Respite

Basking in a bit of weekend respite.  Please come back on Monday to visit travelinma.  Happy weekend! I really appreciate all my dear readers and commenters.  It means a lot to me as I travel this road.

on the lookout

It takes two hours for a snowflake to fall from cloud to earth. Can't you just see its slow peaceful decent?-Amy Krouse Rosenthal

Reading this, I snapped the book closed, and without thought clasped my hands together as if in prayer and sighed.  The discovery of this miracle made me stop in wonderment.  Literally, it took my breath away. I stared into nothingness and felt the awe.  I mean I really felt it.  For some reason, I looked out the window.  On cue, (no joke) puffy snow flakes were lightly falling.  Air catching under each, the decent was slow and peaceful. Moments later it stopped.

Rosenthal writes about serendipity which she seems to equate with coincidence.  Serendipity woke me early having checked FB, a friend posted an article claiming that research shows eating chocolate cake for breakfast is good for the brain and for the waistline.  I was all over that.  Before sunrise and before I downed my first almond milk latte, I had fork-full by fork-full indulged in a wedge of leftover birthday cake.

serendipity
If you like something, you tend to be on the lookout for it.  And if you're on the lookout for it, you tend to find it, or it-Yoo-hoo! Over here!-finds you.  And so it goes, for me, with serendipity and coincidence.  It's something I like, so it's something I notice and attract. -Amy Krouse Rosenthal

This morning, serendipity found me, and I am over the moon excited for what might become today and tomorrow. I think of serendipity as miracles, however small.  Notice, attract, repeat. Notice, attract, repeat. I will be on the lookout, will you?

Preparing

These days it seems like we are perpetually preparing.  I guess it comes with age.  The deck needs replacing, a new roof here and there, and vegetables need to be harvested.  Yet it is not these tasks, but the life altering changes that challenge.  Conversations lately include phrases like, “When we retire…” Frankly, retirement is frightening to me.  Right now, I feel like I am vital to my workplace and am decades from being ready to retire  For over thirty years, I have devoted my life to education and defined myself as teacher. That is all I know.

Only recently have I expanded the definition of myself.  I am a daughter, sister, aunt, teacher, wife, mother. Now, with a bit of reluctance and hesitation I define myself as a creator; that is I am a photographer, writer and artist.  With the years have come the wisdom that springs from knowing that the essence of who I am is so much deeper and larger than merely my occupation. Cultivating my creative side has given me voice and purpose.

There are days when I wonder what I will do.  What will I do when the house is quiet with Jerry and I roaming through the house alone hearing the dog’s nails as they click on the hardwood floor.  We will eat, in silence. (A comfortable silence that comes with living with someone for most of your life.) Now our conversations are mostly about our children. We will have time to read the piles of books that have made their way into our house and not have to consciously schedule time to read amongst busy-ness. We will approach each day with a quiet that comes with retirement.  It will be alright.

While I roam the forest, I will be absorb energy that comes with captivating the wonder of the world; preserving the emotion and tone of the moment on film.  I will go home and the words that have been tumbling gently in my head will spill out on paper.   I will feel whole. Fulfilled that the days in preparation have been well spent; sifting through the years of responsibility to find the authenticity of who I really am and the essence of who I am meant to be.

The Creative Spirit

I wonder. How do I routinely embody the powers of collective creativity when alone?  For a few years now I have been cultivating my creative self through word and image while harnessing the energies of others when I have the opportunity.  Sometimes when I am alone, I have the mindset that I am alone.  Alone, struggling at times to faithfully put myself through the paces of writing something worthy.  Seems like I am knotted up a bit binding me tightly in twisted thinking.  Am I ever really alone?  Isn’t it through the pairing of the Divine and art that I have something going? And is it not the Divine that I am accessing when I create in the company of others?

There is a slight breeze that runs across my bare arms.  Shadows dance on the patio floor. My niece Erin nearby is sketching while I write and contemplate the creative spirit. This is a gift for which I am forever grateful.

Is it Different?

