an encouragement to writers (I think)

I get into these moods where I suddenly think that I don’t need sleep because my life should be spent reading and writing and learning instead of sitting idle in bed. I guess it’s more of a season than a mood because it lasts a bit longer and tends to happen after Daylight Savings, when the days get just little longer, and I start to think that I can be everything at once.

I’ll come home from work and explore the outside world: walking the dog, going to the park, watching the dusk, sitting on the rocks watching the shore. And when I come in, I suddenly find that I have a whole evening to spend as I please—read, write, & repeat.

Somehow, I constantly seem to be simultaneously reading 5-8 books at a time. I keep, well, multiple books of poetry on my nightstand as well as a solid novel to trudge through a little at a time. My purse has a Kindle plus a paperback, always. Literary journals are scattered over my apartment—on the windowsill, on the back of the toilet, on the tv stand. As are Bibles. And journals, notebooks, and Post-Its. This sounds very scattered, but I like to think it’s an organized chaos such that a visitor wouldn’t notice how frantic my attempts at intellectuality really are.

The most clutter at my apartment is on my bookshelves, and I like it that way. They are overflowing, yet I never seem to have enough. It’s like how they say when you pull out one hair, three more grow in its place—when I read one book, well, you can finish the rest. Sometimes I scan the shelves for the books I haven’t read and I wonder if I will get to read them all in my life. I think of my Grandpap, who has read all of his books, many multiple times through. I hope I can do the same, though I don’t think I’ll ever catch up. I’m still not through the Classics let alone reading books from present-day.

Then there’s writing. If I spend all of my time reading, when will I write? When will I do things to write about? It’s a very amusing circuit of constant discomfort: not reading enough, not writing enough, not living enough.

I do believe this to simply be the nature of the writer’s life: nothing satisfies. Even when we think it does, like having time to write, the words are all wrong, and we feel just as unsatisfied as if we hadn’t written at all.

I used to be single-minded: one book at a time, one poem at a time, one post at a time. Now I find that I am reading more than I can comprehend, writing such random things that I have half-poems and lost paragraphs in scattered documents on my computer’s desktop (just tonight I’ve started and not nearly made sense of three different pieces), random notes on my phone, computer, and Post-Its that haven’t made it to my notebook, and I am wondering why I ever thought I needed sleep to begin with.

There came a time last summer when I decided 5 hours of sleep was plenty for a young woman. I created a pattern of what I would read when and what I would write when. I actually woke up at 5am to read the Bible then force myself into poetry. I was coming out of a long season of not writing a single poem for months on end, and I was desperate to write something. Since winter, I’ve become a bit of a bear, soaking in all the sleep I can with the long dark nights; summer leaves no excuse for sleep.

I do this a lot—force myself into patterns that I pray will become daily rituals but usually whither after a few months. I suppose I’m doing so now with my new-found motivation, but I will always pray that the muses would keep me company even when I don’t feel like thinking let alone putting thought to paper.

Just now, I turned to stare at my bookshelf as I waited for the next sentence, actually more like wondering why I am even writing these (I guess I’m documenting these words as encouragement for when this season ends or returns; I’ll need reminded.)  My bookshelves say: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, no, yes, yes, yes, no, no, yes…tallying which books I’ve read vs. haven’t. I do this frequently. When I finally decided to “invest” in a second bookshelf, I told my then-roommate that I thought I had finally reached a point where the number of books on my shelf I had read out numbered those I hadn’t. Time for more books, I thought. Got to keep the balance in-flux.

The funny thing is, there are some books I have that I can’t imagine ever reading, but they have sentimental value, and who knows? Maybe someday I will. Like No Latitude for Error by Sir Edmond Hilary. As a sprouting teen, I thought I would, but now I realize that I simply hold onto it because it is the only book I have autographed (I despise autographed things), but this one is different because: 1) of Hilary’s accomplishments 2) because the book was my dad’s dad’s and then my dad’s and now mine. It has its own lineage and lives on the same shelves it has for many years now, shelves my dad built when he was in high school.

I guess it’s all a bit of idolatry. Sometimes I ponder the point of learning if we all end up in the ground anyways. A bit morbid, I know, but with how easy it has become to publish your own books and send them off for no one to read makes me uneasy. Like anyone is a writer now just because they can get published. Not that I don’t think anyone could be a writer. I just think there is a distinction between a writer and an author, and people desperate to get published get those confused and rush into becoming a title on a shelf instead of an impact in the hearts and minds of readers. (At Barnes & Noble, the cashier asked me to sign the receipt; I told him I’d rather be signing a book; he asked if I was an author. No, I said, I’m a writer.) And the people who confuse the two and skip straight to author try to escape what I’m going through right now—the ebbing seasons of the writer’s life: the hypnotic chaos of feeling inadequate, then motivated; accomplished, then purposeless.

