We are barraged daily with bad news about the economy, health care, and war. Taxes will be due soon. Winter lingers. And talented singers are being ousted from American Idol. It's easy to get weighed down by the blues.
It's time to take a load off. Shed the weight of doom and gloom and have some fun. Find one thing you've been longing to do lately: go on a hike, ride a bike. Knit a scarf, or scarf down a gooey piece of cake. It doesn't have to be a Mt. Everest climb; it can be as simple as sitting quietly for an hour listening to the Brandenburg Concerto, uninterrupted. Or it can be a wild and crazy night on the town.
Whatever you choose, make sure you're in the moment while you're having fun. Notice how you feel physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Then, spend a few minutes writing about it. Make a list of adjectives that describe how you felt. Make a list of verbs that describe what you did. And then make a list of all the other fun things you want to do and, if you can, set up a schedule to do them.
We all need fun.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
After They're Gone
I had a record number of views on my blogs this past Monday, which is my usual day of posting. But I didn't post that day so it makes me wonder why so many viewers. It's almost as if I have more readers when I don't have anything to say, or maybe it's just a case of absence making the heart grow fonder.
There's something about human nature that makes us care more about the individual, and what she stands for, after the fact. When someone we had right in front of us disappears, we then decide how valuable he or she was and are willing to forgive and forget.
I know there have been people in my life who meant a lot to me, and I never really told them. There have been people, too, who meant a lot to me but I didn't realize it till much, much later.
This week, think of someone who you now appreciate but who you didn't value as much in the past. Write a letter to him or her, expressing your gratitude. It doesn't have to be a letter you really send, although you certainly could. Just acknowledging your appreciation in the privacy of your own words can help set you free.
There's something about human nature that makes us care more about the individual, and what she stands for, after the fact. When someone we had right in front of us disappears, we then decide how valuable he or she was and are willing to forgive and forget.
I know there have been people in my life who meant a lot to me, and I never really told them. There have been people, too, who meant a lot to me but I didn't realize it till much, much later.
This week, think of someone who you now appreciate but who you didn't value as much in the past. Write a letter to him or her, expressing your gratitude. It doesn't have to be a letter you really send, although you certainly could. Just acknowledging your appreciation in the privacy of your own words can help set you free.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Styrofoam
Today I was sorting through junk. Well, to be honest, it wasn't all junk. There were a few reasonable craft supplies, some paints, and household tools amidst the junk. Mostly, though, it was scraps of felt and paper, sheets of cardboard spray-painted with teenaged heartbreak, a few forgotten Skittles, and chunks of styrofoam ranging in size from 1 square inch to 3 feet long. What was once a room for organized storage and table tennis had morphed to a craft room and later to a garbage dump, and it's time to reverse the morphing process, so I dove in.
It was easy to decide what to do with most of the stuff: it was sorted and tossed into boxes, bins, or the garbage cans. But the styrofoam stymied me. My son, now 18, had once had a passion for building terrain and painting miniature action features. He collected styrofoam and would meticulously (and miraculously) transform it into battlefields or bridges or even medieval forests. He is the type of person who never likes to throw things away, and even though his craft no longer calls to him, he can't let go of all the supplies. Not even the chunks of blue and white styrofoam he's collected from construction sites and electronic product cartons. I wondered how I could justify throwing out somebody else's trash.
As I worked, I began to feel like I was living a metaphor. We all start out fresh and organized, anxious to build our lives with the tools available and collecting materials every day to grow and succeed. But as time wears on and mistakes are made and new paths are forged, some of the tools and materials fall by the wayside. If we hang onto them, they start to feel like junk. But sometimes it's hard to let go.
We could be talking here about communication styles, or how we approach our daily work. We could be talking about how we take care of ourselves, or how we relate to our loved ones. We could be talking about personality styles. However you look at it, we all develop skills and traits as we grow and mature, but sometimes they morph into bad habits and counterproductive behaviors. Like those pieces of styrofoam, they really won't serve a purpose and just get in the way.
