Keeping the Dream

Another beautiful morning, though this one, unlike yesterday, is in shades of gray, not yet decided whether it will rain again as it appears to have overnight.

It is a curious thing, our lives. We create so much of our own problems and troubles, and yet on a morning like this, in a quiet moment such as this one, I wonder what was so important about everything I had made such a fuss about.

Everything we strive so hard for, things worth sacrificing precious hours, days, months and even years for; willing, too willing to pay the cost of hatred, bitterness, fear, jealously and grief left to tend itself — never a pretty sight — was any of it worth giving up one moment of awareness born out of a truly present moment?

None of the things that had consumed me in the past with their great importance seem to matter to me now. Even the pressing things in the general stream of time I call my present life dim around the edges and lose their opacity in the light, this brilliant illumination that is this particular present moment.

Oh, how impoverished I am when I miss it!

Without the wall of urgency my pressing needs have nothing to lean against and fall flat on their faces. And for as long or as little as I stay in this place, I am free.

Perhaps it’s impractical to stay in this place, perhaps we are not meant to, but it is imperative to come. And it occurs to me that perhaps some of us have truly never lived — not because of all the things we’ve never done, but because of all the time we’ve never let ourselves be.

If that is true, then I must be very, very young.

It’s quiet here. Not that it’s ever very noisy…unless the grandkids are over. But this is a quiet neighborhood, and this house is generally quiet with the various shifts of those who live here.

But this weekend, I find myself totally alone in this entire house…which is rather a rarity, because it seems I’m always with someone. Which I do love. I love being with the children, with my youngest, homeschooling her or watching another Harry Potter movie for the nth time…or with my grandkids, playing with them and nourishing myself on the laughter they bring out in me.

Still, I’ve always had a rather solitary personality, and while I don’t wish to see those I love less, I find as I sit here in this silence, and let this solitude descend around me, I am like the flower in a light midsummer shower. It is glorious.

I knew someone once who told me he could not be in the silence alone. He always had to turn something on — the T.V., the radio, something, anything. Didn’t matter what was on.

But silence has a sound, and it’s not always as foreboding or ominous as in the old Simon and Garfunkle song…as much as I love that song.

Sometimes silence is like music itself or the sound of God’s breathing each infinite moment after infinite moment. And then silence sounds like love.

I must have fewer demons in me these days. They seem to crowd less and less space in these moments of solitude. Maybe I’ve healed that much. Or maybe they just got bored and went somewhere else. But it’s moments like this, when I’m not rushing here or there, when I don’t have someplace else I need to get to or something that needs to be done, that I find solitude brings a smile to my face — a quiet one, a subtle barely-can-see-it one. But the more solitude I drink in, the wider that smile spreads…

Until the fullness overflowing in my heart is such that I can stand it no more alone, and turn to share it — my abundance coming out of solitude — with my family, my children, my grandbabies.

“Look what shape the gift of this solitude has taken”, I want to say. “Out of this silence that rejuvenates and replenishes me, it spoke of love…and took a shape. And it looks like you.”

I give up. No, seriously. I’ve tried and tried to establish a writing schedule – a few hours a day, a few days a week, all day, partial days, first thing in the morning, last thing at night, in the middle of the night, at the crack of dawn.

I have never been able to stick to any of them.

The reasons varied. Sometimes it was because I was involved with men throughout my life who, while they liked the idea of my creativity, didn’t like the actual reality of me doing it.

And sometimes it wasn’t the time and discipline but the passion with which I embraced it that threatened the men in my life. (Actually had someone tell me once he’d rather I work 12 hour shifts in a factory than spend time, even if less, with my music and writing, because I wouldn’t love my factory work like I did my creativity.)

Other times it was survival demands as a mother, more often than not, single mother, throughout my parenting career,

But much of the time it was me, not being able to claim time for me, not able to create the space I felt I needed. Or spending my energy on wrestling with my own hungry dragons – they’re ravenous when they awaken – or doing my Atlas thing trying to hold up what seemed a whole world, my world, of crushing depression on my shoulders.

My artist’s life never seemed to appear but for temporary moments, elusive, never really here or staying long if they were.

