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Writer’s Block: One Reason Why, The Three Things that Fuel It

I have an output ratio of 100:1. That means for every word, idea or story I manage to force into words and out of my pen, there are 100 backed up in my body, getting restless and bored and clamouring to get out. It’s exhausting and at some point it will be dangerous. Why risk exploding like a vowel-laden balloon when i could just sit down and open the tap?

Because I can’t just open the tap. The one reason? Fear.

What am I afraid of? As a child, nothing. As a body in the throes of puberty, everything. As an adult, too many things to count, so I sorted them and it turns out, fuel for my fear fals into one of three categories: fear of being eaten, fear of being ostracized, and fear of being wrong.

Fear of Being Eaten

I blame the food chain and survival instinct for Fear #1. Fear of being eaten is what kept our ancestors alive to see another day in the cave. Even today, as human settlements spread into what was once wilderness, there is a chance of encountering predators that value humans not for their superior intellect, but for the quality of their meat. In my world, I may at some point encounter a hungry bear or wolf, but I am more likely to be consumed by beliefs, values and attitudes – mine and others. We are told over and over to ‘be ourselves’, yet praised when ignoring ourselves for the good of others, be they individuals, institutions or corporations. We know it as guilt, conscience, instinct, or signal, but that gnawing weighted feeling in the gut when a decision goes against something we’ve been taught to believe can literally eat us from the inside out. Depending on what we’ve been taught, what we choose to believe, or whether we feel we have a choice at all, every decision and action may come with this gnawing feeling. maybe you’ve heard the voices: I’m working late, I should be home with the kids; I’m playing Barbies with the kids, but i should be reviewing that report; I’m buying takeout for supper, I should be cooking; I’m working my 9-5 but I should be writing; I’m writing but I should be doing something that actually contributes to society … That is what increasingly consumes me each time I sit down to write: first on my novel, then my blog, then anything that had to do wth promotion or creation of my own work. For clients? Not a problem. To open the tap for my work, I have to treat myself like my best client. That means getting curious about the gnawing sensation, standing my ground, learning from it, and releasing the energy for writing rather than consuming it to beat myself up. Eat or be eaten. Yes! And I’m done being my own dinner.

Fear of Being Ostracized

This again came from our hardy ancestors, I believe. There is safetyy in numbers when fending off hungry prowlers or enemy tribes. Being cast out of the cave or village to fend for yourself meant certain death, most likely from Fear #1. In modern times, being ostracized is not as dramatic but just as devastating. losing a job is terrifying not only because of the financial stress, but the social judgement: only losers lose a job. What will my partner/children/parents/neighbours/guy in the grocery store who knew my manager’s wife’s uncle think?
How many times do we nearly bite our tongues in half for fear of losing a relationship that in reality brings us way more grief than joy, anyway? Or go along with the committee even though we believe they’re on the wrong track? Peer pressure is often described as a childhood angst but for most adults I know, it remains a thickened concrete influence in their lives, and rarely for the better. Being alone is ‘bad’; being ‘with someone’ is good, even if that someone threatens to smother your signal or keep you small. Whether or not I was taught that, it is something I came to hold as true. Opening up enough to learn something new will open the tap to my words as well. We are each individuals, and we are never alone unless we tell ourselves otherwise or listen to people who spin those stories for their own benefit.

Fear of Being Wrong

This is the biggest brute of all in my bully pen. As a very young child, I had no limits or blocks. I laughed, embraced, sang, talked, danced, and entertained anyone and anything that would stand still and listen. I shared completely and instinctively. That was who I was. But for parents raised with strict codes of privacy and silence, my behaviour was overwhelming and appalling. A young child approaching strangers at random requires immediate supervision, patience, and a comfort level of self that the parents can smile and own their child’s behaviour on her behalf rather than be humiliated and afraid of being judged for raising a wild child, which is how I think my parents felt. They only wanted to keep me safe, but the price of that safety was my spontaneity, and the lessons were both swift and effective. Keep quiet, and there is reward. Act out and there is punishment. I wasn’t physically harmed, but the sting of a glare or shouted lecture on how i have to start behaving myself has lasted 40 years or more. The occasional spanking I received has been long forgotten. Then I started school, and call out the wrong answer, get in the wrong line, step on the wrong playground and retribution again is swift: shame and humiliation. Some of us learn to laugh it off. I thought I did, until years later I began excavating the landfill blocking my inner signal and discovered mountains of memories oozing their zaps of ridicule, name-calling and calling-out. As an adult, I was called to work in the printed word but also realized how seriously each word committed to paper was taken. Words in a contract could cost you plenty. The wrong words in a news article could cost you a lawsuit or your reputation. Not writing it down seemed the safest place to be. Safety created by others. An illusion. Safety created by me: no word is stronger than that.