I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the hurt locker, where we collect in our memory those things that have tried to hurt us in the past. Now I'm thinking about another intangible collection: those behaviors we have that need to be looked at and sorted and purged. Just as I can look at my son's styrofoam and shake my head, thinking he really needs to get rid of that junk, I find I can identify other people's behaviors that serve no purpose or, even worse, interfere with a productive life. But the hard part is identifying my own styrofoam, my own behaviors that need to be scrutinized.
What about you? Think of a recent experience where the outcome of an interaction didn't end satisfactorily. Which of your behaviors contributed to it? Are these leftover remnants from your past, that no longer serve you? Ought they be crumbled up like styrofoam bits and tossed in the trash?
Now write about it.
It was easy to decide what to do with most of the stuff: it was sorted and tossed into boxes, bins, or the garbage cans. But the styrofoam stymied me. My son, now 18, had once had a passion for building terrain and painting miniature action features. He collected styrofoam and would meticulously (and miraculously) transform it into battlefields or bridges or even medieval forests. He is the type of person who never likes to throw things away, and even though his craft no longer calls to him, he can't let go of all the supplies. Not even the chunks of blue and white styrofoam he's collected from construction sites and electronic product cartons. I wondered how I could justify throwing out somebody else's trash.
As I worked, I began to feel like I was living a metaphor. We all start out fresh and organized, anxious to build our lives with the tools available and collecting materials every day to grow and succeed. But as time wears on and mistakes are made and new paths are forged, some of the tools and materials fall by the wayside. If we hang onto them, they start to feel like junk. But sometimes it's hard to let go.
We could be talking here about communication styles, or how we approach our daily work. We could be talking about how we take care of ourselves, or how we relate to our loved ones. We could be talking about personality styles. However you look at it, we all develop skills and traits as we grow and mature, but sometimes they morph into bad habits and counterproductive behaviors. Like those pieces of styrofoam, they really won't serve a purpose and just get in the way.
I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the hurt locker, where we collect in our memory those things that have tried to hurt us in the past. Now I'm thinking about another intangible collection: those behaviors we have that need to be looked at and sorted and purged. Just as I can look at my son's styrofoam and shake my head, thinking he really needs to get rid of that junk, I find I can identify other people's behaviors that serve no purpose or, even worse, interfere with a productive life. But the hard part is identifying my own styrofoam, my own behaviors that need to be scrutinized.
What about you? Think of a recent experience where the outcome of an interaction didn't end satisfactorily. Which of your behaviors contributed to it? Are these leftover remnants from your past, that no longer serve you? Ought they be crumbled up like styrofoam bits and tossed in the trash?
Now write about it.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Soda Crackers
We talk about writing through the pain. We talk about healing through words. We emphasize the therapeutic benefits of expressing ourselves and re-telling our difficult memories to make meaning of our lives. It's all good.
But where's the fun? We all need fun. My 86-year-old mother plays Skipbo for fun. My 13-year-old son plays soccer. I have friends who swim for fun; friends who go to church for fun. I like to hike and write and eat.
When it comes to writing for wellness, it's important to have fun with that too. There are gazillions of poems and stories about grief and loss out there, and many are quite good. But what about the ones about fun?
Do some hunting. You'll find there are poems about hips and stories about headlights. Essays about flyfishing and memoirs on parenting. There are writers like Ron Carlson and Lorrie Moore and Anne Lamott, and even David Sedaris, who can lighten the most serious subjects and let you have some fun.
One of my favorites is Raymond Carver's poem about soda crackers. It's called, quite profoundly, "Soda Crackers." Here's how it starts out:
You soda crackers! I remember/ when I arrived here in the rain,/ whipped out and alone./ How we shared the aloneness/ and quiet of this house.
Carver discovers how the simplest of foods has helped him through a difficult time and now things look brighter, and my guess is he had a little fun with that poem.
So let's take a break, shall we, from all our serious worries, and write something a little lighter. Think about a body part, a favorite food, a childhood memory, and write for the lightness. Write in humor, or in gratitude, or maybe even in irreverance. Just write to have a little fun, and see what turns out.