Well, what if it never came – my artist’s life? What if the most I could ever hope for were sporadic opening and closing of windows, borrowed time, stolen time? Should I pout and resent, because the sun doesn’t shine every day for me?

What if those window shutters weren’t shutters at all, but clouds drifting across sky, hiding not the sun but opening a shadow umbrella to protect me from the heat?

And what if, instead of seeing what I don’t have, or becoming blind with frustration, I looked up to see what shapes, what stories, what fantasies come to me in shapes of puff and white against the blue? And when the clouds are flat and gray, what if I let the tears that fall from them wash and refresh me even still anew?

What if my general assumptions were in error to begin with, if it’s not about having “writing time” or “recording time”, but being present enough to just have this time?

Because maybe I have been doing to myself what others have – demand of my time out of expectations, and not allowing time itself to speak to me in its own voice.

Today, I had a number of writing sessions. Some short, some longer, but I took them throughout the day as they presented themselves. And because I wasn’t demanding that a block of time be this or that, my day was peaceful – grateful for the time I had to write, and present for the time I didn’t.

I can wake up early enough and start the day with my manuscript and tea. And what gets done gets done. And what doesn’t doesn’t. But I will be, truly be, wherever I am. I give up the struggle.

And something tells me, I will wind up accomplishing more than I can even think right now…not because of any determination on my part, but because a huge space has opened up inside me – the wonderful kind, the rich and fertile kind.

And it’s occurred to me, that what had been taking up my time more than anything else must have been my own anxiety and my own demands on me.

I did not know how to protect my time from those who would use it for their own purpose, and I did not know how to protect my time from my own demands. But I think I’m getting there.

Today was a good day…not a writing day, though I did that.

It was a good day that was simply lived.

Tomorrow my youngest, Brhiannon, is going to compete with her home school/cyber school team in the Lego Robotics competition in Philadelphia.

Brhiannon is bright and artistic. She is also dyslexic, and knows she has challenges learning in certain areas as compared to some other students. But she doesn’t care.

She is not as advanced in the math necessary for this particular competition, but it doesn’t stop her. She doesn’t sit out because she’s afraid she’ll look foolish or refuse to take a chance until she is convinced she knows everything she needs to know or has everything lined up. She knows she will eventually learn what she needs to learn, but right now, in this moment she is open to learning what she can and offering what she has to offer as she is, who she is, right now.

It reminds me of when she was taking lyrical dance a couple years back. Every student in that class had years of dance lessons, and most if not all took several classes a week. Brhiannon had only one formal year in one class the year before, and no ballet.

But she did not care.

She was willing to learn what she could, and risk looking awkward next to the other more skilled dancers. Where most of us would not want to put ourselves in that situation, much more sensitive and self conscious how we looked to others, Brhiannon just jumps right in. If she’s interested in something, if she wants to experience something, she just does it.

She doesn’t care about other people’s approval, doesn’t care about what’s cool or not cool, isn’t peer dependent to tell her how she should or shouldn’t behave, and could care less about whether she’s up on the latest trends.

I admire that about her.

I admire her willingness to take risks, to try new things, and most of all, to follow what’s right for her without checking to see if it would be regarded as cool or okay by others.

So while I’m at work tomorrow, I’ll be thinking about my brave little girl, going off to Philadelphia with her teammates without me, on her own, taking a step into the unknown and facing a challenge head on with every intention of doing her best and having a good time.

I really am proud of her, and more, inspired to face some of my challenges with a little more courage…just like her.

So NaNoWriMo has been over since November 30, midnight, and I made my goal! Formal end count, 52,209 words. Yeah!

It’s amazing how quickly my “regular” life demanded tending to. Not that I just dropped everything in November, but I consciously chose to let a few things slide. Taking a day or two to step away from novel writing, turned into a couple weeks trying to get back into the swing of my “other” life before I became a full-time writer for a month.

And I’m quite grumpy about it. Just ask Brhiannon. (Sorry sweetheart.)