My mother at 43 gave birth to her last child.  My sister Bethany, a feisty sort even at three years old tested my mother’s common sense, at least from the perspective of others.   In the dead of winter with fingers stiff and numb, my mother regularly hung the clothes on the line.  One particularly cold day, she could not get in the house. Bethany had locked the door.  My mother became a negotiator on the frigid side of the door.  This was only one incident of many that helped fuel others’ perspective that having a baby in your 40’s and raising a child into your 50’s and 60’s is crazy stuff.  

At nearly 60 my youngest is 14. A daughter.  I am not so sure that I am approaching late age motherhood as gracefully as my mother did.  The world was different when my mother raised her last.  War was happening across the expanse of the earth.  Far away. News came days later via newsprint or through mail. Today the globe has shrunk.  Every little decision made has instantaneous repercussions.  The internet is a blessing and a curse.  Our lives are no longer private.  Boundaries are blurred. There is some real disfunction out there.  All these elements, in my mind, puts my daughter at risk.  Much of my brain space is spent in my desire to protect, which at times robs me from the joy of mothering.  

The mamas of today balance the wonders of the world with the dangers of the world.  Did my mother worry as much as I do? She made it look so easy and so much fun.

Faith

“Think of yourself as an incandescent power, illuminated and perhaps forever talked to by God and his messengers.” ― Brenda Ueland

When I came upon this quote today, it struck me so, that I read it over and over.  As a young kid, (wait who am I kidding) even as an adult, writing has not been easy. In 6th grade I wanted to write well.  Sitting at the small oak desk in my upstairs bedroom where it was quiet, I wrote a few words on a loose-leaf paper.  Dissatisfaction crumpled the paper into a tight ball and hurled it across the room.  This was repeated over and over until I collapsed in a heap of despair and anger. With gritted teeth, I tried again only to leave my room defeated, carrying a waste paper basket full of unwritten words.

Only recently have I been able to trust that the words will come. Faith is about the search for truths.  Isn’t writing about truth too?  No wonder art is worship.

my girl

Determination and grit:  the twin essentials of life. She has it. Today was my girl's last meet of her elementary career.  I am so grateful to the coaches who gently nurtured the athlete within with encouragement and acceptance.  I am so excited of the possibilities that come with high school.

A Balance

                                                                                                Summer Babies

Peering through the glass pane from inside, I just stared.  Six deer grazed in our field. A typical sight, yet for some reason I kept watching.  Three of them began to run this way and that chasing each other much like dogs would.  The rest had moved further from our house intent on feeding.  Looking up from play the trio raced toward the others munching.  Playfulness aside, the six did what you expect deer to do-they ate.  I had no notion that deer play since their very survival depends upon food, yet they wisely balanced work and play. A lesson for all.

Discovery

So perhaps we write toward what we will become from where we are. -May Sarton

I have often asked myself why I write. It sounds like a simple question, but it is not an easy one to answer.  Recently I read May Sarton’s, Journal of a Solitude and was taken by the above quote.  I think it gives a partial explanation of why I am driven to write.  A born perfectionist, I am awfully hard on myself. Self-centered or co-dependent I blame myself for more than is necessary.  Constantly I strive and reach for more.  The chatter in my head defines my next tasks to work on.  Exercise.  Meditation.  Yoga.  Positive persona.  Fake it….you’ll make it.  Too much.  Too fast.  I realize I am not that perfect mother, that perfect wife that I dreamed I would be.  I cry.  I complain. And I notice all the dust bunnies on the floor and I am too tired to bother.   Sometimes I write to escape, but mostly I write to understand.   Who am I and who will I become?

Promises

The wipers squeak intermittently shoving the snow and freezing rain to the side. Visibility is not bad, but the roads are considering the calendar will soon promise May flowers. By afternoon, the sun hangs in the cloudless blue sky. It remains cold.

On the ride home I think of tea.  Afternoon tea with soy and somedays a touch of honey. Comfort.

An empty house gives time to write.  The door opens to a set of wagging tails and kitties coming in and going out.  Rap music blares. Undaunted, I sit in my bedroom.  The sun streams in.   The wind gusts. I type words-whatever comes to mind.    I am not sure I like it.  Discipline is a requirement of this practice-as is letting go of control.  Yet, I continue to do it, with the hope that it is doing something, anything.   Everyday promises to include something worthy of our attention.  Today it is the act of delicately stringing words while I sip my tea.

it's all about timing

“It’s late,” my husband whispered, “We better get up.”