An artist does not choose this—it is simply in his blood, his being, his life and work. There is no joy without it and limited joy with it. But there is hope.

Adventures in Photos and Phoetry & too much alliteration

I.

It only makes sense that it would rain the whole way back to Seattle.

The whole weekend was beautiful. Warm sun, enough to shade my shoulders pink, reflected cartoon-vibrant color all over.

II.

Of course, it didn’t start that way. It started with a canopy of mist, with fog hanging between the trees like the morning’s ghost as Pickle and me drove through central Oregon around 6am.

III.

And we were on the road.

Open.

Nearly empty.

Ours.

South.

Landscaped whirred, a mile a minute.

We faced the wind.

IV.

For fifteen hours, we drove and drove to match the sun, watching it like a rainbow, arced above our heads.

But the closest we saw, were spurts of leftover color in the sky.

V.

Road-trippin’

the way it should be

Hour after hour

asleep

at the wheel

Taking a new route,

my navigator

failed

VI.

But we made it.

Two sisters

swam in a river

in Saturday’s sun

and the beginning

of summer’s warm

rock beds and air

dry curls.

And meeting

for the first time

VII.

Tent-sleeping

is always warm

when you have a scarf

named Pickle,

but waking up,

choking

under her weight

is almost worth the cold.

VIII.

Home isn’t so far

when every turn

could be East

or West

at the same time.

It is Appalachia

only taller.

IX.

Are we there yet?

She’s a stud.

X.

And just like that,

we’re back to the streets,

the city

sidewalks

sprinkled

with evening rain.

god particle

What if we
were just one atom
of god?

What if
the godparticle
was in each of us

all
because we
are the protons and
neutrons

bouncing around the nucleus
of god?

Nothing truly touches.
There is no such thing
as time.

We are all sparking
aimlessly
to keep god

alive. Because
life is not a condition
but the motion

of matter so close
that we cannot see
between

the molecules--
the kissing spark
of electron,

creating what we know
as skin
and
sky
and
space

that extends
with these planets,
scattered, small sources
of light

that reflects
off our bodies
like internal moons

--the sparks,
the light
within

to brighten the whole.

Thinking About Contentment In Creativity

A big personal goal for this new year is to be content.

From Wikipedia: "Contentment is 'acknowledgement and satisfaction of reaching capacity'"

One of my favorite parts about college was the opportunity to do everything that I loved all at once. I got to write and make art and lead. Of course, beneath each of those is a series of sub-groups.

Write:

• Poems
• Essays
• Long nonfiction
• Blogs
• Journals

Art:

• Paint: acrylic & watercolor
• Sketch: charcoal & pencil
• Throw Clay
• Knit
• Play guitar & bass
• Sing

Lead:

• Organize
• Schedule
• Manage

My new job takes care of leadership quite easily. My current role is a project manager: it's really my thing--a quality that I've always seen as a bit of a contrast to my want for creativity (though my personal vision of creativity is quite structured as well). I love to gather ideas and make them happen. Sure, I get some art and some writing at work: visual acuity is a must in PowerPoint (which is actually really fun) and I write a lot of technical stuff (emails, slides, notes, etc.), but none of that fully satisfies my thirst to create.

I can't quite figure out what it was about college that made the days feel longer. I could accomplish so much it seemed. I could go to bed at 11 or 12 and sleep in until 9 and still have enough time in the day to go to class, read like mad, write, do homework, and on and on down the list. 

As it is, I seem to spend every moment engaged in activity. I read on the bus commute to work. I have focused work all day (which passes so quickly; I think the second-hand is broken). I read on the commute home. When I get home, I sift through a variety of options. During the winter/holiday knitting season, I spent much time on that. 

It all just comes in waves: sometimes I'll feel really musical and learn several new songs for guitar, but then I might not play again for a week or two. 

Sometimes I'll just want to be outside and go hiking and not be able to sit in my room with a book. 

Sometimes, I can't do anything until I paint--it might even be a part of a painting, just enough to get through the surge. 

Sometimes I can't even sleep until I write.

I've learned that all of these things brew. I may not do a painting for several months, but during that absence of the act, I think about it in the back of my mind; I mentally paint the same thing over and over until it finally pushes out onto paper or canvas. I write constantly in my mind, but such a small percentage makes it to the page. It's all very fluid.

