Books Books and More Books

Piles of books teeter beside my chair where I watch the birds and sip my morning latte and then sit for afternoon tea.  More are beside my bed, while my shelves hold volumes.  Books are in my purse and in the car. It feels good to be able to read again, since my concentration has improved.  There was a time when I grew anxious about ever being able to read more than a Facebook post. For a short time I viewed myself as a fraud;I'm a reading teacher for goodness sakes who couldn't read more than a few sentences at a time. Thankfully, now I am reading and I am writing.  My concentration is improving. Relieved, I can authentically talk about my struggles with my students.  It gently reminds me just how much of the brain is robbed from chronic stress. I hope that this experience makes me a better teacher and human being.

Being Bold

Despite our best efforts, each Sunday we were habitually late.  The few Sundays my family managed to go out the door with time to spare, we would become caught on the wrong side of a railroad crossing counting the hundred or so cargo cars itching for the caboose to pass. Despite the fact that mass had already begun, my mother would prance down the middle aisle insisting that we all slide into the front pew to the left of the altar.  My mother was bold.  Being bold was just practice for defending what is right and just in this world.  We were all to meet our share of injustice, but it was my brother who was particularly susceptible to attract the cruelty of others.  

The very first time I was aware of this injustice toward my brother was a Sunday morning that we were late to church.  My mother waved her arms to hurry us along and we all moved as fast as we could in our Sunday finary.  (My brother having Cerebral Palsy has a functional gait that looks quite a bit different than average.  In order to walk, he engages his whole body to thrust each leg forward.) I noticed a group of two or three kids snickering and pointing at my brother while one of them mimicked his movements.  My mother held my hand a bit tighter and grew  taller as she raised her chin, keeping her gaze forward. We all moved in closer to each other.  I swallowed hard and blinked through the tears.  There are different ways to be bold.

My brother never complains.  He has never considers himself a victim, but since that Sunday morning so long ago, I have appointed myself his protector.  The other night while dining at one of his favorite restaurants, he told of how the former host of the restaurant would mimic his gait and laugh at the way he walked.  As my sister shared this with me tonight, I suddenly became ill-sickened by how cruel people can be. I cried wondering how often this happens to my brother.  There are different ways to be bold.    

Happy

                                                     -Barbara Keene (Graphite, Watercolors) 3/17/14

Why do I do it?  I wonder as I push the tiny brush around the paper.   I have no formal training. The results are not always pleasing either.    Holding a paint brush, a graphite pencil or a ballpoint pen to paper does something to me emotionally.  I am happy.

Against darkness I push the heavy carved wooden doors opening to sunshine.  The outside seems all the more brighter compared to the dark, solemn corners of the church.  Parishioners stream out and onto the granite steps squeezing passed me, some making gentle contact. Suddenly the humming that vibrates within turns into song. Church is over.  I am singing and I don’t care who hears me.  Adults mingled in small groups down the steps and onto the large area leading to the curb.  Small children shrieked while they raced playing tag, running in and out of the crowd. If only I could sing.  Always. Forever.

In my decades on this earth, there have been periods of my life which have been disappointing and have filled me with anguish and sorrow.  Emotions have weighed me down and kept me there.

As I push the paint brush and pigment along the paper, I think of Sundays when I sang.  Actively creating keeps me alive.    It is the process, not the final product that makes the difference.  I don’t sing much anymore, my voice cracks, idle.  Mostly, writing has become my song and sometimes, I drag out the sketchbook and find myself deep in the creative process.  Humming-a song comes to mind and I elevate to song and find myself happy.