I haven’t quit writing, and in fact, have added to the novel here and there, and started the editing process, as well as picked up my nonfiction manuscript again. I’m certainly writing more now than before I started NaNoWriMo. It just doesn’t take up my days or even my thoughts like it did in November (I like having my mind crowded with creative ideas.) The other needs of my life crowd in and like jealous children vying for my attention, demand that it’s their turn now.

And despite all the things I have to take care of in my daily living, and the writing that I am doing, something is missing. Taking “some writing time” isn’t enough. I don’t want just writing time any more. I want immersion.

I really like the hard work, the pressure, the accountability of NaNoWriMo. I liked writing so much under these circumstances that even though I hit 50,000 early in the day on the 30th, I wound up adding another 2,000 words by 11:30 that night.

So maybe I’m weird, but I enjoyed it, every bit of it. I loved the sense of accomplishment and the flow, even the writer’s blocks! And I had a few.

It was like a game, a personal challenge, where I developed certain skills and techniques, learned a bit about myself, especially perseverance – my perseverance and what it looked like and how to use it most effectively.

It was fabulous.

I once read an interview by an author who said he hated writing, but he loved having written.

And I thought, well, then why bother? Different people have different motives and reasons for writing, and I can’t speak to those. But for me, if I hate the process, then I can’t do it. Because it’s all about the process for me. You know, the journey more important than the destination kind of thing. Though the destination is nice too!

NaNoWriMo isn’t about writing 50,000 words in 30 days. For those who participated, it wouldn’t be such a stretch to say NaNoWriMo is like fire-walking, the point being to push you to show you not just what you can do, but who you are.

And now that I’ve met “the new me”, I think I want to continue my journey with her.

I know I do.

I had always believed in the power of creativity, particularly the healing power. It was the power of song that had pulled me through so much of my healing journey – addressing the incest, answering the pain, comforting the tantrums of an inner child, trying to understand her, when at times the only thing she could do was look at me with reproachful eyes.

The songs I wrote were my life link, finding expression not only for the ears and hearts of others, but in the writing, the singing, and even in the hearing later after recording, they ministered to me.

And it was all about the message for me, to get the message out – the message of healing and hope. And I tried to express that message in creative venues whenever I could, in between everything else, part-time, whenever I had a chance, half the time arguing whether I even should, stealing moments before the sun rose, staying up late after everyone else had gone to bed.

I marveled how some people could take an entire day to barbecue and party with friends, and yet, I felt like I was asking for so much with a four hour recording session. I argued and I resented, but by my acquiescence I agreed, my creativity did not merit.

I never paid much attention to the message I was giving me. I counted it an accomplishment to finally put a CD together after 14 years. And it was. But my creative spirit was anorexic by that time.

Over the past few years, with the growing illnesses of two people whom I loved dearly, my creative endeavors became fewer and fewer, and the writing and recording virtually stopped. A few good faith starts, a bit of inspiration here and there, but nothing with any longevity.

And then November came: NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. To write 50,000 words in thirty days, commencing midnight, November 1st through November 30th.

So, shall I give birth to a novel on November 30th, I asked, as I had given birth to my first born 28 years ago?

The thought was absolutely ridiculous. I’m homeschooling, work full-time, plus I have this other manuscript I’ve been working on forever, and ever and ever. That’s all I need – another project.

But it was just crazy enough, and so impractical and foolish to be appealing to me that I jumped right in and signed up.

Truth be known, I had signed up in 2008 and 2009. Total word count for each of those years? Zero. Not a single word. But I liked knowing about it, and following it, kind of.

Not this year. Starting midnight, November 1st, I began to carve out time in my day to write, and I haven’t stopped, and I haven’t apologized.

And somehow everything else has gotten done. I’m still home schooling, even more efficiently, I may add. And I paid my bills on time this week. And the dog gets let out and my house doesn’t look half bad. So it’s no showcase, but then it never is, not even in my most domestic moments.

So I’ve been making daily word count posts at my dreamsinger page at facebook. And I’m proud to say that as of this writing (and I’ll have another session this evening) I have 15,086 words.

What is amazing me in this first week is seeing just how transforming adopting this writing commitment, carving out space in my day to write is. I’m not just tallying up the word count. I’m feeling better about myself with each day.

