The Writing Zone

Writing requires focus, intent, connection to self, and a deliberate disconnection from all distractions. While serious writers will write almost anywhere—the writing must happen, after all—they tend to have designated zones for writing. Many have more than one favorite space, so they can attend to different writing purposes and moods. I can divide my writing zones into two categories: indoors and outdoors. I write indoors when writing outside is not feasible and outdoors whenever possible.

My indoor spaces need only provide a comfortable perch and an appropriate atmosphere. Depending on my mood, that atmosphere may be private or public; silent or infused with background music; it may even be loud and bustling with a variety of voices and sounds. Most often, I choose my private home office and silence. Occasionally, I include instrumental music.

This writing space includes both a sit down and a stand up desk space, both of which face the double glass doors that lead into the gravel yard and forest. I see only ground, trees, a distant mountain, and critters flitting about when I break from looking at the page or screen. I enjoy giving my eyes respite from close focus by staring out into nature every now and then. I even do this sometimes as I type.

Another favorite indoor writing space is any public coffee house. Though the music and conversation can be bothersome at first, eventually, I can zone out all the details of the noise around me and laser focus my attention on my composition. This is excellent practice for me. Whenever I write in public like this, I feel proud of my accomplishment in the end. Like at home, I aim to sit near a window, so I can focus my sight on a distant horizon every now and then. I learned that this is an important rest for eyes that so often focus close. If I can’t sit near a window, then my next choice is to find a seat that faces one, however far away, so I can look beyond the walls of the space. If that isn’t possible, then when I need to look away from the text I’m writing, I just look to the farthest point I can see in the space.

I also like to write in my car, occasionally. I do this when I need absolute isolation, or when I just need to get something onto paper and don’t have time to get to a more ideal location. Ten minutes of writing in the car can do wonders for my productivity.

But when the weather is conducive, I love to write outside. Being outdoors, hearing the sounds of nature, feeling the breeze on my skin, the sun if it’s out, somehow heightens my writing experience. I think of it as a symphony with my words, my pen, my paper, and all the elements surrounding me coming together in a harmonious play of energy that influences the resulting composition. The pieces I write outdoors always feel more alive to me when I read them later.

Another great bonus to writing outdoors is that I can tuck my pen and notebook in a sack and walk to different locations where I can pause to compose. I like the woods behind my house. There is a rock on the rise of the steep-sloping hill that lets me sit at just the right angle, facing the distant mountain. As I write, pine needles, oak leaves, and tiny flying creatures occasionally land on my page, welcoming me to fully immerse myself in the space.

Just up the road from my house is another place I like for writing: Highland Lake. On its sunny beach is a play ark. If I climb up the gangway and stand at the helm of the ship, I can rest my notebook on the helm and write fairly comfortably. It’s a tad higher than I’d like, but the lake view and frequent hawk and turkey vulture fly-bys make up for that slight inconvenience. Then I can tuck my notebook away again and journey onward to the slanted rock that sits in the shade at the water’s edge, and write some more as the ducks, geese, and our resident Great Blue Heron feed and frolick in the water.

Writers know that finding places where their words can flow, where they can collaborate with inspiration, and where they can connect deeply with their creativity and purpose is essential. We don’t always know what the perfect combination will be, so we try a great variety until we find one or another that really works for us. Over time, we collect favorite writing spaces like others collect trinkets. It’s good to have more than one, because the writing cannot wait and sometimes a favorite space is, in one way or another, compromised. When you’ve found your perfect perch, you’ll know it. The feeling will be unmistakable and the words on your page or document will be lasting proof.

Retreat

When all seems off,
askew, awry, not all right,

I wish retreat were
an option.

But forward is
the only way.

Day after day,
regardless of joy,

pride, capability, or
fear, dregs, insecurity,

or of which choose
to accompany on any

given day.
Forward is the only way.

Marriage: A Letter of Love and Learning

For ten years, we have loved, respected, and supported each other.  We've worked hard to build a happy, loving home for ourselves and our children and will continue to work hard to maintain that home.  We've promised to be honest and respectful at all times.  We've learned to argue without insults, and to address current issues without drudging up past annoyances.  It's worked.  So far so good.

Love is an interesting thing--now and then I find myself studying it closely; quietly observing its natural rhythms, hide-and-seeks, and peekaboos.  There are times when love is palpable, as it bubbles up from within, and there are times when it somehow reaches me from outside of myself.  That one must be from you and the kids.  And other times, it hides masterfully.  I can't see it, can't hear it, can't smell it or feel it...but because I have come to know it, I trust that it is still there.

