has taken me a very long time to learn and experience true Friendship. I know that this is my personal weakness and I still have more work to do. I struggle with feelings of inadequacy that cause me to be surprised if someone expresses interest in sharing friendship with me. I don’t reach out as much as I should. I don’t respond as much as I should.

We each have personal flaws that we can change or eliminate with effort.

What do you want to be remembered for?

Ask yourself this question and see if you’re measuring up to your vision of your better self.

How do you want to be remembered?

 

From Hopeless to Hope – My Week at Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health

This is Mental Health Week.

Last week I enjoyed a glorious retreat of self-discovery and restoration at Kripalu, the world famous yoga and wellness center in Stockbridge MA. I didn’t check in under my writer name and I definitely didn’t plan on writing about my time there.

I also didn’t plan to be transformed by the experience.

First, let me assure you that this is not a woo-woo place. It’s a serious non-profit devoted to helping us become our best selves through a rich catalog of courses for growth.

We were 16 participants in a program entitled “Rejuvenate and Reclaim Life over 40.” On Sunday evening, we shed our flip-flops outside the door to our meeting space and claimed our places on the carpeted floor where a circle of cushioned yoga chairs awaited us. Our youngest participant was 42 and I was the oldest at 65. When Maria Sirois, our clinical psychologist leader, introduced herself, I’m sure that I was not the only one who was more than slightly envious of this sensuous 40-something young woman with a playful, positive style.

Maria told us that we were going to be given the tools that would help us to become more mindful, resilient human beings. We would increase our capacity to thrive and regain our sense of a life worth living. Really?

I began to cry. I was not the only one, of course. Maria passed me a tissue box while lightly, but sincerely, reminding us: “What happens in Kripalu stays in Vegas.” Our individual burdens were varied, and no one was required to share their story, but we found that in our pods of two to six caring peers, we were safe. We could do this.

We would be dreaming and talking about very concrete, practical goals—putting our lives into perspective.

Would we really find serenity and begin living our true, authentic life in just under a week? We would, and we did.

Each morning began with an opportunity to participate in Gentle Yoga, a lovely way to greet the day with a relaxed wake-up yoga practice—easy prone positions or hands and knees asanas. After savasana, we rolled off our mats and followed the fragrance of breakfast.

Breakfast at Kripalu is always silent, giving us the opportunity to practice mindfulness as we enjoyed the nourishing, organic choices. Vegetarian, non-vegetarian organic, Ayurvedic, Buddha bowls— too many to describe here and all beautiful. Have you wanted to try healthy organic foods that someone else has prepared superbly for you? Ayurvedic spices, world sourced organic teas, and an abundance of fresh fruit and whole grain breads. Meals for Living and Thriving.

One is not allowed to use electronics on the premises, except in the Café or in the privacy of your room. I hand-wrote my notes and transcribed them to my laptop each evening. It turned out to be a good opportunity to review what I had learned each day. Mindfulness. Happiness. Flow. Loving Kindness. Courage!

IMG_5148Outside there are expansive lawns, orchards, hiking trails, a lake, labyrinth and lots of places to contemplate quietly or share conversation. Sometimes I enjoyed taking my lunch tray outside to a picnic table under a canopy, even on a cool rainy day when a little wren, with her feathers puffed up against the breeze, was my only company. She hopped over to me and we contemplated each other with our heads tilted, eye-to-eye. I imagined that we were giving each other much needed encouragement.

By the third day, I had the energy to join the Yoga Dances during lunch—an hour of spontaneity during which we were introduced to yoga and Qigong moves that were translated to contemporary music, starting slow, gaining tempo. Fantastic sweaty joyous fun!

Our program also included Wellness taught by an M.D., a class in Qigong taught by- don’t laugh- a soft-spoken, near Harrison Ford look-alike. We also enjoyed a superb class in Nutrition with valuable content that dispelled any of our predisposed ideas that a class in Nutrition might possibly be boring.

The next day I cried some more and finally on Wednesday night I sobbed for four straight hours as the clock inched towards midnight. Filled a wastebasket with spent tissues. I didn’t know I had it in me. Letting go. Crying for the prospect of the new Life ahead of me.

