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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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14 Days, 3 things I know for sure

It has been two full weeks since I promised myself and all of you a 30-day search for little things to cool the burnout and recharge the joy. Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. My body knows what it’s doing. Listen to it. My outlook has improved these past two weeks but my energy is still fragile. A busy week led to a near-shutdown on Saturday. So, instead of spending the evening serving food at a fundraiser I snuggled at home with my 9yo and watched Frozen. Today, I was still tired but functional. And content.

2. People will help if you drop the perfect act and let them in. I spent last night with my 9yo because my husband stepped up and took my place at the fundraiser. No argument, no pleading, he simply said I should be home resting and he would have a good time helping out. During the past two weeks, I’ve been asked how I’m doing, offered help if I need it, and given an encouraging word or a hug out if the blue. We are all connected by something. Trusting in that connection is incredibly comforting.

3. Little things grow into wonderful things. My children. Three glasses of water a day. 35 minutes a week on a trampoline. I have a long way to go, but the panic is ebbing with each crunch of my carrot, and my optimism inches upward with each note on my playlist. I even planted tomatoes today from seed, and fully expect to savour their sweet fruit at summer’s end. So I may be a bit high on sunscreen and life … But I’ll take that any time over sitting in a chair wishing the world away.

A new week begins tomorrow! See you then.

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From fruit bowl to word count

Yes, I’m writing. Can you read it, you ask? Better than that. You can eat it. I wrote a recipe. One that worked. My first real recipe, ever.

I’ve been cooking since my first batch of Rice Krispie squares for my Brownie bakers badge, but always from someone else’s recipe. Make up my own? It never occurred to me, with so many great cooks out there who could do it better than me. But those cooks didn’t have my triple threat of :

1. a heat-fueled fruit craving, my body desperate for any moisture after three days of 35C heat (pushing 100 degrees for you fahreinheiters)

2. A tired fruit bowl,  that colorful container dutifully filled with fresh offerings in the hopes that the kids will grab an apple instead of the crackers. But, proving no match for the Call of the Carbs, the fruit in time and heat wave is reduced to the appearance of little old granny heads  on the fast track to composting. I couldn’t give up or give in, due to Threat number three:

3. Celtic blood running hot at the mere notion of throwing something out.

Without my albeit bizarre circumstances, the best chefs in the world couldn’t imagine my story, let alone write a recipe to match. So just like Jack had to find himself in Finding Maria, I had to find my own culinary voice. And you know what? It’s darn-tootin’ tasty, this concoction of mine.

Pear Rhubarb Applesauce

Two apples and one pear, peeled, cored and cut into small chunks; 2-3 stalks of rhubarb, washed and diced, leaves removed

Put the fruit in a small saucepan with about a 1/2 cup water, enough to cover the bottom of the pot. Sprinkle with 2-3 tsp of sugar. Bring to boil, then simmer 5 minutes. Sprinkle with a bit of ground cloves and nutmeg. Simmer another minute. Stir to break down any remaining chunks of fruit. Let cool. Serve warm or cold. Makes 4 dainty or 2 generous servings.

Okay, so I didn’t write a chapter today. Or a sentence, even. But I did acknowledge my story, test my limits, and share the results. It seems to me all writers do that exact same thing, but good writers do it fluently, confidently, taming the unknown with a polish that comes from good old-fashioned practice.

Don’t worry, Rose, I’m getting to your story. Right after I finish my snack. And maybe take a nap. Testing limits, even the tasty kind,  can really take it out of you.

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The Need To Get Dirty

When one does not know what to write, it is a time to get dirty.

I mean gardening, folks. At least for today.

Me writing anything on gardening gives life to the saying: ‘those who can, do; those’ who can’t, write about it.’ A green thumb I have not. My photo is on the wall of every gardening centre within 100 miles, under the caption: Do Not Sell To This Woman Without Proof of Supervision. My garden isn’t a wellspot of new life; it’s palliative care for the flora and fauna set. Comments on my garden bypass the usual niceties of “My, how your hydrandgea is blooming,” straight to the ‘Wow, it’s not dead yet. How did you manage that?” My garden is not the place, you would think, to spark any kind of creative flow.

But it does. For one thing, gardening is best done outdoors. There is warmth from the sun, cool from the breeze or, for the more hardy, the wet kiss of rain or chilling boot to the arse of a northeast gale. But there is sensation, temperature change, a tingling on the skin just from standing there. Breathe in, and there are scents: earthy, flowery, and yes, manmade, too, and while your neighbour’s incinerated offerings of barbecue may not be the most delightful of aromas, there is still an engagement of brain, a spurring of thought. What is that charred carcass on his plate? What if this mild-mannered manager by day becomes a pet-chomping carnivore by the light of the grill? And there you have it: a story idea, just like that.

Now for the really good stuff. On your knees, amid weeds and rocks and clumps of soil are tiny sprouts reaching skyward despite the odds. Feel it through your fingertips and up your arm, earth warm from the sun, damp from the rain. Poke a hole, drop a seed or a tiny clumping of roots, cover, repeat. orderly, fragrant, backbreaking, but necessary if the dirt is to bloom, if the tomatoes on your summer salad are to be sun-kissed rather than factory-sprayed.