Listening

I slammed the door behind me.  Cell?  Keys? Debit card?  List? Everything I need.  Let's go.  All morning was spent catching up on course work with lots of reading and writing.  Had I cut it too close?  Someone has told me that passing through doorways activates the brain.  Barely out the door, I felt a nudging.  Camera.  Bring it.  Pressed for time, I opened the car door.  Go get the camera. ( I must admit that my iphone has been my go to camera for convenience slipping into my pocket or purse.)  Slipping through the ice, I raced back into the house, switched the to the big zoom lens (for some reason) and was barreling down the driveway onto the grocery store.  Cake, frosting, salsa, guacamole, cheese plate, pork pot sticker, cranberry teriyaki sauce.  I had so much to do before guests arrived at six.  Turning onto busy Route 3 from the rural Crooked Road my eyes behold a sight that I never tire.  Our quaint little cove with rocks chiseled, edges sharp and angular.  It's mid-tide.  A car catches my eye on the edge of the road. A photographer in gear has lens poised for capture.  My eyes dart to the water.  An eagle swoops close to the water wing tips threaten the calm water when suddenly the bird elevates and begins the dance over and over again. My camera, yes the one I almost didn't bring snaps over and over in maybe a three minute period.   Following the show, the lone eagle flies toward hotel property near the threat of human contact.    Soon on one branch sits two regal birds just doing what eagles do and it takes my breath away.  I am so glad I listened.

Hanging on Tight

Some days I struggle.  Honestly, maybe it is most days.  Growing up Catholic in an Irish Catholic parish surrounded  by nuns, priests and a grandmother who anointed her sore knees with holy water each day, living was easy.  Each Sunday morning was spent in mass standing, kneeling and reciting a string of unknown Latin words in chorus.  The moves and lyrics a predetermine orchestration of mindless habit at least for some.  Often a trio of men in charge of the church,  there would be one appointed to stand at the pulpit booming  inspiration to sustain the congregation for the entire week.  Those who stumbled and failed to live by the standards of the church were absolved of sin through confession with a quick sign of the cross and a string of Hail Marys and Our Fathers.   I wonder who I would be without this identity.  The innocence of childhood made it easy to exist under these conditions for this is all I knew.

As an adult, I am responsible. Often times, I do not think that I should be.  Life can be confusing.  Life can be hard.  I struggle to be the person I want to be.  Each day I wake up, I think it will be different, but it isn’t.  This is the day that I make good healthy choices.  No junk. Water.  Maybe a walk and I will sit quietly.  I will pray and meditate.  This may sound self-centered and maybe even short-sighted.  It is not enough for me to conduct myself in a manner that is considered to be kind and loving toward others.  Everything just feels a bit hollow. Do I hang onto the fear of failure and rejection? I need not always be a victim.

As we approach the advent of spring, a symbol of renewal, I pray that I will come to a new place of acceptance and patience for myself and others.  I want to let go of this struggle and write a new story filled with hope for myself, my family and all humankind.  Somehow I think there is a spiritual solution to all this.  I just hope I latch onto something soon and hang on tight.

It's Not Working

I’m guilty.  Not long ago, I was able to care for three babies younger than two years old and chase after their active big brother who was seven.  Crazy times meant that I learned to multi-task.  The simplest outing required some pre-planning using imagery techniques to help prepare  the sequence of events necessary to pull off a trip to the lake, a visit to the doctor or a dash into the grocery store.   I  worked full time out of the house.  ran a bed and breakfast with my husband, and cooked, cleaned and chased kids.  My feat rivaled super-human possibilities. Multi-tasking became a required survival strategy.  

As the children grew older and more independent, multi-tasking allowed me to still do more in less time.  I often misplaced my keys, non-food items ended up in the deep freeze and  frantic, desperate phone calls were regularly made to my mother.  Fortunately, she was well trained in soothing stress. anxiety and cooed gently, “Some days are like that.”  This implied that she too had her moments, but I was never really sure her life was ever as crazy as mine was at the time.

Now that I am older and maybe a little wiser, I fall victim to multi-tasking. At times, I forget that I have finished eating and look for the last few forkfuls on my plate.  My keys still regularly disappear and are often found in a pocket that I have checked numerous times. I am a well-practiced multi-tasker who finds it hard to break out of it.  You see I catch myself racing, thinking about dinner when I am reading a book or remembering I have to pick up one of my kids for an appointment while I am at Hannaford shopping for dinner.  I race here and I race there.  Luckily,   I never forget to use polite words, although I don’t always take the time to make eye contact and smile.  Fumbling with the receipt and credit card  as I fight for a order in my overflowing purse, I am out the sliding doors ready for the next few moments.  I’m already in the car and racing to my next event.

