Apples, Oranges and What's Good for the Goose

With a degree in fine arts and a string of corporate jobs that paid the bills while I nursed aspirations to one day return to drawing, I never saw this coming. Becoming a writer has been the Mother Goose of all career changes. Since its inception I planned to gauge the success of my stint on the publishing world's favor. But I'm not quite ready for that crucible and I happen to have a new measure.
After turning down--not all, but most--social invitations, I know I've arrived. With no designs on intentionally cultivating a hermitic persona, I must concede that, for me, reclusiveness yields literary results. I have other logs on the fire but not nearly as many as the uberdesigner Karl who quipped in his biographical documentary Lagerfeld Confidential: "for people like me, solitude is a victory."
Because the birdsong near my writing perch won't suffice, there is still the issue of sustenance and when I do come up for air, I require lots. Like the squirrel that will eat just about any throwaway but is primarily in the foraging game for seeds and nuts, my tastes vary. And when I say I've arrived, I simply mean that I finally understand--sans regret--I can't attend every engagement I'd like to. There are apples, there are oranges but there's also Mother Goose, spinning her yarns.


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A Campfire Debate

Imagine my surprise when This American Life (http://www.thisamericanlife.org/) plugged my former hot spots, Greenwoods and Lake of the Woods Camps. Listening to it, I didn't remember any adolescent angst. Instead I reminisced about the summer escape with friends and the omnipresent sounds of nature. Curtailing my stroll down memory lane, the podcast touched on something I'd overlooked in my relative youth: the controversial appropriation of Native American culture for the names of cabins and camp ceremonies. Consequently, the counselors voices were heard and the annual pow-wow went on hiatus only to return a year later by resoundingly popular demand. The adjoining camps, and many others, have concluded that their business models are predicated on the tradition.
With that debate on cultural sensitivity at its end (for now), I'm torn as I reconcile great memories with policies that ride roughshod over a people's heritage. I write, I make art, and I endeavor to do both with respect. And the feelings stirred by the podcast have made strange bedfellows of nostalgia and contention. Luckily, I'm developing some appreciation for paradox and looking a little deeper may well be worth the mixed feelings.



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The Sunniest Side of the Street

Reeling from the news that my great-uncle passed away this weekend, attending to my little tome initially felt out of reach. When today's virtual slide show commenced and my family's summer trips to balmy Kentucky came back to life, I was sure that the day would be one of fond recollection. And there was a clearness after each memory of the time spent with him; running from his playfully pushy goats is a personal favorite.
Feeling not yet ready for grief, the numbness seemed inhibitive to the writing process but actually turned out to be a precursor to it. As I pored through my journal, I found an entry that recounted my last tangle with my uncle's ornery pets. It also detailed how positively gone I was over what I considered to be quite the catch then: an alluringly vapid young man who was wont to begin (or end) all his sentences with references to the rapper Ice Cube.
Needless to say, humor ignited my inner printing press and I'm off to add to my book once I finish here. What did I (re)learn? Keeping some record of quality time is of paramount importance and the street that is under construction won't be indefinitely... depending on your municipality. And I could benefit from rolling with change, knowing that the thoroughfare on which I find myself is no dead end. At the risk of presumptuousness, the same is true for the trail you trod.
Uncle Thomas, you will be missed.


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Thanksgiving in July!

The coming weekend means different things to different people. There is both historical and personal significance. For me it means humidity and an aversion to which I am slowly... well, I'm working on it. But more importantly, the holiday also brings another round of welcome house guests and a bit of emotional alchemy. 4th of July, I dub thee (another) Thanksgiving, after the mother of all get-togethers. It's a moniker I bestow upon every holiday that I'm... well, working on.
What I'm working on is leaving the past in the past, from the winter storms that have created Christmas travel delays to a certain paramour-free Valentine's Day when my aunt and uncle insisted I join them. By reminding myself that each and every meeting of family, friends, and friends-who-are-family is a cause for celebration--especially one that might involve a day or two off from work--gratitude fills me. And ultimately, such holiday gatherings are relatively few in number and by virtue of their rarity they're special. And your loved ones are special, too. So enjoy and Happy Thanksgiving (in July)!


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Surrender and the Little Engine That Couldn't

My day's tale begins with the latter. In the children's book The Little Engine That Could, the eponymous choo-choo exclaimed in the face of adversity: "I think I can, I think I can!" Well, today I was quite sure that I couldn't. I certainly wanted to write--and nudge myself ever closer to completion of my first book--but I was convinced that the curve ball in my daily routine would lead to a strikeout. With work being done on the house and sounds too dissimilar from the usual avian fioritura (I do so love the birds; see yesterday's post), I declared the day a wash and closed my laptop.
In my meditation practice I'm learning to bear witness to every sound, even the ones I might label discordant, but for some reason affecting that perspective today seemed impossible. Perhaps the lesson lies in my approach: affecting or imposing a perspective is fruitless. There's discipline and there's fruitlessness. The former won out by late morning after I relaxed into the feeling of wordlessness yet resolved that at some point in the very near future I would make some addition to my manuscript. And by late afternoon, I did.
So in your respective endeavor, if you think you can, go with it! And if you think you can't, go with that, too. One of the following two possibilities should avail you. You'll find that you're as contrary as I seem to be so the tables (by tables, I mean mood) will turn and you'll be back on track. Failing that, your frustration with inertia will eventually rouse you and... well, that could be "interesting" for the persons closest to you. So keep an open mind, hope that it's contagious, and surrender!


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