Making it home

I’ve always known the word chaos. It’s the word that describes my life the last two weeks. But today, I created (I think) a new word—chaos-ier. Because that’s what it’s getting to be.

We did roll out early the morning after my last entry. We made the 700 plus miles across five states with nothing but boredom—until we pulled up on Saturday about noon. “Let’s get unloaded so we can turn this baby in.”  Chaos began. Unload. Unpack. But wait. Pack. We’d partially furnished the house with thrift shop purchases while our “real” furniture waited in Georgia, and now, the Mayflower truck the real stuff was due to roll up soon. I found a charity with pick-up service. Out went the dining room furniture, the bedside tables, the guest room bed. You get the idea. We cleaned. We vacuumed. We ate on TV trays. Sort of Bohemian. We thought about all those boxes, about forty boxes of books on that big truck, not to mention the twenty or so we brought with us. They’d have to go somewhere. That’s why the guest room bed went.

We don’t have a guest room anymore. We have a library. Ikea made it easy. We bought twelve bookcases in about twenty minutes. They came out the next morning. Of course, since they were from Ikea, they weren’t assembled. Over the next two days, Bob (my hero) assembled them all. Three in my study, two in the kitchen, seven in the “library.” I unpacked books right behind him.

Then our daughter, who has innate supervisory skills that she has honed over her lifetime, arrived. The Mayflower truck was not far behind. Katy took charge. “It’s ok, Mom. You can go to the bathroom when you’ve unpacked two more boxes.”

Today, it came to a head. We got up before 6:00 and hit the boxes. At 10:00 we stopped for showers, dressed in our grown-up girl clothes and headed out for a luncheon of like-minded women at the Intercontinental Hotel. (Rats, we didn’t take a picture of that.) Then, enough of fun and games.

“We need to make it look like home. Let’s hang the pictures.” That’s what I’m hiding from right now. My life is getting chaosier and chaosier.  Let me show you:

"Hmm. Let's see. B goes into A. And after this one, only nine more to go."

Waiting for the truck and our own dining room table.

Boss Katy. A super supervisor who pulls her share of the load.

Hmm. I'd forgotten this one. Maybe I should take a minute...no!

Bookshelves make a nice bureau substitute for Katy who is camping in the new library.

 

 

Everyday Creativity: My gratitude list of delights

by Janet Grace  Riehl

“My life is more than my resume,” I reminded myself yesterday as I met yet another friend whose international work shapes the world. That’s the Big World. My life and work shapes the Small World I touch around me–an intimate world. It’s up to me to make sense of my life no matter what I’m doing or where I’m doing it. Creativity moves in all channels in our lives. This, I believe; it’s been my theme since my first post December 2nd, 2008, “What is creativity, anyway?”  Here, then, is my gratitude list of creative delights–from my Small World.

God Bless Smart Phones…and Digital Natives.

In the last year an 11-year-old friend has given me a tour through my phone that’s made it into a tool for creativity and connection. Every penny spent on the phone is now worth it in spades. And, I joke, so are the efforts of everyone over the decades who brought us smart phones.

I’d had my phone several months, but had never taken photos with it. At a ball game (sitting in dug-out seats!) she picked up my phone and immediately showed me how to use it–including advanced effects like cartoon, and split screen. Now, I click away with my phone all the time.

On our supper dates we play with my phone: Doodles,videos, sound recordings, passing notes with the memo app (as if we were in class), and much more as we delve into the phone’s possibilities. Rather than becoming a generational divide or a block to connection, it’s our way to collaborate, create stuff, learn, and connect.

She’s also the creative catalyst for the Doodles I’m making on my phone. That’s a story in itself; my Doodles are yet another delight on my list.

Doodle Delight!

I made my first Doodle October 11, 2011, after one of my supper dates with my young friend. She asked, “Can we draw?” I reached for my purse to pull out paper and pen. But, something in her face told me that’s not what she meant. “Oh, you mean on my phone.” That night I found the digital drawing program “Doodler” and downloaded my first app. That opened the door to doodling together…and to a new art media for me.