It's great; it's really great. I feel super blessed to have such wide-spread interests and activities that I whole-heartedly enjoy, to have such a lifestyle that can support these things. I do not know the meaning of "boredom."

Nevertheless, it's so frustrating. I want to do everything at once, be everywhere at once. The result: I dabble into pieces of everything in small quantities. My writing life has suffered because I have wanted to knit. My music has suffered because I've wanted to read. It all swirls in a pitcher of creativity. When you pour a glass, you never know what you'll get.

The glass is full. The flavors are luscious. 

I am constantly in fear that what I do is not enough. Nothing ever seems enough to let me be content. I don't know who I'm trying to please. I just want to feel full and happy and be satisfied with the life I have chosen. I feel so submerged in that right now that it makes me worried that something terrible will come of it. Can such a general good feeling really exist?

I hope so. 

Laundry Day

I wrote myself an agenda of what needed done today: go to the bank, go to the AT&T store, go to the laundromat, dust my bedroom ('please/finally,' I had written), write a cover letter for a job. Guess how many of them got done. I went to the bank, but it was closed, and they got a new ATM that I couldn't figure out how to deposit in. I went to the AT&T store to ask about my lack of service at my apartment, and they just asked me to call customer service. As I was supposed to be driving to the laundromat, I changed my mind. I could see sky; I wasn't going to let that go to waste.

When I arrived at Discovery Park, the East Lot was full, so I went to the North Lot. I parked and pulled some warmer attire out of my laundry bag. I grabbed a map and started off, my muscles still sore from Thursday's football game, but it felt good to be moving and breathing the sharp air. 

I started at the Daybreak Star Indian Cultural Center. I walked around the building to this patio viewpoint of the Sound. Large bodies of water comfort me, and the clear sky felt like summer.

After twenty minutes of walking along a paved road, I found myself back in the parking lot and quite confused. The map is ridiculous to understand, yet I laughed at my mistake. What a goof. Soon enough, I found my trail entrance. 

Signs indicated that there would be water, including three "reflection" ponds. 

Small bridges led the way over the bog. I was surprised to find stairs too.

I am in love with the way that light teases the plants that live deeper in the woods.

And moss; I love moss.

Reflections are actually quite baffling. When the signs said "reflection" ponds, I immediately thought of Annie Dillard. I imagined myself going there to explore and mentally reflecting on my surroundings. Instead, I was amazed to find the world reflecting back at me, an upside down array of trees so smooth that it could be the real thing; has gravity fooled me? The picnic table rests on its own Platonic form. 

First world problems: I want to be a pack-light hiker & a photographer; therefore, good photos of ducks get sacrificed when the fixed 50mm lens & 10-22mm are chosen over the 55-200mm.

The biggest leaf I have ever seen. I thought these trees made me feel big because the Redwoods made me feel so small, so normal sized trees aren't so intimidating. Then I ran into this leaf. And as the light reveals, it's with-leaf-child. That or it's a cannibal leaf and ate a fellow leaf for lunch. 

And just like that, the light got stronger, trying to hold on to day as the dark sank into the soggy grasses.  It was only 3:45.

And South Beach pulled me: I cannot resist the sound of waves. I sat on a driftwood log and read selections from Poems for a Small Planet: Contemporary American Nature Poetry out loud to passersby. I'll share two that stood out to me today.

This is a Blessing, This is a Curse

No sound from the stone,

which is to say

that I am deaf at last.

I have prayed for this and then

regretted praying.

No voice from the depths

to rise like fish and leap

for my ear.

This is a blessing for my soul

that would not presume.

This is a curse for my heart

that needs to hear.

-Chard DeNiord

Painting It In

     (Remembering Lesley Parry)

Wake up at six o'clock. We're out to sea.

Nothing beyond that fence and slatted gate

but a grey wave and plume-like shapes that could be

flaws in the canvas or unmixed pigment in paint.

Stones, blurred poppies, a wheelbarrow full of grass

affirm a foreground. The world must exist out there.

People must be getting up and getting washed,

putting the kettle on, picking up a newspaper.

Somewhere it must matter terribly not to be late,

not to miss the limousine to the airport,

not to be missed when the finance committee votes,

when the training course commences, not be left out.

But somewhere is hard to believe when it's not invented, 

when the world blindly refused to admit detail.

All that's required is pastoral: sheep among stunted

rowans; for background, eroded 'Moelfre' or 'bald hill.'