Finally, at midnight, I threw a tunic over my nightgown and set out barefoot, to roam the halls where I made a walking meditation. Passed no one except a person talking to someone on the other side of the world, softly speaking in an Asian language that I couldn’t identify. Found my way to the dining room where I made myself a cup of chamomile tea and closed my eyes as the raw honey drizzled slowly into the cup, wishing I could drizzle the honey over my head— wishing I could feel the sweetness seeping into my soul.

The next morning, I felt cleansed. My fellow yogis ignored my swollen eyes. Maria’s topic of the day was Falling in Love with Life Again. Stillness, Focus, Self-Compassion. Using the tiny moments for relationship building.

I learned that it takes courage to be Authentic. There are epic gains to be made in living a true life of authenticity, but there will also be painful moments too- like crossroads decisions.

Late that night I took a sauna bath, lying back alone and naked in the dark as the heat drew the impurities away. I rested my hands on my belly, feeling my breath rise up with each intake, then drawing out and away with each release.

I came here on the edge of Hopeless. Now, six days later, I am on a path of Hope. Thank you, Maria. Thank you, Kripalu.

#hopeless and #hope

Sunrise

sunrise3

Writing a Memoir isn’t for Sissies

Writing a memoir isn’t for sissies.

Let me rephrase that. Writing a memoir is for hard core masochists- for those who truly enjoy pain- because, for the most part, that’s what you’re going to experience as you struggle with what to tell, what to hold back, and how the whole fits together.

I was just about to move the weekend’s Wall Street Journals to the recycle bin when I peeled open the Review section one more time, looking for something to accompany my vegetable soup.

Sure enough. Somehow I missed the interview with Mary Karr (The Liars Club), whose The Art of Memoir is going to be released on September 15.

She has a good bit of relevant input to share with a fellow memoir writer—albeit with an unpublished fellow memoir writer. Correction: especially with an unpublished fellow memoir writer.

Karr: “It’s cathartic, but the purpose of it (the memoir) is not your catharsis. You’re publishing it to create an emotional experience in another human being, and for me, unless another human being reads it and has that feeling, there’s no point.”

Mmm. Yes. Agreed. I do know that we’re always told to never admit that we have written our memoir as a means of healing or catharsis. Agents and publishers don’t want to hear that. Everyone’s life is fucked up, everyone’s family is dysfunctional, and yours is no better or worse. It’s not all about you.

During the first draft, you may write the memoir as a catharsis—but don’t tell anyone that’s what you’re doing—even if it makes you feel better.

After the first draft, if you truly enjoy language, as I do, you lose yourself in the creation of evocative sentences. You want the reader to touch and taste and smell the places you’ve been. To hear and see it all from the most degrading statements that were made to you, to your near death experience, to the survival tactics that you employed as a child.

In this process, you’ll hopefully create a work that the reader will be able to experience on such a level that they almost walk in your footprints and relive your reality as their own.

Karr says that her new book is a guide to “navigating life’s events, first psychologically and then on the page.”

“Success in memoir writing,” she says, “involves a psychological self-awareness of how you changed over time.” Karr herself is the child of two alcoholic parents. Her mother tried to kill her with a butcher knife when she was eight years old. Serious stuff.

Taking that into consideration, I believe that, during the writing, the unspoken catharsis becomes your raison d’être. If you can relive your past, get it on paper and survive the stress of it, your catharsis will be worth it. Even if you come through the first draft like the head-spinning, projectile vomiting Regan of the The Exorcist. Sometimes, it does feel that difficult.

Further, Alexandra Wolfe, her interviewer, writes:

“Ms. Karr says that writing about hope is just as difficult as writing about pain.

Karr:

‘The reason people fight against being hopeful is because it sets you up to be disappointed. The reason people fight happiness is because if you don’t hope for anything, you never have your heart broken.”

PeopleFightHappiness

The Canoe Trip

A Comfort Vest, you may know, is a garment that’s designed to calm dogs who become frightened due to loud noises like thunder. You zip or click or velcro the vest onto them and the close fit provides the soothing comfort of a full body hug. I only learned of these at 4th of July when the local animal shelter was recommending them for dogs who are afraid of fireworks.