By December my Doodling really started to take off. I’m constructing a Body of Work as I would in any serious art form.There are hundred’s now. So many I’ve lost track. I use Facebook as my audience and gallery. There is commercial potential here, but right now I’m enjoying having a zone of freedom without expectation or pressure or the “I have to do it” effort. I’m learning and growing in the media. It revives my aesthetic and compositional sense and skills. There are several styles within the Body of Work, and it’s fun to see it grow.

My Cleaning Expert Learns to Read

My Cleaning Expert (what we used to call “cleaning lady”) and I have become friends and work well together. She’s 39 and couldn’t read.I found this out one day when we looked at a label on a cleaning product. I was shocked. I found a free literacy tutoring program at the local community college. That didn’t “take.”

But, at the end of 2011 I made a pact with her that she would learn to read in 2012. Soon after she found a literacy tutor close-by. I’ve taught English as a Second Language and directed a family literacy project for migrant and seasonal farm workers…that sort of thing. So, her cleaning days become English tutoring days as well. “English is a mess,” I say, and then we look at the rules and rule breakers. She’s getting good at sounding out words, and things are sinking in that never did before. It makes both of us so happy.

The world abloom and greening.

We’d go mad without Beauty, wouldn’t we? A neighbor’s dog and I take long walks over field, stream, and ravine on my father’s land. The dog is a beauty; we’ve become buddies. Our walks are heart opening and heart pumping. And, natch, I’m taking pictures of the wild flowers in our woods.

My women friends

I go back and forth between my father’s place in the country and my place in the city. At my place I come home to my life separate from my father and the family. Part of this world are my women friends, and many of them belong to my nearby health club. Slowly we’ve grown from exercise pals into friends and companions.

I’m really blessed in this. People come and go. But, they are here now, and I’m grateful. Last year I held women’s circles in my Goddess Gathering Room (a.k.a. front room). My erratic schedule precludes these now, but I now have a circle of women to be embraced by.

My growing fitness and strength

A few years ago I resolved to “Get my body back.” It’s back now! Since 2007 I’ve dropped 35 pounds, dropped several dress sizes, and become a Babe. Measurements, flexibility, strength, stamina, and balance all improved.  As the French say, I feel “well in my own skin.”

Recently I picked up a friend’s toddler with ease. Without thought I squatted down, picked her up, and swooped her up on my shoulders.

To be open to the world, everyday art, beauty, kindness, and convialité–this is how I wish to compose my life.

Pose questions about practical creativity; give ideas for future cycle themes; and join in the dialog. Learn more about our audio book “Sightlines: A Family Love Story in Poetry and Music.” Become a Riehlife villager.

Writing the Hard Stuff: Some Tips

Author Dorothy Allison says, “There’s no way to be a good writer and be safe.” She believes in visiting the edges; it’s where the energy is, and good writing often starts in exactly that same place.

Truth in memoir is expected, but it’s not always easy to tell. It may be what brought you to the writing desk, but it can also be what scares you away from it. It hurts! Why would you want to remember pain and write about it?!

There are a few good reasons:

1) Writing is proven to be healing for the body as well as good for the mind.

2) Writing the truth can help you accept your own version of your life and let go of other people’s versions of who you are, were, or should be.

3) Putting the truth in print can keep assumptions and mistruths from being passed around and possibly passed down in your family. If you don’t say it someone else may, and they won’t necessarily be telling your truth.

4) Truths change, like we do, over time. What was shameful to you in earlier years may not have to be shameful any longer, and it can be freeing to realize that. Ask yourself if you need to be ashamed of it at your age in the here and now.

I always tell my memoir students to remember this: when you’re writing the hard stuff — and hard stuff is part of all of our lives — it’s especially good to quiet the inner critic AND to remember no one is watching over your shoulder. You are as free as you are able to be.