Finding these three triggers has helped me built a world of safety, of my own creation. Threatened by one of these I can treat it as I would any bully; look it in the eye, learn what I can, then release and move to a space where my signal is safe and waiting for me. This wil be a constant process of repetition to rewire decades, generations even, of learned and shared behaviours. So what. I don’t know how long it will take, either. Not much of a business plan, but a definitive plan for how I want to live my life.

The tap is now open to a trickle. Here’s to keeping it that way, and seeing what else is to come.

Thanks for being here.

– Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is a publisher, consultant, and author of the Finding Maria series.
www.FindingMaria.com

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Camera vs writer’s block

Writing about myself was always a challenge, which is why I became a journalist and then a fiction writer. But like a river clogged with the silt of memories and ill-disposed junk, the flow of all my words became slower and more painful over time. The more space and opportunity I was given to write, publish and build my business, the more jammed I became. By this past spring, four books into our Nova Scotia love story, with two new authors in our stable and a fifth book on the brink, I was buried to the point where composing a tweet could be a daylong affair. School excuses took 30 minutes and three rewrites. Where there was once ease and confidence in my work, there was a suffocating pall of gloom. Writing was all I knew how to do, and now, I couldn’t even do that.

Then light appeared, first as a spark that encouraged me to drop everything and go to Hawaii in April, at a time when the dollar was tanking and my credit card was spiralling. Thank God I listened to myself. Ten days immersed in the energies and stories of more than a dozen amazing women coalesced into a pull forward and a beacon within. A month later, when I saw a blog post from fellow Hawaii traveller and awesome photographer Tanya Petraglia inviting photo shoots of ‘creative collaborations,’ the spark ignited into a flame of possibility. Creative collaboration: a perfect phrase for the creation of the Finding Maria series and the publishing company behind it. I had a business partner, but the partnership was far from being easily defined. He was generous with his story, which I gladly wrote as a gift for him, but then his presence seemed to fade like a shadow at midday when we formed a company and began the arduous task of selling our creations. You got this, he would call reassuringly over his shoulder as he dashed back to his own life, one he packed way too full for the new responsibilities of entrepreneurship, creativity, and, God forbid, friendship.  This 2-3 dance: one step forward, one step back, round and round, has gone on for more than a decade, ever since Finding Maria was first conceived. Yet, through the fog of fury I felt the distinct pull of a clear connection, that we were collaborators for a reason. Could images capture the words I needed to find? Several messages, an affirmative from my business partner and a few weeks later Tanya was in our presence, on our turf, with camera in hand ready to document this ‘thing’ of two people creating … what? Stories? Books? Life?

See Tanya’s blog of our adventure here.

As you can see, it was a picture-perfect day. What you may not see at first is that it accomplished exactly what it needed to do. It rolled over boulders of fear and frustration that had been in place for years, and tossed about stones that were newly planted, sharp and slashing. That was what I felt every time I sat down to write, a stone wall biting into my skin, threatening to crush me, while a stagnant trickle of festered fears hissed: forget all this, go back to where you were. Life needs to be defined, contained, controlled. Be safe, stay small, go back. And I blamed all of it on him, the person I call my business partner because I as a writer cannot find another phrase. In our actions and choices we appear more like strangers than friends, yet there remains this pull that brings us together and a conduit of knowledge flowing through us both that neither of us can define. I blamed him for blocking this knowledge, for his obstacle course of hoops and rules that he carefully crafted to keep his world safe while keeping our work, and by extension, me, at arm’s length. The truth is, the photos revealed something very different, that I needed to see.

It is not him. It is me.