And I’m beginning to realize that, for me, this isn’t about writing a book. It just looks like it is. It’s not even about the message you give to others through your writing or your songs or whatever avenue your art takes.

It’s what you tell yourself about you through the relationship you have with your own creativity.

And if that’s all I get out of it, then it’s what I’ve lived my whole life to achieve. It only gets better from here.

On my way home after the Springettsbury Saturday in the Park fireworks display, I was driving up Mt. Zion toward John Rudy Park, when the car I was driving started to sound and feel funny. I soon realized my back tire was out. I made it to the stoplight at N Sherman Street, and was forced to stop.

With me were my 2 year old granddaughter, 5 year old grandson and youngest daughter, 13. It was dark. Since it was my oldest daughter’s car, it took me a while to find the flashers. It didn’t help that I was nervous. When I did find the button, the few cars on the road at that time simply drove around me. I decided to turn onto N Sherman. Fortunately for me there was a small pull off right past the light, so I could get out of the albeit sparse line of traffic.

It’s bad enough having a flat tire on a country road at night. But it’s frightening when you have young children with you. I wasn’t too far from my daughter’s home, but looking at the dark road that lay ahead it might as well been miles and I knew by the sound of the wheel, there was no way I could drive the rest of the way.

Just as I pulled off, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a car pull up behind me with its flashers on, not the red and blue lights of a police car. Strangers.

I felt so vulnerable.

But I reminded myself more people are good than not.

That night I was truly blessed. Two young men not only graciously changed the tire, but they went back home first to get a jack, as there wasn’t one in my daughter’s car. They were so personable and kind. They acted like it was no big deal. That’s just what they do, they said. Like, of course, why wouldn’t you help your fellow human being?

I’m not sure what I’m more grateful to them for – changing the tire or giving the children, and me, the opportunity to see how generous and kind people can be.

I can’t thank Hank Schmincke of York and Justin Salter of Harrisburg enough for their kindness, and just want to remind people not to let stories of people’s cruelty or apathy blind you to the reality of people’s kindness or caring. Because it’s very real and hands on. They may not make the headlines every day or even ever, but people who care are the ones who not only make a difference but the difference.

Thank you, Hank and Justin. My tire went out one night, but the generosity of you two will uplift my heart and leave a positive impression on these young children for a long, long time. But what makes me happiest is knowing that you take who you are wherever you go.

Thinking about the good you will be doing, planting seeds of kindness throughout your life’s journey and making this world a little better place makes my heart sing, and encourages me to continue on my own path of blessing others.

And for that, I truly thank you.

The absurdity of that statement didn’t really hit me until I saw the look on my doctor’s face. I was telling her about the pain I had begun to feel in the glands in my neck just a few days ago, the beginning of my second infection in two weeks. I was getting over the first infection, when these new symptoms started appearing and increasing over a couple days when I should have been getting better.

It took me finally waking up in the morning feeling like I had been run over by a truck and the entire right side of my neck tender as hell to realize I better take care of this. I called that morning. I had gotten another infection, one that required antibiotics this time.

My doctor looked at me, when I told her what my initial response had been, like why would you want to ignore that?

And that’s when I realized how not particularly normal or healthy my attitude toward pain was. I, also, realized that is, in fact, how I looked at all pain – physical, emotional and psychological.

That’s not the same as caving in to every little ache you feel, but really…pain has a message. You acknowledge it, see what it’s trying to tell you and then make decisions based on whatever information you receive.

Me? If I even acknowledge it, I then ignore it, dismiss it and act as if nothing was wrong. I don’t bother to get the information…until it’s hitting me over the head, and even then, half the time it needs to knock me out.

When you come to think of it, that’s one of my survival methods as an incest victim, to ignore the pain or any clues that something might be wrong, and focus entirely on what I and my family needed, demanded me to see and believe.

It was a survival mechanism. Evidently a deeply ingrained one. It worked well and probably was a good idea at the time. But being 54 and living your life like you’re twelve isn’t.

So that’s another tentacle from the past I have to gingerly lift up from the present and plop to the floor. And if I learn from this, and make the changes I need to live more effectively, then that will be a great response.