How do you write through the hard stuff? First, write as much as you comfortably can, quieting that inner (and imagined outer) critic. Next, stretch just a little out of your comfort zone. Read your story over and notice if you got to the heart of it. Is there more to say? Write everything you need to say until your story is complete. You can even use a writing prompt and freewrite for 10 minutes on a separate sheet of paper to loosen up and say it all, then decide what of it you want to include in your story. Start with these words: What I really want to say is….  Or try this: I have never told anyone …

I’ve seen people mend holes in their hearts through writing, bridge gaps in their relationships, surprise themselves by not only surviving sharing the hard stuff through their stories but feeling better than they have in a really long time.

Be brave and see what happens.

The 6th National Story Circle Conference, Stories from the Heart 2012, starts April 13 in Austin, Texas! Come and enjoy all it has to offer, and be sure to come to my workshop Saturday April 14 and learn about Writing the Truth: Issues, Ethics & Poetic License. I’m also offering free coaching sessions for 2-day conference participants Friday April 13, on getting published, including query letter critique. For more on what I do when I’m not in Texas, see my website: www.suzannesherman.com.

When You Feel Down About Your Talent as a Writer

Think about the people in your life who encouraged your creative life. Did they say how much they enjoyed your letters and email? Did they think your ideas or life lent themselves to a book? Did they send you books to read or bring you to lectures and events they thought you’d like because they thought of you as a writer? Did they read some poems or stories you wrote and encourage you? What characteristics did they notice about you?

Write down what they said to you about your writing. Remember it. When you are stuck or worried about your progress, believe what they said about you and writing.

Now, what are you going to do today to feed the fire?

• Write a letter to one of those people who thought of you as a writer or make up a letter they might have sent you. Try starting with a line about what they are always telling you about yourself as a writer and then catch them up about your writing life and tell them what you plan to do to build that writing life this day or week or month.
• Pick up a book you have that you have meant to or are now reading. After you read one to three pages, write about something in your life that corresponds to what you have just read. Or write a letter to the author about what you have inside you to say that their book is helping you find a way to say.
• Go to a bookstore or library to find some new material that inspires you. Open the book to any page. Write down a passage that pleases you. Read it several times during the day. Then take a snippet from the passage and write your own passage inspired by what the phrase means to you.
• Make a plan to attend a literary reading at a local bookstore, arts foundation or college or listen to a poet or writer on the Internet (American Academy of Poets, The Writer’s Almanac, the Poetry Foundation and The New Yorker fiction podcastsare all sites with poets and writers reading from their work. You might search YouTube.com as well, of course.)

It might help to believe that you had an astrologer do your chart and tell you that you had to have writing in your life. And you believe the astrologer when she says to become a writer. You believe her because today and everyday you take action toward your commitment to and interest in writing. You fit something meaningful about writing into your days and as you stir the batter of your life, you record the phrases you find in that life-batter. You write them down, so they’ll invite you to your desk where you will expand on them, no matter how wild the connections you seem to be making.  All the writers you admire had to start, word by word, phrase by phrase, just like you.

Letting go–and keeping

I’m sitting in a room at the Cabot Lodge in Tallahassee, Florida looking like I’m doing nothing but sitting at my computer playing around while my husband naps. Not our typical way of spending the day, but then it’s not a typical day—nor has it been a typical last two weeks.

For almost four years we’ve been executing a slow and generally pleasant relocation of our lives from a South Georgia tiny-town bungalow to city life in the center ofHouston, the city where we raised our family and that we consider home. But we still had our Georgiaroots (however shallow) in the form of that bungalow, long for sale on the slow, slow market. Finally, a family has discovered they love it as much as we did when we first walked in twenty-five years ago. They are moving in next week. So you know what we’ve been doing. Packing, lifting, cleaning—and making big decisions.