Anyone else forget to breathe?  Yes, I am embarrassed and yes I am guilty.  Practicing mindfulness and moving about in this world with intention is what may save us all.  It takes only a minute to connect with another human through eye contact and a genuine smile.  Our urgency for getting it all in is doing all of us a disservice. The benefits of multi-tasking are over-rated.

Realizing Potential

This post  may appear to be all about writers and the challenges that they meet, yet it conceivably  appeal to any individual who is trying to capitalize on their full potential whether they be an athlete, a mechanic, a fashion designer or a doctor.  Love what you do and work at it. (I am not sure why the formatting is off and I cannot seem to fix it.  I hope the short lines will not detract from the message.)

I have an inferiority complex that may very well destroy me. My perception of myself changes

daily depending upon how firmly my feet land on the floor as I get out of bed. And with that, I rise

as an over analyzer, forever questioning myself and the world about me. Good mother? Bad

mother? Spiritual being? Imposter? Writer or not?

A few months ago, life happened and I stopped writing and ceased posting to my blog after nine

months of daily writing and posting. Just like that. I stopped. I became consumed in nursing my

son to health after major surgery and supporting another as he transitioned to another state, far

away from us for the first time in ten years. Kids are resilient, I think it was me that did all the

shuffling and adjusting.

One month turned to two months. I became restless, edgy and a bit frightened. Would I ever be

able to regain my stance as a writer and a blogger? Is writing a phase that holds no passion or

gusto in my life? Who the hell am I and what do I really want in life?

A month into a university course on writing and mentoring writers, I still sputter and write with

many false starts. The online community has not motivated me to consistently create. Right

now the writing mentor, needs inspiration. So, I turn to a classic collection of essays on writing,

that is Bradbury’s Zen†in†the†Art†of†Writing†(1996.) Desperately, I seek a lasting fire that will burn

away all doubts. Tall order? Yes.

Bradbury reminds that a writer needs to love the work. Passion, love and fun fuel the flame. So I

question: Do I hold passion in my writing life? The answer is not always. Will the passion, love

and fun come with the discipline that is necessary to write volume daily? Am I destined to write

short little posts and sometimes a few verses of poetry? Does fear hold me back from my

potential? Bradbury suggests, “Writing at least a 1,000 words daily.” (p.15) My lack of discipline

is evident in my failed attempts to maintain weight loss, exercise and write everyday. Is that a

fair comparison? I think so. Writing does sustain me. It feeds my creative self and gives me a

voice. Do I have it in me to care for myself my physical, emotional and creative self? That is a

hard one. I struggle as I busy myself taking care of others. But Bradbury, the mentor states, “To

fail is to give up.” (p.146) I cannot give up. Most importantly he notes, “(Writing) reminds us that

we are alive and that it is a gift and a privilege, not a right.” (p. xii) I mustn’t screw it up.

One technique that worked for Bradbury was to simply start the day with a list of nouns that

came to mind. From this he chose one and wrote at length. He seemed to have an incredible

memory, but mine is shaky at best. I wonder if this unearthing of memories came from the

discipline of writing volume each day? He discovered while questioning his worth, “...thinking

myself bankrupt, ignorant, unnoticing, I wind up with….plays, essays, poems, and a novel…I was

rich and didn’t know it. We all are rich and ignore the buried fact of accumulated wisdom.” He

adds, “We never sit anything out.” (p. 120) Further, “Quickness is truth. The faster you blurt, the

more swiftly you write, the more honest you are.” (p.13) Bradbury believes that, “eventually

quantity will make for quality.” (p. 144)

To feed the muse, Bradbury emphasizes that, “...we must have always been hungry about life.”

There is that passion, that love that zest that will feed the writer. Can I sustain a hunger a

passion? I think so. Synthesizing the wisdom that Bradbury shares with what I have come to

discover about myself is that the key to my writing life is to continue to keep a Gratitude Journal.