Yesterday was my solar return, 1:12 PM, aka birthday. It was the day that the sun returned to the exact position in the sky that it occupied at the time of my birth. Kind of amazing. I reflected on the cyclical nature of life for a bit, and on being a pin dot in the universe.

I drank my green drink and ate my birthday cupcake, then suited up in long sleeved denim, jeans and apron to pick three gallons of blackberries in the bramble patch.

blackberryjellyReturned to mash and sieve the berries into juice and finally made blackberry jelly~ enough for a whole year’s worth of low sugar jelly on homemade wheat germ toast.

Against my better judgment, I ate another cupcake. My excuse is that they were smaller than regular homemade cupcakes. Of course, I also frosted them thicker so that they wouldn’t look like smaller cupcakes…

Since it didn’t appear that this day was going to be much different from any other day, I tucked into a quilt in the living room and did some suitably calm reading (Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking) for the most of the afternoon.

I admired the sun sparkling through the perfectly blue-black jelly, heard “pop, pop…pop” as the lids on the jelly jars sealed down, found a Sharpie and dated the lids.

Suddenly I decided that I wanted to do something to celebrate my birthday, something active, something physical. (Something to counteract cupcake guilt.)

I awakened my husband from his afternoon nap and told him as much. Something active, something physical.

Then I announced that we were going to take a canoe trip.

Did you know that a “canoe trip” is a euphemism for having sexual relations?

No, I didn’t know either.

Apparently the meaning of a “canoe trip” as above (getting f***ed) has also now led to a “canoe trip” meaning getting the raw end of the deal. (see Urban Dictionary)

Their Mad Men example:

Wife: “Honey, how was work today?”
Husband: “It was a real canoe trip.”

I retrieved the life jackets from the garage. Two human and one canine. Our golden retriever, Lily, loves her life jacket. When she sees me carrying it, it means doggy heaven on the water. I think she enjoys the same weightless feeling that we enjoy when we float along on the water. As soon as I buckle on her jacket, she becomes Zen Dog, epitome of all things Calm. She hops into the canoe, settles down and takes in the sights without a single “woof”.

True to form, we put in the canoe within range of four dogs frolicking on the shore. Lily totally ignored them, but maybe she was just being snooty. She was going on a canoe trip. They weren’t. And they weren’t wearing stylish yellow life jackets. About 50 feet after push-off, a sea gull cruised down low to scope out the furry critter with the stylish yellow life jacket. Again, no response from Lily. Silly seagull.

A bit further on, we passed a docile blue heron stalking along the shore. He and Lily exchanged bored glances.

I began to make the association between the life jacket and Lily’s calm behavior. She’s been wearing one for boating for three years already, but I never knew about comfort vests until last month. The life jacket fits like a comfort vest. That must be why she’s so chill when we canoe.

What’s my point?

It’s now 26 hours past solar return 1:12 PM. It’s just another day.

“Calm” is what I like to think I am, but my personal symbol of comfort calm, my comfort vest~ my license plate, will soon no longer be mine. Having moved to a new state, I have to remove it, and someone else here already has dibs on my content.

That’s OK. I have a better one arriving any day. Stay tuned.

dotcalm

Relevant Reading

tearsI’ve been reading since before dawn today. I awakened to find 2 tweets that led me into a couple hours of insight on themes that I’ve considered frequently during the writing and editing of The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

Life. Death. Tears. The Universe. Themes that I devoted way too much time to during my childhood.

1. from Glynn Washington (NPR’s SnapJudgment host, who was so generous with his time and thoughts when we met at Snap studios in Oakland, CA, Spring 2014)
2. from Rabbi Evan Moffic (I’ve never met him. He began following me on Twitter, and, in following him back, he’s put some Faith back in my Spiritual.)

The readings…
1. Washington shared yesterday’s NY Times’ Opinion, “Sabbath” by 82-year-old writer and neurologist Oliver Sacks, whose memoir (On the Move) was published in April. To quote Sacks’ website: The book is by “the man who has illuminated the many ways that the brain makes us human.”