There was a time when this vanishing of love unnerved me.  I feared that the void was real, that it was a true reflection of our dying union.  But I stayed calm.  You stayed sure.  I believed in you and your certainty, even if my belief was shaky.  I waited it out the first time it happened.  And I learned that we were absolutely fine.  Better than fine.  We still loved each other.  We still intended to be together for as long as life still moved us.  I learned that love isn't some 'thing' that rules us, or that wills itself upon us in random whims of toying.  I learned, through patience and trust, that we are the creators, keepers, and nurturers of our love.  It does not exist outside of us.  It does not choose to bless us with its presence.  It does not exist without us.

Now I know that a love that begins as passion, attraction, need, grows both stronger and weaker with time, care, and attention.  The passion and need weaken, giving way to a less urgent but far stronger sense of comfort and trust.  The attraction evolves into a deeper appreciation of all the characteristics that make us unique, that shape us.  We know each other.  And that knowing can be trying at times.  Love isn't one-sided.  It isn't all about the joys without the struggles.  Love includes the things we've learned about each other that aren't so appealing, that don't fit into our individual 'ideal.'

Secretly, I have wondered sometimes, if we would survive for all of our differences.  My classical guitar drowned out by your aggressive explicit rap; my book-a-week habit silencing your talk about car customizing or what kind of insulation to use in the basement; my daily workouts challenging your 12-pack nights; my early mornings stomping on your sleep-til-one.  But then, I'd take a step back, a step to the side, squint my eyes just so, and look again.  From this new perspective, I could see that our differences did not define us.  Our differences were ours to keep individually, and they should not threaten what we had built together.

Marriage, I am learning, is not a dictator demanding all things equal.  Marriage, for us, is an opportunity to continue nurturing our individual needs, joys, interests, while supporting each other, encouraging each other, with the promise that we will not hold each other back just because we are together.  Marriage allows us to pursue those independent goals with the support of someone who loves us and wants to see us happy and successful.  Marriage is, equally, the chance to share the work and rewards of our common goals: love, family, home, life.

While I have secretly wondered about our survival, and have quietly endured the apparent absence of love, I have also known the opposites of these.  As real and frightening as these negatives are, their contradictory positives have been more steady and frequent realities.  We never let a day pass without showing affection, professing our love, and wishing each other well when we part.  I always know that I am loved and that you are going to help me achieve what I set out to do.  You always know you are loved and that I will do what I can to make your way easier.  Sometimes we adore each other, sometimes we ignore and focus on the chores.  All of it is right and good.

Marriage, then, is our life.  We walk through this world, hand in hand, taking on all of the challenges and pleasures we choose and encounter.  We walk as partners, taking turns leading, following, being the wise, strong, kind one,  and being the ignorant, weak, selfish one.  We know and accept the moments of joy and ease just the same as those of hurt and struggle.  We know we are safe to experience life, to make mistakes, to forget to pay attention now and then without losing our partner.

A friend once said to me, "Life is hard and doing it alone is sometimes scary.  Having someone to help you through life is a gift."  We have that gift; we each give and receive that gift.  I am grateful and I know you are, too, because you tell and show me so.  My dear husband, thank you for staying the steady course with me and never letting the tumult of life pull us apart.  I love you.

Grown Up

I drown my sorrows
with feather-light sleep
in the upright seat of my truck,

Overdose on peanuts, almonds, and green tea
while blasting through the speakers the
latest John Green novel, read by some
professional-but-not-famous actor.

Serious about rebellion, I remain
in the truck until 7:10, rather than 6:59,
cutting into my full-hour-early-for-work habit,
stealing that time to engage

In the behaviors of self-destruction
even if the ingredients are gentle by comparison
to the angst, substance, and heavy-metal
of my lost-and-searching youth.

I contemplate my struggles
through chronic fatigue
in the upright state of my life.

The Dark Ages

I've written about my tendency to write 'safe' content.  As an adult, I've avoided the 'dark ages' of my youth and all the horrendous experiences of those days--I've avoided it in my writing and in my thinking.  Once in a while a flashback finds its way into my consciousness.  I acknowledge it, give thanks that I made it out alive to build a rich, meaningful life full of family, fulfilling work and fun in-betweens.  Then I release the flashback and return to the now.

Sometimes I do more than acknowledge: sometimes I examine, take pleasure in the mental road trip, wonder about where the people who helped me make those memories are now, wonder about where I'd be now if things had played out differently--it's an exercise in fantasy and it is enjoyable.  But mostly, I sweep the memories away in favor of life as it is.

Still, occasionally, I'm haunted by the idea of digging in and uncovering some of those experiences.  Mostly, because there is so much material there.  So much to learn from.  So much 'what not to do.'  But I'd never write about that stuff simply for the sake of exposing it, there would have to be a purpose.  There would have to be a compelling benefit to trudging up all of that ugliness.  It would have to bring enlightenment to others, would need to be of value.  Otherwise, the only value is how those atrocities helped to steer me toward wiser choices, healthier habits, and love for living.  They've served their purposes, then.  And unless and until they become necessary for a new purpose, they will remain buried in the dark depths of my history, where they belong.  Lived.  Lessons learned.  Put to eternal sleep.