This is a repository of snippets of tastes, sights, sounds and memories in my life that may

otherwise go unnoticed. I am simply recording my passion, my hunger for my life, my world. It

is when I go about my day with my eyes opened to the blessings that I have in my life, that I can

notice the hunger I have for my story, my unique take on the world. Bradbury outlines the

importance of: WORK (daily volume writing, subsequent drafting), RELAXATION (trusting the

creative flow) and DON’T THINK (just do, write swiftly, blurt thoughts onto the page.)

Interestingly, Bradbury grew as a writer throughout his career with the help of many mentors. He

makes mention all through the book about how particular publishers, editors and others helped to

shape the future of his writing life by recognizing the potentiality in Bradbury in ways other than

how he defined himself. For instance, he never saw himself as a playwright, but became one

with encouragement from another. No matter how seasoned a writer you are, it is nearly

impossible to venture forth without the clear vision of another. Everyone must move about this

world with mentors.

“It is a wise writer who knows his own subconscious...not only knows it but lets it speak of the

world as it and it alone has sensed it and shaped it to its own truth.” (p. 152) Do I have the

courage to feed my truth? Time will tell.

Freely

Squeezed dry

Sadness remains

Where hope

Once was,

This heart

Has no

Regrets.

It has given

Freely.

Up, Out and Move

I need to forget where I take shelter being a little too comfortable in my reclining chair day after day upon returning home from work.  Here I read, socialize and most sadly this is where I eat.  Thinking about how to improve my health are first steps, written plans and action being the next phase.

There is a restlessness I feel. Uncertain whether it is the change of season or the fact that this time of year always seems to unearth projects like knitting, freshening up the interior of the house or tackling stacks of books or writing that novel.  I become a tad anxious and overwhelmed, but immersion in nature, I believe will stimulate self-truth, upright the ship for a voyage to face whatever lies ahead in this journey.

Innately, I feel like running out into the wilderness of my backyard,  touching every living surface  particularly noting the sights, smells and feeling of nature.  I wish to see the light of the sun through the paper thin bark of a white birch, the loose end unwrapped and flapping softly to mark a passing breeze.  I wish to feel the cold under my bare feet as I race on a whim to the garden where the towering sunflower skeletons, hollowed and lifeless stand ready to catch the snow with petals shriveled and the color of creamy coffee.  This is not the way one writer should experience life-sedentary from the arm of a chair, living life vicariously.   I need to get up, out and move.

Discipline and Moderation

At one point in my life, I prayed, meditated and did yoga everyday. Recently, I have given renewed attention to my spirituality and I honestly crave meditation. yoga and long walks in the woods which I find to be meditative.  When I review how I have spent my time each day, I am embarrassed. 

I must  evaluate the quality and need for the activities that eat up my time.  Prayer, work, eating (all necessary), writing, reading and photography (also necessary) and then there's social networking.  Do I have the discipline it takes to moderate this activity?  I have made those promises to myself before, only to be sucked into the vortex emerging hours later with little accomplished.  We got rid of cable TV because it did not contribute to my well-being or the well-being of my family.  For the most part, I have  replaced the nearly mindless chatter of the tube for the highly dysfunctional world of Facebook where dirty laundry is aired, people bash one another with no remorse and proper grammar is entirely ignored.  Why, oh why do I not have better regard for how I spend my time? It is all about discipline, isn't it? Moderation in all things.

Through the Brambles

                                                                       

Lately, I have been thinking about how I handle stress, disappointment and life's surprises-of which I have had many.  Grit?  It is always a question as to how much I have.  It seems that I have more when I have accessed my resources and supports than when my reserves for "curve balls" has been depleted by lack of self-attention.  It has long been my contention that not only do the daily habits of a spiritual being like praying, meditating and engaging in kindnesses support each soul, but for me, creative pursuits contribute greatly to my well-being.  That is why I write.  It sounds corny, but it feeds my soul.

Writing for the purpose of posting to my blog has become a habit.  The hard part is working on other writing projects that require long term effort, persistence and facing the fact that I don't always know what I am doing as I tread on new territory.  My motivation for my current project is to honor a strong woman who became my dear friend, an unlikely pairing. Part of what thwarts me is the fear that my words will not do her justice.  Part of my fear is that my memory of her remains unclear, foggy. When I think of this project there is a mix of excitement, apprehension and pure fear.  It is easier to think plenty about this project than to plunge ahead and give it a go.  I am hopeful that with all my supports at the ready and by creating a plan for persistent effort, I will find my way through the brambles.