But where's the fun? We all need fun. My 86-year-old mother plays Skipbo for fun. My 13-year-old son plays soccer. I have friends who swim for fun; friends who go to church for fun. I like to hike and write and eat.
When it comes to writing for wellness, it's important to have fun with that too. There are gazillions of poems and stories about grief and loss out there, and many are quite good. But what about the ones about fun?
Do some hunting. You'll find there are poems about hips and stories about headlights. Essays about flyfishing and memoirs on parenting. There are writers like Ron Carlson and Lorrie Moore and Anne Lamott, and even David Sedaris, who can lighten the most serious subjects and let you have some fun.
One of my favorites is Raymond Carver's poem about soda crackers. It's called, quite profoundly, "Soda Crackers." Here's how it starts out:
You soda crackers! I remember/ when I arrived here in the rain,/ whipped out and alone./ How we shared the aloneness/ and quiet of this house.
Carver discovers how the simplest of foods has helped him through a difficult time and now things look brighter, and my guess is he had a little fun with that poem.
So let's take a break, shall we, from all our serious worries, and write something a little lighter. Think about a body part, a favorite food, a childhood memory, and write for the lightness. Write in humor, or in gratitude, or maybe even in irreverance. Just write to have a little fun, and see what turns out.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Hurt Locker
I took some time off from my blogs, and from my life. It was sorely needed R & R.
While I was away, I watched The Hurt Locker. The movie's protagonist is a soldier - a bomb expert - who knows no life better than the battlefield. He's a cocky, daring SOB who endears himself to the audience, eventually, when he reveals a box of dismembered bomb parts under his bed; he keeps it as a reminder of the things that almost, but didn't, kill him. His threats were literal, tangible, and monstrous, and presumably his collection gives him strength to face the next bomb.
Most of us have not been repeatedly threatened by terrorist bombs, but we all are periodically threatened by things that can bring us down, physically or emotionally: disease, disastrous relationships, financial hardship, or even our own faulty thinking. Like the soldier's bomb parts, those threats get stored away on shelves in our minds, collecting dust as years pass.
Sometimes it's good to pull them out, shake off the cobwebs, and remember, to recall what it was that allowed us to survive. It may have been inner strength or comfort from those in our circle of support. It may have been western medicine or eastern wisdom or maybe even faith in a higher being that brought us through. It may have been a combination of these things, sprinkled with a little luck or fairy dust. Whatever it was, it's good to sort through those lockers of pain to remind us of the threats that lurk but also of the strength that ultimately wins.
What's in your hurt locker? Make a list of the things in the past that have threatened to bring you down, and next to each item list out what it was that saved you. Make a list of ongoing threats, and even concerns for the future. What will get you through next time?
While I was away, I watched The Hurt Locker. The movie's protagonist is a soldier - a bomb expert - who knows no life better than the battlefield. He's a cocky, daring SOB who endears himself to the audience, eventually, when he reveals a box of dismembered bomb parts under his bed; he keeps it as a reminder of the things that almost, but didn't, kill him. His threats were literal, tangible, and monstrous, and presumably his collection gives him strength to face the next bomb.
Most of us have not been repeatedly threatened by terrorist bombs, but we all are periodically threatened by things that can bring us down, physically or emotionally: disease, disastrous relationships, financial hardship, or even our own faulty thinking. Like the soldier's bomb parts, those threats get stored away on shelves in our minds, collecting dust as years pass.
Sometimes it's good to pull them out, shake off the cobwebs, and remember, to recall what it was that allowed us to survive. It may have been inner strength or comfort from those in our circle of support. It may have been western medicine or eastern wisdom or maybe even faith in a higher being that brought us through. It may have been a combination of these things, sprinkled with a little luck or fairy dust. Whatever it was, it's good to sort through those lockers of pain to remind us of the threats that lurk but also of the strength that ultimately wins.