You rise stiffly, joints creaking, hands caked in mud, and look down at something you have accomplished staring back at you. For the two minutes or two hours you’ve been in the garden, you haven’t thought once about the blank page  on your screen, the missing word that taunts you, the hackneyed sentence begging for an edit. But you have been writing. After soap suds chase the mud down the drain and beverage suds rehydrate body and spirit, you’ll see them. Words begging to be planted, the blank screen a garden ready for its gardener.

How do the seasons influence your writing? Happy Spring!

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Think, Work, Stop. Honouring your Creative Cycle.

I heard this weekend that playwright Neil Simon wrote for seven months of the year, rested for five. Why? He was honouring his Cycle of Creativity.

Now, we can, too. You have time for this. Repeat after me. Think. Work. Stop. Repeat. Think. Work. Stop.

I’m fresh from a screenwriting workshop with the amazing Cynthia Whitcomb. Fresh is not the term often attached to a Saturday and Sunday spent in a boardroom but in this case, the word fits. I see my writing and my options in bright new ways thanks to Cynthia’s ability to share her passion for writing, talent for bringing words to life in pictures and experience of 40 years in the movie/TV business. Of the thousands of bytes of information I took from this weekend, her description of the Cycle of Creativity stands highest. Imagine a pie divided in three equal pieces. One piece is Brahma, what Cynthia calls the BAM! moment, the ‘cool! I’m so inspired’ idea that grabs hold and urges you to put pen to paper or finger to key. The next piece is Vishnu, a pretty word for work. Hard work. Lots of work that make the idea a reality. Finished your creation?  Next is Shiva, the stop and rest piece. It all makes so much sense it sounds simplistic. Yet seeing the pie, reading the words and best of all hearing the affirmation from a sucessful writer has done much to alleviate the guilt attached to ‘not working hard enough’ while silencing that cranky inner voice insisting that I drop this writing act and get a real job. “Our culture does not honour shiva,” Cynthia told us point blank, and it is true. Workplace heroes are the ones who give up vacations and work night after night of overtime, not those who back away from their desks to take their loved ones on a much-needed getaway. Artists are lauded for volume and frequency of product more often than quality of same. Work is necessary and can be fulfilling in itself. But without ideas, and without time to recharge, how substantial and sustainable can the output be?

You know the answer. We all do.

Cynthia shared the Neil Simon example to make the point. Being able to honour his cycle clearly worked for him and for the millions who enjoy his plays and their screen incarnations. Say it with me. Yes, I can honour our creative cycle, and I will. Avoid the pitfall of the Brahma junkie, take the high generated by your idea and plunge into Vishnu, emerging when the project is done or at a resting place to honour shiva. Take two months to see Australia, or take an afternoon to clean up your desk, whatever works that isn’t work to you.

Think. Work. Stop. I feel better already. How about you?

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Longest night: Day of Doritos and Gratitude

Longest Night. For winter-loving folk it sings a chorus of skis and hockey. For me, it is Shortest Day, SADS on a stick, jabbing me with icy spears of dread while growling threats of carb cravings and cabin fever that even the writer’s cure-all – wine – can’t silence. But this year it may be different. And I have my muse to thank.

To be clear, my muse is not a mythical creature or a figment of imagination. He doesn’t play the harp, rarely wears white, and whlle he’s no doubt modelled a toga or two in his day, does not resemble the Greek legends or angelic deities often attached to artistry’s mysterious element. Oh,no, that would be too easy. My muse is very much human, and a man at that: 5′ 7″ (he would say taller) of flesh, bone, stubborness and attention span swayed instantly by the scent of a football or the hint of cleavage. Yet in a job thrust upon him that neither of us predicted or chose, he offers a rare combination of wisdom, curiosity, and courage that has given rise to three books, will inspire at least four more, and reveals the world to both of us in moments of atomic detail. I have no gift to acknowledge the trust and sacrifice in assuming a role that is in complete defiance of the life he built, with no salary or job description, no office hours or fame. But the longest night does.

To explain that, we return to when the millennium was new and the longest day was his longest night. As summer blossomed from spring, the love of his life took her last breath and with it,  the light of his world. Years later, this fateful anniversary would bring author and muse together with one thing that could penetrate the depths of his darkness: his story in her words. Since then, my muse emerges as a child timid but fascinated by the wonders in our minds, scooping seashells of memories and netting fireflies of imagination to dump them proudly on my desk with a grin and a challenge. Presented with the words, he assumes the position of critical reader. Palms on thighs, eyes closed, he absorbs each syllable as I watch both page and cues. Leaning forward means he is challenging my assertions. Head tipped back shows his search for the images I suggest. Completely still means jackpot: he’s right there in a moment that was or could have been. “You’ve nailed it,” he’ll murmur. “I know,” I’ll reply, and we savour the words offered like sprinkles on a cupcake: not necessary, but nice.