I was given a chance to be an author and publisher, and I took it. I have the choice to remain in the partnership or leave. I choose to stay, because I continue to see an invitation to a life of enlightenment and adventure. If I want to get anywhere, though, I have to stop blaming others for how I feel and stop listening to the lurid hiss of fear. Does my business partner divert and avoid? Sure he does. But he also stepped up to be part of this photo shoot, knowing he was stepping into an earthhquake of soulful proportions. What did I do? What I always do: set it all up, fill my head with stories, then detach and cut the power. I have energy and insight to share, to break the 2-3 dance, to create the life I have envisioned. I have a voice.

Do I use it?

No. I used the books as a shield rather than a map, created them as a means for him to explore his life, while completely shutting down to the fact that they also existed to help me explore mine. The stone wall I slammed into time and again was my yearning for authenticity, as chapter outlines and business plans for the creation and sale of fiction became confused with my vision of life itself. I was allowing life to unfold, the fear assured me, and when life didn’t follow the script I conveniently hadn’t written yet, another boulder of frustration rolled over what few words I could find. It was a nifty scenario that kept me small, sheltered, and safe, but increasingly miserable and isolated from my words, my voice, my essence. And I had only myself to blame. Bloody hell.

The photos showed it all, and through tears, blackness and emptiness I forced myself to feel everything they brought up: the distance between us, the isolation, the failure to thrive in a a decade of opportunity, the gratitude grown bitter from lack of sharing. I had to completely reframe how I approach our collaboration and our partnership. No more could I blame him for his choices. I have to take ownership of mine. No more could I hide behind the concepts of books and commerce. I have to rediscover and define myself, for me. And dammit, I can’t even torment him about being short any more. A photo of the two of us, backs to the lens, eyes to the water, shows clearly he is just a shade taller than me. On another day, revisiting that photo, I noticed that the distance between us was not the unbreachable chasm as it had first appeared. We were closer than we were apart. Our stance, exactly the same. We even dressed alike. There is a connection, without a doubt, but not one I will label with carefully-chosen words. It is one I will identify by stepping into myself.

Only these photos could show me that.

As the boulders continue to shift and the concrete ramparts crack, the fears ooze away and words begin to flow. There will be much, much more written about these photos, this day, this experience.

Where will it go from here? I have to say, for the first time since the writing of these books began, I really don’t know. I only know there will be no going back.

Thank you, Tanya Petraglia, for sharing your talent and essence with the world. A picture is worth so much more than 1,000 words.

Thank you all for reading. I hope to see you again soon.

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Seed, Feed ‘n’ Weed: using stress to strengthen my spirit

In May, stress was winning I came close to giving up. Instead, I hit pause, and tried something new. And it worked.

My Keep It Super Simple plan evolved on the spot. Starting May 28, I pledged to complete a 30-day experiment on incorporating tiny actions and lifestyle changes that over time would help my body heal physically and rebuild mentally from years of accumulated stress. I was sliding into stage 3 of burnout, just two stages away from complete physical and mental meltdown. Would a few little things like an extra glass of water or listing a favourite song be able to counteract the toll a life of many drains and few recharges could take on body, mind, and spirit?

(If you aren’t familiar with my 30-day plan, my previous blog posts will fill you in. If you have been following my plan and progress, thank you! Your support has been a welcome addition to my process.)

Seeing as my challenge ended more than two weeks ago, with nary a peep on my blog about the results, it would appear as if this process didn’t work for me at all. I’m still not blogging regularly. I haven’t finished my book. I haven’t lost several inches or a dozen pounds from my well-padded frame. I can’t walk 10k, let alone run it. One by one, the list grows of the things in my life that have not improved or changed.

But you know what? KISS did work for me. The fact that I am still here, out of bed and unmedicated, is the most obvious proof. The fact that the list of negatives now wash through and away rather than stagnating and drowning me is Exhibit 2. The extra water, vitamins, exercise and rest certainly gave my body some things it desperately needed. The real power, however, comes from the mindfulness – the realization in the throes of panic or the grip of restlessness that I can do something to help myself, not only for the moment but for the long term. I had to face the fact that not only was I not getting as much fresh air or down time as I should have been, but that I was reacting to everything out of fear. I was afraid to be good to myself lest that made me selfish or unfeeling toward others. I was afraid to speak lest I be challenged for my opinions and choices, which could well be wrong. I was afraid to see myself as a person with the privilege of a brain and talent and spirit lest I be held accountable for the responsibility of sharing those gifts with the world. As a result, I was forcing myself to stay awake beyond sleepiness, ignoring my thirst, and allowing self-doubt to erase every bit of joy from any decision I made or action I took.