What's in your hurt locker? Make a list of the things in the past that have threatened to bring you down, and next to each item list out what it was that saved you. Make a list of ongoing threats, and even concerns for the future. What will get you through next time?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
What We Carry
Whenever I take my new puppy, Lani, for a walk, she insists on carrying something in her mouth. It might be a pine cone or a stick, or when all else fails a bit of her leash. What I find fascinating is how her posture perks up, her step turns into a prance, when she is carrying something; when her mouth is empty, she tends to drag behind in search of something, anything, to liven up her day.
She reminds me of Tim O'Brien's story, "The Things They Carried." In it he describes the material artifacts the Viet Nam soldiers carried; some were dictated by necessity, such as can openers, pocket knives, and canteens. Other things were dictated by rank or field specialty (pistol or binoculars), or by mission (mosquito netting, mine detectors). But what mattered most, in this story, were the intangibles they carried. Kiowa carried his grandmother's distrust of the white man. Jimmy Cross "humped" his love for a girl back home. Others carried emotional baggage: shameful memories, guilt, fear.
Although most of us aren't on a literal battlefield, we've all fought battles in our lives and we carry the remnants with us. Sometimes they give us strength and remind us of mistakes we've made in the past; they help us in the future. But O'Brien's character Jimmy Cross thought it was "very sad...the things men carried inside." When it comes to baggage like guilt, worry and regret, I think he's right. But I also wonder whether I can let go of some of these things. I wonder whether letting go would lighten my burden or actually make it heavier. Lani seems to think the act of carrying something is easier than emptiness.
Make a list of the things you're carrying. Circle the ones you know you need and then explain, in writing, why they're a must. Then, go back to the rest and write persuasively why you can let them go, and a plan for how to do just that.
Keep in mind: I'm talking about how to really let these things go. Jimmy Cross tried to let go of the guilt for a soldier's death convincingly by adjusting his external appearance: level chin, eye contact, calm tone of voice. I'm not convinced that was enough. But I think if he'd spent some time writing about his self-blame, he might have had a little more success.
She reminds me of Tim O'Brien's story, "The Things They Carried." In it he describes the material artifacts the Viet Nam soldiers carried; some were dictated by necessity, such as can openers, pocket knives, and canteens. Other things were dictated by rank or field specialty (pistol or binoculars), or by mission (mosquito netting, mine detectors). But what mattered most, in this story, were the intangibles they carried. Kiowa carried his grandmother's distrust of the white man. Jimmy Cross "humped" his love for a girl back home. Others carried emotional baggage: shameful memories, guilt, fear.
Although most of us aren't on a literal battlefield, we've all fought battles in our lives and we carry the remnants with us. Sometimes they give us strength and remind us of mistakes we've made in the past; they help us in the future. But O'Brien's character Jimmy Cross thought it was "very sad...the things men carried inside." When it comes to baggage like guilt, worry and regret, I think he's right. But I also wonder whether I can let go of some of these things. I wonder whether letting go would lighten my burden or actually make it heavier. Lani seems to think the act of carrying something is easier than emptiness.
Make a list of the things you're carrying. Circle the ones you know you need and then explain, in writing, why they're a must. Then, go back to the rest and write persuasively why you can let them go, and a plan for how to do just that.
Keep in mind: I'm talking about how to really let these things go. Jimmy Cross tried to let go of the guilt for a soldier's death convincingly by adjusting his external appearance: level chin, eye contact, calm tone of voice. I'm not convinced that was enough. But I think if he'd spent some time writing about his self-blame, he might have had a little more success.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Characters of Loss
"You give me the slip between garlic and lilies, as if this is what comes of my unprotected loves..."
This is how Sarah Barber begins her poem about lost love in To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs. Whether it's a lost ring, a lost game, or a lost job, loss is about more than just a thing that goes away.
I discovered a few days ago that I'd lost a set of car keys, but I couldn't just shrug this away. I had to spend hours combing through pockets and drawers, peeking under sofas and pillows, and even inspecting the puppy's crate, and then I went on to interrogating everyone but the mailman about whether they'd seen my keys. I had to retrace and then retrace again my steps on the last day I'd seen them, trying to figure out where they might have given me the slip. At day's end, there was no sign of the buggers and I was emotionally and physically drained.