The Nature of Things

This morning, every flat surface in the house seemed to have a teenage boy snuggled under a blanket.  What a wondrous way to wake, so we set about to make them all feel at home.  Pounds and pounds of bacon sizzled in the pan sending a lingering wake-up smell in the house and a waffle recipe that multiplied by five times for all these extra mouths, plus the adult children and significant others who normally join us each Sunday.  The house was filled with food and people.

It was cold and drizzly and some folks in the state woke to snow.  My trusty Sue-Baru would get us to Bangor (running some errands) and then to the Augusta area to visit with my dear aunt.  This trip was long over-do and I was able to catch up on the welfare of all my cousins who have been lost in the decades of adulthood.  Photos along with my aunt's commentary provided me with a glimpse of their lives with children and grandchildren since my younger wild days of chasing my boy cousins for hugs and kisses.

Later in the afternoon, as I sat on a bench in the middle of a large square room (facing what I thought at first was a self-portrait taken with a camera), I was in awe that this piece of art that was two stories tall was in fact a tapestry.  My daughter, who is an artist told me that this particular artist is confined to a wheelchair and has designed a lift to hoist himself up to meet eye to eye with the line he is working on.  Such tedious work. It puts a ridiculous touch on my little self portrait project and my hesitation to share art depicting myself.

Today after the visit with my aunt and a brief stop at Colby College's Museum of Art, I realize that my life is full of possibilities: the human connection spawning love and the divine connection unfurling creativity and love.    I sometimes fail to recognize these.   Both experiences were of a Divine nature.  Love and creativity.  'Can't miss.

The Return

Your return
Makes
The old
Wounds
New,
Fresh.
I run,
But
Cannot
Hide,
I am meant
To
Love
You.
It hurts.

Acceptance Is the Lesson

It sounded like a shot. My eyes quickly scanned the expanse of glass before me.  I saw nothing, yet I knew it was only a matter of change time and a change in temperature to discover the damage.  Thirty minutes later, there were two small hairline cracks.  

Timing is everything.  If I hadn't been on the road at that moment.  If that car that passed me hadn't decided to take the same road at that exact time.  If I had gotten the car inspected last week....

I remember that many things happen that are out of our control. Acceptance is the lesson here.  It was just one of those unfortunate series of events. It isn't even winter yet, when the sand trucks leave boulder sized sand grains on the road.  Perhaps this does not bode well for my Sue-Baru and her new owner-me!

Loving Through Images

Thumbing through stacks of photos while visiting my childhood home recently, reminded me just how important it is to preserve and treasure family history through images.  I found images of my father as a pudgy five year old in knickers with a pageboy haircut. In another photo my mother at about the same age, smiles in the direction of the camera the blue of her eyes lost in the black and white processing.  There were decks of newer photos too.  My mother was the photographer,  that is when she remembered the camera. She captured mostly holidays or special occasions.  The composition of all her her photos were problematic, the subjects rested on the bottom eighth of the photo showing the tops of heads, while most of the square print was wall and ceiling.  Standing in the middle of my old bedroom, holding the image of Auntie and Gene with their smiles running off the edge of the photo made me smile. Suddenly, I recalled that despite protests (my mother painstakingly took forever to snap a "bad" photo) she continued to be the family photographer.  When I was old enough, I  wrangled the camera from her. From then on I was absent from family photos.

I have a friend that takes self-portraits almost daily.  I stare her image. How does she do that? I couldn't. I thought. She holds all that she has become until that moment in the image. All the joys, the lessons and the pain.  I realize for the most part, I remain absent from photographs.  Although said to be photogenic, I do not like to like to have my photo taken.  Hyper-critical, whenever I am forced to be in front of a lens I hide behind the torso of another and peek. Just little bits of me show.

What would happen if I began the practice of a self portrait a day?  Would I come to discover the light within and learn to accept myself as I am?  Does how I look really have much to do with all the "inside" work?  I could learn to love.