To be clear, I am still afraid. I still slip back into the habits that leave me drained and exhausted. But now, I have a means to bounce back. KISS is no longer an experiment or a 30-days-and-you’re-done treatment, it is a part of my life. It is a work in progress, as am I.

Now, as a sidebar, I have never been much of a gardener. I have killed everything listed as hardy, low-maintenance, and trouble-free. Even dandelions have died in my presence. However, I  secretly admired those lucky folks who could blend home and horticulture. A tiny kitchen garden, window boxes, beds of perennials lining a walkway – all look so inviting and calming. So during the past few years, I have been trying to inject some green into my black thumb and slowly, there have been results. I do have a substantial perennial collection now, lining my walkway and foundation, every plant a testament to survival of the fittest. I also have container gardens on my front and back decks. Now, whether it is our hot sunny summer so far, or the fact that I have been watering them faithfully twice a day since I planted them, my containers have flourished beyond imagination. Giant cucumber vines, abundant tomato blossoms, blooming flowers, thriving garden greens … all of them are spilling out of containers and delighting the senses. And I did that. I planted the seeds, covered them in soil, watered them, watched over them, plucked any errant growth that could overtake them, and letthem do their thing. They are yielding an eclectic path of beauty.

I am doing the same now with my feelings. I feel the stab of a seed in my gut – fear, panic, self-doubt, excitement, pride, anger, whatever it is. I hold it close, cover it with my presence, nurture it with my energy. Over time, I have an insight, or a renewed interest, or a desire to do something, or the innate knowledge to choose where I need to be and what I need to do. I take a breath, drink some water, pluck the distractions and negative thoughts, and get it done. Repeat as needed.

I love my garden, and it is what it is. My radishes will never be strawberries. My geraniums will never be roses. In the same way, I will never be one to adhere to a strict schedule. I cannot blog daily. I cannot do things by rote. I can, however, find a balance between conformity and chaos. I can connect the outcomes I seek with the discipline needed to attain them.

So maybe, just maybe, I can do this writing thing after all.

Thanks for your patience, and for listening.

We’ll talk again soon.

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Lessons from a clothesline

My basement clothesline now sags with dripping wet clothes. The forecast said thunder showers; I was swayed by the brilliant blue sky. So who do I blame: nature, myself, or this bloody Nova Scotia weather that changes literally in the blink of an eye?

The answer depends on where you are in your healing process. A year ago, I would have blamed the weather, railed at my ancestors who chose this forsaken ocean frontier over the Caribbean, fumed at the forecaster who was for once completely accurate and thus throwing off my plan, global warming, the sale of Star Wars to Disney, anything that provided a villain for my loss of productivity. A month ago, I would have blamed myself for being so stupid and naive. I’ve lived in Nova Scoria all my life, I should know that blue sky could mean rain, snow, hail or a windstorm in five minutes’ time. I should have listened to the radio. I should have been writing/exercising/sorting receipts/saving the whales instead of doing laundry during prime working hours.

Today, 26 days into my 30-day exploration, I watched the rain fall from a clear blue sky and said: oh, well, at least I tried. Clothes can only get so wet. There was nothing I needed to wear tonight. Good on the forecaster for finally getting something right. I thought not about the soaking mass of laundry that had to be hauled downstairs and hung. I thought about the warm sunshine on my deck as I hung them on the line, and the conversation I had with a young friend while doing it. I took a chance and hoped by nightfall I would have two loads of dry, folded fresh-smelling clothes. Instead, I have limp laundry draped and dripping over every surface imaginable in my laundry room. Oh, well, at least I tried.

Thanks for reading. See you soon.

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The Dark Side of the creative process

My lesson yesterday? The things that anger, frighten and frustrate are not minefields but diamond mines full of unruly bits that can be polished into a gem of a story.