Our Houston house isn’t tiny, but it’s nowhere near as big as the wandering bungalow. It makes no sense to pack up possessions and store them when our children have declined them and we know we won’t need them again. We’re having an estate sale—that is Diane, the local antique dealer is having an estate sale; we’ve been told to stay away. We’ve cut to the bone. I’m selling things I never thought of letting go. I’m selling my wedding dress! And the one my mother wore at the wedding. (Diane assures me that the two are not antiques, merely ‘vintage.’)

My vintage wedding dress along with my mom's dress for the big event await another happy day.

No surprise, the hardest decisions were the books. I’ve written about this, so I won’t belabor the point. We’ve culled twice and already moved our dearest ones toHouston. But the house still looked loaded to folks who didn’t know us. Time to do it again. I asked friends, “Please take some.” Rosalind came by for some cook books. David took an antique set of English Literature. Alexander, the 17-year-old I hired to tote boxes out of the attic, turned out to be a book lover, so he left with a sack full. Still, there will be lots of books in the sale.

More booksthere will be a lot of books for sale next weekend. What’s left over will go to the city library.

That’s not to say that there won’t be plenty of books in the back of the U-Haul truck that will roll out on Friday, after we’ve told ourFloridafriends “so long.” These include some that are new to me. How can that be?

About a month before our move those many years ago, my mom died. After my sister and I settled the estate and closed the house we grew up in, I dispatched two moving vans—one to Sis in Oklahoma and one to my new Georgiahome. Mine arrived a couple of days after the van from our old home. When the movers asked me what to do with the boxes of books, I, in a fluster, told them, “Put them in the attic.” You won’t be surprised to learn that I finally got around to unpacking them last week.

I found treasures. My father’s college textbooks. Books my mother had read and reread. I love her practice of dating her underlines and sometimes adding a note. I can sometimes remember what was happening in her life at that time and gain new understanding of her wonderful self. I packed up box after box of these treasures. They’ll find a home not in a box but shining on my bookshelves in Houston. But an especial one is making the trip in the cab of the U-Haul—probably in my lap.

Bob's ready for the road in the special trip tee he found at the bottom of his closet. Happy trails to us!

My father grew up in lonely central Texaswhere he dreamed of being a writer, and read every book he could get his hands on. Generally, he borrowed them from understanding neighbors, but occasionally, he didn’t give all the pay he earned cowboying on an adjacent ranch to his mother; he kept back enough to buy a book. I found one! Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police, a lively tale of a young adventure-seeking Scot. My dad’s name is carefully inscribed inside. I can picture him in the shade of a big cedar tree reading and rereading Cameron’s adventure. [My dad did grow up, and he did become a writer. If you’d like to know more about his life on the farm and his own amazing dad, then check out this article he wrote in 1960 for the Saturday Evening Post-- http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2010/07/29/archives/then-and-now/power-music-fiddler-hope-alive-1920s-texas.html ]

I’m looking forward to sharing the lively Corporal’s Canadian adventures as I roll west on I10 heading home toTexas.

 

 

 

Q & A: Memoir Tips — Vivid Verbs

Today begins a new blog series, a Q & A for memoir tips. Each third Monday of the month you’ll have a chance to follow along, and maybe even see your own question answered! Be sure to email me your questions, at ssherman@sonic.net. And for more, visit my website. (The new one launches within two weeks!)

So let’s get started. This is going to be fun!

Q: My writing is flat. I see the story I want to tell so clearly in my mind, but when I write I don’t feel carried away by it, the way I was in real life. What can I do? — Flat Writing Has Me Down

A: Dear Flat Writing: The topic of enlivening writing is a big one, and an important one, but we’ll take it one step at a time. I’d like to tell you about the common mistake people make in an attempt to brighten their words. They reach for adjectives. “Her hair” becomes “her brown hair”; “the table” becomes “the large table.”