Of course it's not just about the keys. Clearly I can get a new set made. It's about having to admit it's my fault, which means I've lost my reliability. It's about the day-long search that produced gum wrappers and dust bunnies and pine cones tracked in by the dog, which means a lot of lost time. And it's about giving in and giving up, admitting defeat, which means a loss of dignity.
I know it's just a stupid set of car keys, but sometimes even little losses can represent a lot more than it seems at first blush. In Sarah Barber's case, the lost ring revealed failures in love. In my case, there's an irritating little voice criticizing me for doing something stupid. Barber chose to write a poem, but another way to process loss is by writing a scene.
The first step is to identify the emotion, or voice, that surfaces. Maybe it's grief, or embarassment. Maybe it's anxiety or even fear. Give it a name. Describe it. Big and dark? Small but slimy? Does it pester you like a mosquito buzzing around your ear?
Then write a scene with you and this new character. Let the emotion have a role, play a part. Give it something to do. Process the scene as though you were in it, too, interacting. Then, as your scene comes to a close, find a way to eliminate the character from the rest of your story.
In my story, I might decide to call my critical voice Wilma. She might be tall and brassy, with thick lipstick and long nails, gaudy clothes and a husky voice. I might let Wilma hound me for a little while longer about those car keys, but then I think I'd go on a little errand with her. I'd let her ride along with me to get a new set of car keys made, and then, just as I was climbing back in my car, I'd quickly lock the doors. That's right, I wouldn't let Wilma back in. I'd peel out of the parking lot, leaving her in the rain in my rear window, all alone, and in so doing I'd eliminate that critical voice from my life and get past the lost car keys.
This is how Sarah Barber begins her poem about lost love in To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs. Whether it's a lost ring, a lost game, or a lost job, loss is about more than just a thing that goes away.
I discovered a few days ago that I'd lost a set of car keys, but I couldn't just shrug this away. I had to spend hours combing through pockets and drawers, peeking under sofas and pillows, and even inspecting the puppy's crate, and then I went on to interrogating everyone but the mailman about whether they'd seen my keys. I had to retrace and then retrace again my steps on the last day I'd seen them, trying to figure out where they might have given me the slip. At day's end, there was no sign of the buggers and I was emotionally and physically drained.
Of course it's not just about the keys. Clearly I can get a new set made. It's about having to admit it's my fault, which means I've lost my reliability. It's about the day-long search that produced gum wrappers and dust bunnies and pine cones tracked in by the dog, which means a lot of lost time. And it's about giving in and giving up, admitting defeat, which means a loss of dignity.
I know it's just a stupid set of car keys, but sometimes even little losses can represent a lot more than it seems at first blush. In Sarah Barber's case, the lost ring revealed failures in love. In my case, there's an irritating little voice criticizing me for doing something stupid. Barber chose to write a poem, but another way to process loss is by writing a scene.
The first step is to identify the emotion, or voice, that surfaces. Maybe it's grief, or embarassment. Maybe it's anxiety or even fear. Give it a name. Describe it. Big and dark? Small but slimy? Does it pester you like a mosquito buzzing around your ear?
Then write a scene with you and this new character. Let the emotion have a role, play a part. Give it something to do. Process the scene as though you were in it, too, interacting. Then, as your scene comes to a close, find a way to eliminate the character from the rest of your story.
In my story, I might decide to call my critical voice Wilma. She might be tall and brassy, with thick lipstick and long nails, gaudy clothes and a husky voice. I might let Wilma hound me for a little while longer about those car keys, but then I think I'd go on a little errand with her. I'd let her ride along with me to get a new set of car keys made, and then, just as I was climbing back in my car, I'd quickly lock the doors. That's right, I wouldn't let Wilma back in. I'd peel out of the parking lot, leaving her in the rain in my rear window, all alone, and in so doing I'd eliminate that critical voice from my life and get past the lost car keys.
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