I left Monday for an overnighter in the city, a work trip, wondering in part if I was well enough to take on the additional responsibility. I didn’t sleep Monday night, unless a few catnaps adding to a grand total of 1.5 hours counts, so I wasn’t off to a good start. However, the hotel was lovely. the pool even lovelier and after a soothing early morning swim and a picnic breakfast, I was good to go. Halfway through the meeting, however, the gnawing in my stomach gained fire. Clearly I was not healed, in fact, I seemed to be regressing, tuning out and fuming when I should be open and engaging. It was a gorgeous day outside and I was stuck inside listening to facts that I already knew from folks who were not on the same page I or the organizers were on. That’s a boardroom standard, is it not? By the break, I was ready to ditch. Instead, I breathed, pulled out my iPad and began working on a related project. that move diverted my frustration into accomplishment and gave me space to calm down. With the fire cooled, I could understand why I was so frustrated.

The volume of speakers, limited time and lack of rules of order meant that me and others like me had no opportunity to share their opinions. I could not speak my authentic voice. This realization helped melt the frustration, and showed that instead of regressing I have moved forward. I have found my voice, or I wouldn’t have been upset at not sharing it.

I looked up and saw the guest speaker standing alone, unusual because at the start of the break he had been surrounded, and for good reason. He was an excellent communicator – enthusiastic, knowledgeable, and efficient in connecting his world with others. I asked him a question I had wanted to discuss before the break. We had an enlightening conversation, at least for me. The break ended. I soldiered on. By the end of the day I was exhausted and still unsure whether the event was productive at all. This morning, however, after a night of actually sleeping and some processing, several good things came from my initial frustration. I looked at the day as a sign my organization could do more to promote its worth, and we are taking steps to do that. I am inspired now to refresh the promo materials and work plan.

The exhaustion is a sign I still have to be very careful and in fact, tonight, I will be enjoying an early supper and movie with my family, so we can all get a good night’s sleep. The frustration I felt, though, is gone after a day, when before it might have clung and simmered for weeks or months. That is a step forward. Bring on the water and carrots.

Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.

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It’s Monday, raining and day 22: Give yourself a break!

Here we are on a weekend of self-nurturing and the lunch conversation is paused by a participant’s plaintive plea: could she smell the coffee? No, no, she didn’t want one, well, actually, she did but was on a 30-day regimen of no caffeine, no sugar, no junk … you get the idea.

I responded that I was on a 30-day regimen, too, one of adding to my life rather than taking from it. She replied that she was using food as a distraction, and the only way to get back her control was to quit and cleanse. I wish her well. As with every conversation, this one yielded nuggets of knowledge. Every person has a different path to wellness. Only you can know what’s truly best for you. It takes courage to listen to yourself and act on your instinct, especially when it’s out of your comfort zone.

And for me, I am doing exactly the right thing.

I am exhausted on the outside and empty on the inside, slowly drained by years of self-denial, self doubt, and self-deprivation, placing my needs and desires second, third, or fourth or lower to everyone else’s. Drop by drop I have lost my curiosity, sense of adventure, love of surprises, sense of humour, and voice. I cannot at this moment take anything else away.

But I can be creative in how I change my habits.

In my 30-day exploration, I have chosen to add things – extra glasses of water, one more serving of veggies, more sleep, more alone time, a playlist of favourite songs … all good things that support physical and spiritual healing. Not once have I told myself not to have something. Chocolate, potato chips, cheese ball … it’s all readily available upon my word and I have thoroughly enjoyed them.

Just not as often or in as great a quantity. After sloshing down my eighth glass of water of the day and crunching through a carrot, I really don’t feel the need to attack the Doritos as if they are the last food on Earth. I do have a need to savour the crunch, taste the cheese melting on my tongue, and I do. but now I’m satisfied with a few handfuls rather than the whole bag. Some nights, I don’t crave them at all. My body wanted me to listen and I have. Now it is rewarding me with the gift of instinct and moderation. Food is not just a substance of survival, it is a medium of pleasure as well. Unbalanced and saddled with unprocessed emotions or negative messages, eating can become an unhealthy pursuit, but removing all pleasure creates just as great an imbalance, too often tipping us off our path into unrealistic expectations.