Adjectives that really do their job, that ADD to the picture being drawn, are another subject entirely. For now, keep in mind that including someone’s hair color or the size of a table doesn’t enliven writing. It’s verbs we want! Imagine this: Her hair was long and dark. It could be: Her hair hung like a dark cloak, shadowing her eyes. Or this: She came over, happy to see me. It could be: She strode across the yard, grinning.

Here is a list of Vivid Verbs you can print and use for ideas. As an exercise to practice using vivid verbs, choose 10 from the list and write them at the top of your paper before you begin writing. Steer your story in a way that lets you use these good words and surprise yourself with what can happen. Here are 10 selected randomly from my list for you to try:

abandon, blast, collect, dash, ease, fumble, gather, hoist, mumble, swerve.

I’d love to hear how it goes.

Pushing My Limits

One recent Saturday morning, I hopped into my trusty little Subaru Forester, the car I call “Mountain Goat” for its ability to nimbly handle seemingly any road conditions, and drove to Westcliffe, a former mining town on the upper edge of the wide Wet Mountain Valley to attend an all-day workshop on creating websites with WordPress.

I left home at quarter past seven, as dawn light fingered down the mountainsides from the high peaks. I arrived in Westcliffe a bit over an hour later, ready to dive into the workshop. Eight-and-a-half hours later, when I closed my laptop, I had set up my gorgeous new website/blog and had the first of many pages finished. I was elated—and completely wrung out.

Sangre de Cristo Range at sunset

My eyes ached, my brain quivered like jello, and I was acutely aware that home was an hour’s drive away. A very scenic two-hour-drive mind you, with post-card pretty peaks rising from wide valley-bottoms, plus a winding river canyon. But not an easy one: the two-lane roads alternate between fast and straight, and narrow, winding and slow.

I was all too aware it would soon be evening mule deer commute time, when deer amble across the highway aimed for evening browse, oblivious of traffic.

I forced my gritty eyes to scan the landscape as I drove, alert for twin-hoofed travelers. I wasn’t five miles out of Westcliffe when I spotted some, but not the kind I was watching for: a herd of about 100 pronghorn drifted up the grassy slope, the last stragglers still crossing the road.

Pronghorn drift up a grassy slope after crossing the highway

I stopped to shoot a few photos. As I admired the sleek pronghorn, I felt a physical pang of grief that my late husband Richard was not with me to admire them. We shared a delight in all of the wild lives that inhabit these spectacular and harsh landscapes.

It felt like my heart was splitting. I pressed my hand to my chest. “I miss you,” I said out loud, and swiped tears from my eyes. After a moment, the pain receded; I put my camera down and drove on.

A pronghorn herd buck grazing, watchful of "his" does

The road swooped around a curve and wound through scattered pinon and ponderosa pines. I slowed for a tighter curve, and three robins flew low over the road. Then two more, with a third behind them.

The last bird suddenly turned and flew right into the car hood. I braked, but couldn’t avoid the bird. I felt the soft thud of contact and looked up to see the robin fluttering. And I didn’t stop.

Maybe it was the grief, maybe the exhaustion… Whatever, I drove on. And castigated myself.

Perhaps that sounds soft-hearted. It was “only” a robin, a common bird by all accounts. There are lots of robins. But only one specific bird that hit my car. And I didn’t stop.

It wasn’t until I reached home that I realized why: I simply couldn’t deal with another death. I hit my limit last Thanksgiving weekend when I helped the love of my life die as gracefully and mindfully as possible from brain cancer. My heart isn’t ready to weather another, be it robin or man.

Richard Cabe with one of his "tree-buddies" a massive sugar pine

Grief, I am learning, is no more linear than life. Both twist and turn, offering spectacular beauty and serious pain; the calm of long, straight stretches interrupted by hair-raising rises or drops; and without warning, events that sometimes simply fly straight at us.

We duck, a robin flutters on, and somewhere, if we’re lucky, love smiles.

When have you pushed your limits? What did you learn from the experience? Write about it!