Sacks has had a second diagnosis of cancer, and he says they’ll be no recovery this time. One-third of his liver has been impacted thus far.

Sacks’ Opinion piece is a beautiful memoir in itself, about Life coming full circle.  All of our lives will eventually come full circle, if they haven’t already—as mine has—and it’s always a joy to read and learn from another person’s journey. I won’t do the article justice if I try to explain it here. Just read it.

Reading yesterday’s Opinion piece lead me to Sacks’ July Opinion in the NY Times My Periodic Table. Again, a timely piece relevant to my recent nights under the stars. When we find ourselves in a fragile part of our life, many of us often turn to the Universe. Lying under a sky “powdered with stars” (Milton), it’s difficult not to contemplate our place in the big picture.

2. Rabbi Moffic shared his thoughts on Tears, initially re: tears and funerals. Why You Should Cry Your Eyes Out.

From his article: “In truth, however, tears are a sign of strength. They are a sign of life. They are a sign of real feeling. We cry because we are alive. We cry because we care.”

I don’t cry nearly as much anymore. When I do, thankfully it’s more likely to be from Joy.
When, if, you read my memoir, you’ll know that, as soon as the Sisters at St. Joseph School got me in their grip, I learned about the value of Prayer.

I began to pray almost every day for one thing: Death. I prayed during the long school bus ride in the morning, in between my fantasies and daydreaming. I prayed during morning prayer and afternoon prayer and the prayer before heading home. I prayed at night as I lay awake in my bed. I prayed for Death to come ASAP—but it never did. Year after year, my prayers went unanswered.

Then I left home for college at age 18, and I stopped praying for Death. At that point, I discovered a totally different version of Life and was ready to embrace it. I prayed for Life.

I don’t pray much anymore. I guess I feel that what’s done is done.

Dirt Paths

I had a dirt path epiphany this week. A grounding, as it were.

We moved to this mostly paved, though very rural, island nine months ago. Previously, we lived an isolated 45-miles-from-a-decent-grocery-store, dirt road lifestyle on a lake in the Ozarks.

Now that we’ve been here for nine months, a period equal to full term human gestation, I’ve come to  realize that I’ve been missing a critical element in my personal human needs. After nine months “in island utero” I found that I was getting downright snappish.

It wasn’t the isolation from the mainland. I like the fact that we’re an island of mostly kindred spirits with a population kept reasonably low by the lack of a bridge.

It wasn’t for lack of solitude. I replenish my need for reflection with long solo walks on the beach almost daily.

It wasn’t for lack of physical activity. Yoga and aqua aerobics give me more of that than I’ve had in the past twenty years. Or, even human contact. I’ve met a few people, but this isn’t about human connection. That’s another story altogether.

I entered the island forest last week, looking for a change from the beach. I hadn’t walked in the forest since April. As I headed into the woods, I remembered that, once inside, all sound of the outside world is masked in silence.

I could hear leaves falling and the flutter of wings. I could feel my heart rustling and swelling and, believe me, it’s been a long while since I’ve felt my heart rustling and swelling.

With each footstep deeper into the forest, I found myself fondling the tender spot that resides deep inside my psyche. I was surrounded by an atmosphere of hypersensitivity.

Even my dog, Lily, seemed to get it. She bounced along beside me, both of us practically floating. Rich humus absorbed our steps, decades of soft organic soil. No echoes. No distractions. Just absorption.

Connection to the earth is not to be underestimated. Farmers know this. Gardeners know this.

All I want to say is that feeling the earth, walking on it, lying down upon it, digging in it, kneeling low to the ground is restorative.

Since I had just finished a huge writing project this week, I returned to the forest the next day for more of the same. I was also able to head out to my garden this morning and devote three hours to the sweaty task of digging, pruning and weeding.

There in the garden I found myself experiencing more of the same grounding that I felt in the forest—and that led to this blog post. If you’ve read this far, perhaps you’ll forgive me this brief bit of touchy-feeling. I needed to remind myself of the value of a true earth connection.

“Of all the paths you take in life, make sure some of them are dirt.” John Muir

John Muir dirt paths