So, if I’m tired I breathe deeply and rest, even just for a few moments. If I’m hungry I snack on something and more and more, the desire is for something unprocessed or at the very least unsalted. Monday, heck, life can be tough enough. Take a moment to be gentle with yourself. You hold the door open for strangers and would share your lunch with a co-worker in need. Give yourself some kindness, too, instead of taking something away. See what happens.

Thanks for being here. Talk to you tomorrow.

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Lessons from The Enterprise: Day 21

I always believed life’s best lessons could be found in Star Trek and this weekend, it was proven to me. Sweet. But there was something even sweeter.

I got to share it.

In the original series episode The Enemy Within,  Captain Kirk emerges from a transporter malfunction as twins – one violent and cruel, the other indecisive and timid. As separate beings, the violent twin destroys, attacks and defiles while the other cowers, shivers and hides. Over time, both end up with the same fate: dying. As separate beings, they could neither function nor survive. Only with both the violent and the gentle balancing and energizing the other could the captain live, as well as be a successful leader and compassionate human being.

At a gathering this weekend of women who met to Rise Up! Through yoga and conversation, we discussed Yin and Yang: the need for masculine qualities including aggression, concrete thinking and analysis in harmony with feminine qualities such creativity, instinct and nurturing. I mentioned Star Trek. No one was a fan. I described the episode. Someone had seen it. Another had heard of Captain Kirk. Everyone, however, found a connection between the episode and our discussion. The facilitator said she would use it in future discussions.

It felt good to add to the conversation. But what felt fantastic? Sharing something important to me. I’ve been a Trekker since I was a kid, but in my tiny rural school no one else watched the reruns or cared to hear about them, so I learned to keep my fandom to myself. Now, more than 30 years later, I found the confidence to share and made an important connection for myself and our group.

My 30 days of exploration have been to heal body and spirit from the ravages of stress. Part of that healing, I now realize, involves finding my voice, and finding the courage to use it.  Hiding or neglecting our passions denies us a source of energy. Holding back our voices causes our messages to grind within, unleashing the cycle of stress and the damage that goes with it.

This weekend’s gathering was a small step but a shining example of how each of us within our passions have important messages only we can share.

Bring on Week 4!

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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Turn the knob, don’t pull the plug

I’m really dating myself here, referring to dials rather than touch screens, but that’s part of who I am, old. I also feel like a radio these days, needing to tune out but not wanting to lose the signals that enrich my life. It’s like when the country hour comes on our local station. I can handle a few of these artists, actually enjoy the occasional tune here. If I turned the whole thing off, I’d miss the good songs. Or, if the tuning is nudged off-station, I don’t pull the plug, I fine-tune the setting. On days when I need silence, I don’t take a hammer to the radio, I turn it off, and save the rail for a day when the music is welcomed.

I just wish controlling the signals from life were as easy.

When exhausted and overwhelmed, I have no energy for separating and sorting. Every emotion, request, appointment, deadline, and thought swirls together until a huge knotted clump of confused, angry half-deeds knocks about my frazzled brain until I am paralyzed by anxiety and frustration. In desperate need of relief, I think about quitting my work, my writing, my career, and in my darkest hours, life itself, anything to make the noise and feelings stop. what I need to do, though, is not pull the plug but tweak the tuning. I may need to focus on one task for awhile rather than split my energy between two or three. I may need a station playing different music; a change, after all, is as good as a rest. Or, I may just need to turn things off for awhile. Take a mental health day and sit on the beach, in my room with a candle, or on my deck surrounded by trees. No electronics, no people, just me.

In my 19 days of exploring ways to cool the burnout and Keep It Super Simple, I have learned that never will the world change for me – only I can slow down or declutter my world. Requests will continue to pour in, calendar dates will keep piling up … It is up to me to put them in their place: Accept or Decline, Save or Delete. That way, I can hear the signals I want, even when the batteries are low. Be selective now, to avoid total meltdown in the future.

Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.

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A stiff breeze makes us stronger

Did you know tomato plants grow better in the wind? Me neither, but my son’s high school science project gave undeniable proof. Then I got to thinking: is the same true for authors?