One day my daughters may discover the series of self-portraits and hold them tightly and view them as gifts to be treasured.

Running on the Edge

Always running on the edge of time each morning, I glanced at the clock in the car. "'Enough time  for a photo?" I wondered.  Today, I slowed the car to a halt yanked on the emergency break, quickly pulled  the cell out of my pocket and captured the sunrise photo that had momentarily caught my breath.   A short distance down the road passing Northeast creek, I contemplated another stop.  Engaging with the natural world as I careened along asphalt roads and cars comprised mostly of plastic, makes for a series of difficult decisions during my fifteen minute commute particularly in the morning when I am bound by the clock.   Does time contribute to the order of the world?

Mothering Big

A decade ago, I made one of those death bed promises that I don't regret, "I'll take care of him, don't worry Ma,"I reassured as I referred to my brother choking back tears.   My mother had always taken care of all of us.  Despite the miles that separated as I grew into adulthood, I knew that she was only a phone call away.  She was there during my most troubled years as a young wife with young children and two full time jobs.  I worked day and night with little sleep or rest.  During periods of great joy mother was there to celebrate births, little dimpled hands wrapping around her gnarled fingers as she rocked and cooed.  She had a great capacity for love. She was always there for me.

For nearly thirty-two years I have mothered.  When life is care-free it is easy to remain filled with love, hope and great joy.  It is during those times when you fear that you will fall to your knees collapsing under the weight of stress, anxiety, frustration and anger that living in the shadow of the most perfect mother becomes challenging.  

It is not fair to compare myself with my mother really.  We live in a different time. Parenting feels a bit more challenging than when I was a kid.  I rode my bike everywhere, the phone was connected to the wall and I could not go far in having a private conversation.  Life today seems more complex and tenuous.  Is that only because I am an adult and a responsible one?  Mothering is a complex job.  Certainly not for the faint of heart.

After my work is done on this earth, it is my fervent hope that  my children will look after one another.  It is in the act of mothering that our children begin to make connections for how they can move about the world nurturing in big ways.

 

care

Most of the time, I am absent from the moment-thinking ahead to the next hour, the next day, the next month.  A flurry of should's and a long list of do's. I know what I need to do.  I must force myself to write a contract and and stick to a few basic goals for health and balance:  Pray and meditate.  Drink water.  Walk.  Eat in moderation and think long and hard before a morsel passes my lips.  Pretty simple, huh?  Then why do I find it so blasted difficult to do?  The great procrastinator is at work.  More than half-way to one-hundred in years, time is apt to run out for me.  You'd think I'd have this self-care stuff figured out.

When I was five years old, it didn't take but a gold star stuck between my eyes to alert the whole neighborhood that my day in school was worthy of rejoicing.  It still takes so little to motivate me even in my mature years.

Herein lies the problem.  Like every other mother from here to Kalamazoo, I busy myself taking care of others.  Now, I know how to do that!

Untitled

The soil must be pure and fertile to give life.
Clinging to what is solid and true,
The vine has endured tests,
Through constancy of spirit,
It lives,
Despite itself.

"A Woman's Place"

We live in a culture of unspoken rules.  There is a set of expectations that define a woman and  a mother.  Cultural standards may contribute to order and the wellbeing of society, but the rules are often confusing and limiting.  I was talking to a friend who admitted to struggling emotionally, physically, spiritually and financially.  Ordinarily, a very private person, earlier in the day she opened up to a mutual friend who from our perspective is “well put together” and executes life with ease.  Outward appearances do not tell the inner truth.  Why do women seem so hesitant to unite and support each other in common struggles?   The rules are clear, but do not ultimately serve a purpose.  For instance, women are to think of others at all times and take care of themselves last. Driven by guilt, for years I put myself last.  It didn't work and resulted in extra stress, extra weight and a few more medical bills.  Taking care of myself does not come naturally, I have to work at it, yet it gives me the positive energy to ultimately fulfill my responsibilities of caring for others in my roles as mother and teacher. One day self care will be legitimized and society will celebrate the efforts of ordinary women. It will become the expectation of womanhood, as natural as the pull of the tides.