With so much unspoken, the job is more easily dismissed than explained. “Not a muse, an agent,” he had huffed at first, silver head flashing its refusal under the fluorescent lights. “Well, if you’re not my muse, then as an agent you’ll starve,” I retort and he laughed, engaged by a new bridge connecting my world of artistry to his of commerce. Even now, after years of our meetings, I snicker as I imagine him with Scotch in hand, surrounded by conversation and cigar smoke, tightening his tie and his handshake with the introduction: “Yes, I’m a life underwriter, financial planner, and muse.” I try to picture the reactions, the requests to repeat that last part, to define the job, the terms, the benefits. Then, I admire his courage even more. For as real as he is, I too struggle with revealing that which is so natural between us to the narrowed views of those ‘out there’. How to explain the need for arguments with no winners, only a story clearer, smoother, energized by the rasping of our thoughts and words? How to honour the courage in offering one’s life stories to a critical world when thanks is dismissed with cool logic? “I’ve already lived the life,” he replies quietly. “I have nothing to lose by sharing what’s already been.” How to thank someone who endures author rants and reader indifference, juggles quarterly reports and galley proofs, while embracing each encounter with phone turned off and insight tuned in?

Above all, what gift is there to acknowledge his commitment to save me from myself? He teeters between a life that is and a life that could be, above the darkness we both fear, allowing me the freedom to explore, reunite, and reveal ourselves while keeping me from plunging too far and too fast. There is nothing I could buy, write, or promise that repays such dedication.

But the longest night can.

This year, my muse will spend its sparse daylight hours winging his way to a Christmas we all deserve: a holiday wih no boardrooms, calendars, or financial forecasts, only family, football and the bustle of a house devoted to peace on earth and goodwill toward men, women, children, and their stomachs. Before the longest night descends, he will be tucked into the warmth of a young family’s couch, with a new grandchild exploring her first Christmas and her Poppa with joyful, drooling abandon. It is the perfect start to a new season, and a fervent reminder of the light that can spring from darkness.

I will still mourn daylight’s loss with tantrums, Doritos and frequent naps, yet warmed by the image of my muse at rest I will learn not to worry when or if all will come to light, but appreciate the opportunities hidden in darkness.

After all, a season that spawned mulled wine can’t be all bad.

Merry Christmas, my muse.

Happy Holidays to all.

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What I Missed in 24 Hours

… And how I made peace in my battle of solitude vs. parenthood

I enjoy travelling, always have, but it was a nice-to-do rather than a necessity. Once my first child was born, I didn’t set foot on a plane or foreign soil for over a decade. Two things have since happened to rekindle my travel opps: our increasing ages and my increasing awareness as a writer. My three children are now school-aged, intrigued by the world around them and fun to travel with (seriously), so our family trips have expanded from day trips to month-long treks west and a week in the sunny south. At the same time, with hands and time freed from diaper bags and baby carriers, I discovered that solitary travel -be it for an assignment, conference, or self-imposed retreat – provides a focus and rejuvenation that can complement but cannot be found in the daily grind of life.

With an empathetic and capable spouse at home, I can leave my family for brief periods with a clear conscience. My husband travels for work as well; we function as a team, whether home together or pinch- hitting in the other’s absence.  However, even though my children at 13, 11, and 7 are increasingly self-sufficient, a recent overnighter for me brought home how much can change in their young lives in a mere 24 hours.

I left home on Friday afternoon. That night:

  • My teenager played a piano sonata flawlessly, after struggling with the ending for  two months
  • My tween and her dad put the finishing touches on her costume for the school play, transforming her into a 19th century country schoolgirl and cementing her love for the performing arts. They emailed the picture, her grin wider than the brim of her straw hat. I smiled, stretched languidly in my pillowy queen bed, and then wished I was home.

On Saturday:

My youngest got to be, and I quote: “Door-Holder Girl, Put-the-Chairs-on-the-Deck Girl, (as they unpacked and set up our outdoor furniture), Miner Girl (crawling under the deck for the plant pots) and then,” her voice lowered for effect, “Senior Miner,” where with bike helmet firmly fastened, she tunneled under the deck again to help attach the cords for our outdoor fountain. She was still beaming at 9 p.m., when I hefted my suitcase through the door, home at last.

A few moments in time, affecting no one but those in the room. But, these were also milestones for three young lives, a perfect moment for each of them  in which their entire purpose in life was realized: milestones in which I was a participant, not as Drink Fetcher or Site Boss but as an audience. “Sometimes it’s good to be in the crowd, ” my son said to me once, when his theatre troupe got the night off to watch another cast perform. “You learn a lot being on the other side of the curtain.”

I didn’t miss the pizza: two slices were waiting for me in the fridge.  And I didn’t miss the point right in front of me. As inspiring as lush B&B rooms and seaside vistas and writing workshops can be, so to are the myriad of tiny little mundane moments that I spend a large portion of my days trying to cope with or work around. I can’t see the forest of aha moments for the trees of “I need …” and  “When’s supper?” and “Where’s my ballet skirt?” until I leave the forest. But just for a little while. The trees still need their mom. And I will always need their words of wisdom.

Do you have a need for solitude? How do you balance it with the demands of life? I look forward to hearing from you.