First, the tomatoes. Phase one of his experiment proved that tomato seeds germinated faster when fed green tea rather than just water, which was the first clue that maybe these fruits with the veggie reputation are pretty smart. Then today, after three months of careful lab work, my young scientist presented me with two clear cups, the kind that in the goold ole days would have been filled with beer at a Rawlins Cross concert … but I digress. In one cup were two scraggly little sprouts, the sort of thing I’m famous for nurturing straight to the compost. In the other, though, were a half dozen sturdy green seedlings staking their claims and reaching for the sun. The difference? The sturdy guys were given an hour a day in front of a low-speed fan. It seems the breeze encourages the stalks to grow stronger, which leads to healthier, faster-growing plants.

Huh. Who knew.

“Well, you might have, if any of your plants ever lived long enough,” my darling boy suggested as he kissed his plants goodbye and donated them to my kitchen garden … or what I hope will be a kitchen garden, if not everything decomposes by July. Sweet child. Long on honesty, short on tact and the awareness that one should never disrespect the hand that does their laundry. I could have pointed out that he is growing just fine, thank you very much, and might grow better if he did his own laundry but again, I digress.

Now, for these tomato plants to stay healthy, the breeze needs to be moderate to light, not steady or hurricane-force. There also needs to be stability in other conditions – water but not too much, sunlight but not too warm, all the usual things. But to see the two cups side by side is fascinating; a force no one could see and can only partially control rendered one group weak and caused the other to thrive. Could we, by any chance,  be like tomato plants? We instinctively seek shelter for ourselves and those we love, discourage entry into the hint of a storm, but does that keep us safe or weaken our spirit? When we survive a challenge, meet a goal, win a competition, or navigate an obstacle, we feel a sense of accomplishment, pride, energy. Placed in a stiff breeze on a regular basis would we not grow stronger as well? Resistance in the gym builds muscle; resistance in life ‘builds character’, our grandfathers would grumble. Perhaps they were on to something, and not just trying to get their kids doing the grownup work for them.

When I began this exploration 17 days ago, I felt like I was in the throes of a hurricane. Set something down, it goes spinning out of reach. Try to focus on one thing, six others become lost. The despair, the sensation of being pushed off course, the air being sucked from my lungs, even the roaring in my ears all mirrored the feeling of being caught in a windstorm. That strength of breeze doesn’t grow things, it destroys them. My decision to let go of my book for now, turn attention inward, and take baby steps back toward my path gave shelter from the storm. With every choice I make and every promise I keep to myself, the window is widened and the breeze grows stronger. Will I grow stronger, too? We’ll see. In the meantime, I may have the best kitchen garden ever, with tomatoes that actually live to bear fruit.

Thanks for listening! See you tomorrow.

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Life experiences and a space to sort them in

Storage of our stuff is a multi-billion dollar industry in North America. How much do we invest in our head space? We pay hundreds for the perfect shelving unit to hold books (proper thing, of course!), ornaments and electronics. What about all those experiences housed in our body and mind: how much do we invest in processing, sorting and storing those?

Now at Day 17 of my 30-day exploration, I have learned that Week 1 was on fuelling the body (water, food, relaxation, sleep) and Week 2 was on feeding the senses (favourite things and songs, friends, scents, the natural world). In Week 3, I am feelng the need for not just time to process the inputs, but conducive spaces as well. I am drawn to rooms with sunlight, need to open windows for breeze and scents, and have been outdoors as much as I’m able. But I’m also being creative with how I interact with my indoor and outdoor spaces as well.

One creation: my tuffet. Yep, just like the girl and the spider. Two years ago, a storm blew down an tree in the midst of my lilacs, leaving a gap that begged for a seat. This past weekend, my family and I created one, out of a repurposed front-load washer tub, old truck tire, hardwood seat from an old kitchen chair and a vinyl tablecloth left behind in our cottage. My children christened it The Tuffet. Picture a mushroom with a metal base, giving a seat surrounded by lush leaves and topped at the moment by lilac blooms. Cost? A bit of imagination and effort to assemble. Payback? Even thinking about it makes me happy. Five minutes on my tuffet and I have been transported to a different world and back. Surrounded by soft scents and cooling breeze, my mind is clearer, breathing is calmer. The solution was there all the time. I didn’t need money or time, just the headspace to pull together a few things and make the priority. Now I have a connection to my yard, my home, and my mind, body and spirit. And, a cool place to hide.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.