A Study in Human Behavior

Saturday is "family day." It's the one day of the week when my husband, children, and I put each other first and put all work and play-with-friends aside to be in each other's company. Yesterday, we decided to go to a tiny local farm where we could see miniature horses, goats, chickens, exotic birds and brightly colored fish swimming in a beautiful three-tiered pool, complete with waterfalls and lilly pads. We were the only people there and lingered as long as we wanted. The kids were mesmerized by the animals and Benjamin and I were more relaxed in that peaceful place than we'd been in a while.

When lunchtime rolled around, we decided we'd head to a fun fried-food-n-ice-cream joint that has a fantastic playground. The kids have blast there, we love watching them have a blast there, and some super-unhealthy food is good fun every once in a while. Besides, with summer ending, it'll likely be the last time we visit such a place until next year. But our plans were derailed when the rain started falling before we got there, so we rerouted ourselves to the nearest McDonald's with in-door play-space.

If you've ever been to one of those places, you'll know what I mean when I say they are excellent observation platforms for sociological studies. The few times I've been there have enlightened me to categories of parenting behaviors as well as the interactions of kids who've never met one another and are suddenly thrust into a shared play space that serves as a cage that parents cannot enter. This is very different from playgrounds outdoors where parents can more easily interact with their kids and even climb up into the structure to "save" or reprimand their kids when need-be.

It can be fascinating to watch the kids' polite, controlled demeanor that their parents demand of them unravel inside these "cages." There is always going to be a hitting scenario; a crying kid who's either fallen or was pushed down and hurt his/her head; a screaming match; a train of kids who've taken to racing through the maze, up and down and out and back in again until someone falls, gets hurt, cries and parents start yelling.

I was proud of my kids for not getting caught up in any of those scenarios (a first for my boy!). Instead, they enjoyed their time, played together and side-by-side, and left without any tears (a miracle for our girl!).

Yesterday's fascinating observation for me was the couple sitting next to us at the next table.

The man, dressed all in dingy black, barely shaven, quiet, was relaxed in a lounging position: legs stretched out in front of him, hands folded over his belly, butt and shoulders touching the seat and chair-back. The woman, heavily made-up face, over-done shellacked hair, chatty, was on the edge of her seat with a rod-straight back. They watched their little boy (barely) as he raced through the jungle gym and got into fight after fight with a much bigger boy who wasn't afraid to hit back. Now and then the mother called out to her son (though he never indicated he heard her) with instructions, threats, observations, promises, and other what-nots while the man said little-to-nothing.

Here comes the interesting part: when the father did speak, it wasn't to his son (though he did that when the kid finally was knocked off his feet by the bigger kid, hit his head, and wailed in agony), but to his wife. His tone was authoritative, voice not-too loud, and his commands were simple: "Shut up," and, "Sit down." Fascinating to me was her reaction: she did what she was told. With no verbal response. And (the most baffling to me) her demeanor was unchanged.

So, here's this woman who has worked so hard to make herself presentable to the world with her hair, makeup, color-coordinated outfit completely and strategically accessorized, but who is thoroughly disrespected by her man, in public, and who does absolutely nothing about it.

How does that happen?!

The fact that her husband spoke disrespectfully is not in-and-of-itself unimaginable, it happens now and then (ok, more often for some than for others). But that she didn't even flinch at it or stand up for herself blew me away. Obviously, she was accustomed to this treatment and her reaction was habitual--she obeyed! What I discreetly marveled at was how she remained cheerful and talkative with this man throughout our visit.

It all made me wonder about the way people relate to one another and the different treatments we'll accept and deliver.

My husband and I have arguments, of course, and we occasionally disagree on how best to handle any given situation, but above all else--regardless of circumstance--we each expect and offer respect. We believe that respect is a key component to a healthy relationship and it has helped us to avoid tossing derogatory terms or insults at each other when we argue, which makes resolving our issues very streamlined and easy: our arguments are focused on the issue at hand, not on each other personally. Because this is a non-negotiable for us, I am profoundly baffled when I witness couples who obviously do not have a high regard for respect in their own relationships.

But then, that's part of social diversity, isn't it? We don't all have the same values or habits.

Inspiration Collides with Reality

Sometimes, writing is more of a thought process than an action. That's where I tend to linger. I think of myself as a writer--always have--but too much of my writing is happening in thought rather than in print. I suppose that is why I've turned here, to my blog...I want to change the habit of "thinking" about writing into one of "doing" the writing.