The thing's been done so many times. Imagine

brushing the lichen's pearly quartz over the rocks,

now the shocking pink foxgloves, painting them in,

old fashioned belles de joie, drunk on their stalks.

What if today decides never to take off its veil,

never to palliate art with a grand show

of perspectives up the valley? More likely all we'll

get is light's first lesson, an application of gesso,

a whiteout of air--sweet, soft, indestructible,

the cloud of unknowing reluctant to create the known.

Hills, stones, sheep, trees are, as yet, impossible.

And when things are unmade, being also feels less alone.

-Anne Stevenson

When my eyes focused as I looked up, I realized that it was getting a little too dark, such that if I tarried any longer, it would be uncomfortably lacking light as I attempted to follow the confusing paths back to my car. As I started walking, a light rain began. I decided to put away my camera and put on my raincoat, just in case it started to get heavy. I sat my bookbag on the ground and bent over, putting away my lens and camera, and as I did I heard a clunk! 

I didn't think much of it; my phone had been in my pocket and had fallen many times, and as advertised, my iPhone has put up with a lot (I once accidentally threw it across a parking lot because I lost my grip while I was swinging my arms; it survived with only a barely noticeable scratch). I was just very glad that my camera was safely packed away. As I went to pick up the phone, I realized that the entire front was shattered. 

Somehow, it still works. The cracks are getting whiter and wider as the pressure of my tapping fingers tests the glass's durability in its fragile state. A small piece of glass stuck in my thumb as I sent a text message to my sister. I actually find it hilarious. It's a sign; it's absolutely a sign--I've been talking for months about how terrible my reliance on my iPhone is. Apparently, it doesn't like me either. The ironic part is that today, I went to the AT&T store to figure out how to improve service at my apartment. The woman called me this evening to do a "troubleshooting." Whether it failed because it's just impossible to get service here or because my phone is now a glass mosiac, I'm not sure, but the call still would not connect when she attempted to call afterwards. She left me one partial message that didn't get past hello and one long, irritated message that said "as I said in my previous message...". Listen, I'm not ignoring your call; I just cannot connect. 

As one of my favorite Weepies tunes goes, "I want to live a simple life." Maybe I'm closer to that; I spent the day in the woods and the waters' edge reading poetry and the one piece of technology that I so despise took a tumble. Coincidence? I think not. 

Needless to say, my bag of laundry still sits in my car and that job application is merely a thought. Maybe tomorrow.

The Raven and other thoughts

In the holiday spirit of Halloween, all I can think of is Edgar Allan Poe. He's really the reason that I ever took an interest in poetry. Well, actually, it's because my dad would read me Poe until I could read it myself. My first and favorite poem was "The Raven"; I was in first grade. I even memorized the first stanza or so. Anytime an opportunity came up with the "--or" sound, we would rhyme out loud, "Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore!'"

In the evenings, after elementary school and before I got into after-school activities like bowling and band and basketball, I would change in to my pajamas and curl my lanky limps on my dad's lap. Together, we read books like The Mad Scientist Club and The Yearling. I was a fast learner when it came to reading, and I have him to thank. We read most every night, as long as we were done before eight o'clock when Mom would watch "Wheel of Fortune" and we'd all race to solve the puzzles before the contestants. Some nights, we only got a few pages read, but it always felt like an accomplishment.

It especially felt that way because I was still just starting to read. We had a few kid's books but not many, save for an entire Dr. Seuss collection. They were fine, but I liked the books that Dad gave me. They suited us in some way. They seemed boyish, but I loved being a Daddy's girl. I would read aloud until I got to a word that I didn't know or couldn't pronounce, and Dad would help me out.

I just got a flash of the To Kill a Mockingbird film scene of Atticus and Scout reading together. How lovely. (Dad, you give Gregory Peck a run for his money!)

Photo from: http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3306404608/tt0056592

So "The Raven" was way up there on our reading list. I wonder if my dad ever got tired of hearing that same poem again and again. I just loved the rhymes and the stanzas and the eery feeling that I certainly didn't understand at six and seven years old.

Sometimes, even now, as I age into my twenties, I still sit on my dad's lap when we're at the table after dinner or at a holiday get-together. At first he always whines that I'm too big for that, but then he laughs and wraps his arms around me in a squeeze, saying, "Aw! My Daddy's girl!" We don't read together anymore because now, I do the writing.

Here is a link to 'The Raven' by Poe.

Oh, and my dad's birthday was October 30th! Happy birthday, Dad!