Forever and always, I have hated getting out of bed, especially in the dark.  This morning.  Dark.  Jerry crawls over me and out of bed.  Meanwhile, I pull up the comforter and settle in for at least fifteen more minutes of sleep, rest-I don’t know, I’ll take it.

Watching my husband pour our coffee, I have an odd sense.  The kids and felines of the house have internal clocks.  No kitty visits this morning and it is strangely quiet in the house.  “What time is it?” I ask as I put toothpaste on the brush.

“I screwed up,” my husband began, “it’s still early.” Knowing my possible reaction he continued, “It’s a good thing. Now we have all this time.”

I drag my now tired body out of the kitchen, feeling  lost in a battle between spring forward and fall back.  Burdened with the fact that I have just lost an hour sleep, I have all I can do not to slip back under the covers fully dressed with my shoes on.

Living

Just when did fear seep into my life?  Is it the normal condition of a reasonable adult? A young colleague of mine is planning a trip across the country.  By herself.  At one point I wanted to walk the Appalachian Trail, bike long distances and to explore this country. Two summers ago, I thought about going out into the woods and camping by myself.  The thought terrifies me. All the ‘What if’s….’  begin to activate and my logical brain twists into one big knot.  Could I do any of these things by myself?  After almost thirty-five years of marriage I have come to rely on company.  My husband helps me out of fixes on a daily basis and my tall children reach things for me. Could I survive being alone for long periods of time?  Is this really all about fear?

I must challenge myself.  Although I have been in the same skin for more than ‘half-way to one-hundred’ years, there is more to discover about me. I continue to learn everyday.   There are more chances to take.  More adventures.   Trust trumps fear because I possess the inner resources and strength to live and love fully through the joys and heartbreak. I want to feel it all.  Only then will I know that I am living and bust through the fear.

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.

Not Your Typical Walk

Grit.  This word prompts much self-reflection.  Do I give up much too easily?  When I approach a task, do I have a preconceived notion about my abilities?  In a situation of survival would I tough it out or give up?

I had clawed over boulders bigger than my house.  My eyes remained straight ahead. I didn’t have the guts to glance over my shoulder to view the depth of the valley below.    Earlier in the day, my friend asked, “Do you want to go for a walk?” I tied my tennis shoes and we were off. I envisioned meandering through Acadia National Park's carriage paths-wide, suitable for bikes and horses. A walk.   Instead I dug my fingers into crevices in the rocks or anything that might provide a strong hold to move my body up the mountain. It had rained the night before and the trail was wet and slippery in spots.  Some transitions on the mountain provided iron rungs drilled into the face of the mountain-a vertical solid stone wall.  One of the problems was that the engineers placed the first rung at my five foot-two chest level. I had difficulty leveraging my foot in order to hoist my body onto the ladder.  It was only through grit and sheer determination that I was able to accomplish this feat.  The alternative was to proceed down the same way. I had fought my way up the sheer face of the Precipice.    Unfamiliar with this trail, I did not know if there was another way down.  My goal was to reach the top.  There was no giving up.

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.

Trust

Fear holds me.

Anxiety binds my spirit

Limiting my vision 

Of what lies ahead. 

I can only see as far as I can see,

And then

I must trust,

Simply trust.

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.

Smiling Lessons 102

I have all I can do to contain my laughter.  My 13 year old caught a glimpse of the above self-portrait (Day 15) and without prompting demonstrated various techniques to enhance my photo with a smile.  "Look Ma, do it like this," she said demonstrating the preferred smile while explaining the "how not to smile" techniques.  Apparently one should never smile with  the teeth  together nor should  the top teeth ever overlap the bottom, which is my usual strategy.  I guess I've got it all wrong. The following photo is post smiling lessons.  I have my daughter Eddaejia to thank for today's selfie!

My mother must be so very happy. See the post about my mother's failed attempts at smiling lessons here:  http://travelinma.blogspot.com/2013/11/on-black-box.html