I just read a memoir by Anne Lamott about her mother; her dead mother. It was riveting! She dug into the ugliness of their relationship without bringing up the nitty gritty--she alluded to the discontent between them, or at least that which she felt toward her mother, but she kept the specifics at bay. I found a degree of bravery in her writing that I admired. It also made me wonder: does she have any siblings? What about aunts and uncles? Ultimately I wondered: How does she get away with this much honesty in her writing--does it cause fights in her family? animosity? discord? years-long silent treatment? I was inspired by her piece and yearned to be able to write like that, but I don't know how brave I am...well, let me rephrase that, I was inspired by her piece and yearned to be able to write like that, but had to face the fact that I am not a brave writer, I am a safe writer. As much as I love to read other people's prose about the difficulties, challenges, and embarrassments of their lives, I have not dared to go there in my own work. Maybe I will...if I outlive all of my family members.

Oh, but then that wouldn't be brave, would it?

Uglies

I just finished the Uglies series by Scott Westerfeld...fantastic story! It's given me so much to think about. When I started the first book, I had some revealing discussions with my family including my 8- and 3-year old kids about our ideas of beauty and its power. I love the way a good book can nudge you into examining every-day things you either take for granted or just don't actively think about. This series did that for me, just as The Hunger Games did. They both encouraged me to consider the society I live in and the implications of our ways. It's easy to say, "our society does this," and "they do that," and to complain about the parts we don't like, but it is quite striking to look at how we play into those practices on a daily basis--even with the simple inaction of not standing up for change, we support the 'norm.'

As I read these books, it was fun to imagine where I would've fallen in the social order of the Pretties. Sometimes I thought I'd absolutely be like the protagonist, Tally, who maintained the integrity of her character through repeated surgical alterations to her brain, designed to influence her personality to suit the desires of the government doctors. At other times, though, I could easily see myself as one of the sheep who just followed everyone else and never bothered to question what had come to be know as 'normal' practice (those were not good days for me!). I like to think I would have made it out to The Smoke (the wilderness) and learned to appreciate true nature, including it's human designs...

So what am I going to do differently as a result of reading these books?

Well, I think this story is about standing up for what you believe in as much as it's about joining forces to protect our planet. One thing I know for sure is that I will continue to talk with my kids about what they're noticing in the world around them, to teach them to analyze and develop their own thoughts about what they see, and to decide what is worth their energy to preserve, or to change. For my own part, I am going to cultivate a stronger resolve, so that when I notice myself going-with-the-flow just to avoid conflict--or because I haven't yet decided where I stand on an issue--I stop myself long enough to consider the options and make a conscious decision. That seems like a good place to start.

Fitting It All Into a Day

I was pleasantly surprised to read that even able-to-afford-all-the-help-in-the-world people like Gwyneth Paltrow struggle with the demands of motherhood, work, and social life obligations. Sometimes it is tempting to think that when you have tons of money and any kind of help you desire as close as your touch-screen mobile phone, then life is breezy. Chores can be delegated to hired help so you can spend quality time with your children, and the children can be cared for so you can spend time taking care of you. Apparently, it isn't that simple...for any of us.

Still, when you don't have all that money or access to help and your work schedule is rigid, demanding, and grueling most weeks of the year--as opposed to that one big job you do over the course of 2 months or so each year--the struggle consumes a great deal of the quality of your life.  It eats into your peace of mind, rest, exercise, eating habits, focus, productivity, availability to loved ones, and attention to your own needs.

So, while there is a certain amount of comfort in knowing that nobody is fully exempt from experiencing the challenge of managing a full load of life, it is also important to remember that the degree to which that challenge effects us varies widely.

Keeping Up

Some days I am so on top of everything I can guiltlessly squeeze out a few blissful moments all for myself...and then there are the days when I am up to three steps behind. Today is one of the latter. Late to wake, late to work. With my commute, if I don't leave my house three hours before I need to be at work, then I am doomed to a sluggish ride on traffic clogged roads. That was what happened this morning. Two and a half hours before I was due to be in the school building, I hit the road. Mind you, the ride--90 miles--only takes an hour and a half on empty roads, but early in the morning, one half hour can mean the difference between a smooth ride and a stop-and-go snail walk that doubles my time in the car.

Today will be a long one, too.  I'll be staying late at work to catch up on grading 90 essays.

On days like this, I am proud to be among all of the working mothers in the world who trudge forth, accomplishing their daily tasks efficiently (or not!) and whole-heartedly just because...it's what we do. We know that there is no turning back, no calling in sick because things aren't going the way we would prefer them to go, we keep rolling along and making sure that everything works out in the end, because too many people, precious people, are counting on us to be there at the end of the day with a loving embrace and a hot meal on the table.