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Archive for the ‘letting go’ Category

pencils at the ready

I’M THINKING OF DUMPING MY BLOG -
been thinking it a while -
but is it one more step away from writing?
Or toward it?
Unsure.

I admitted to these very thoughts
while riding to church a few weeks ago
and wouldn’t you know it?
The morning’s passage included
immediately they left their nets.”
I like that.
(Long before Nike’s “just do it”
were the first disciples.
They were more cutting-edge than me.)

So what’s the hold-up?

I will miss the friends I’ve met in cyberspace,
not that I won’t be in cyberspace,
but I think I’ll feel only half-in.
Now that I see that in print,
I realize my thinking on that is wrong.
This hadn’t struck me before.
(This is one reason writers write, says Joan Didion,
to find out what they are thinking.)

I’ve been blogging over a decade, so it’s a hard break,
like parting with a old sweater,
too tattery to be seen in
but there are so many memories attached.
Okay, my blog isn’t that tattered.
Still, sentimentality is often the obstacle to the uncluttered life, is it not?

But mostly the hold-up
is the cry of the platform-builders,
“You must blog.”
Must I?
Did anyone actually say that
or is that how it got twisted in my mind?

I wish to say something fabulously acceptable,
such as,
I’m working on my doctorate
or going to do third-world orphanage work
or donating all my writing parts to a needy person
and so – apologies, apologies – I no longer can blog.

But I don’t have a noble cause to give as excuse.
And my faithful readers do not require it of me.

It is enough to say
I have nothing to say,
OR,
that what I have to say,
the topic closest to me right now,
the one I dedicate my peak writing time to,
which is as it should be,
doesn’t belong here,
and I belong where it is.

You are nodding. I know it.

A few times in my life I wondered how to explain to a friend a decision I made, only to discover no explanation was necessary.

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paper chain

Usually I write a post, then tweet a link to it. This time I tweeted a thought and now will expand on it.

The tweet: Stop thinking “This should be a book.” Start writing on the topic and see what it turns out to be. #creativity #writing

* * *

DRIVING HOME FROM THANKSGIVING, I have a thought, and the longer I think about it, the more I think I may have something worth writing about.

“I should write a book about that,” I say.
Or maybe he says it and I nod. No matter.

Yeah, actually this idea is a refinement of another idea I thought I might write a book about.
But there’s no book.
There’s no book on the original idea nor several (dozen) before it on other topics.
Add it to the list, not the list of discarded ideas, but the list of ideas never acted upon.

This “I oughta write a book” thing is the wrong way to go about it, I think. Maybe it’s best, when an idea seems promising, to just start writing and see what form it wants to take. Maybe it’s better to write down the thought, then write down the thought that comes after it, and so forth and so on, until you’re done writing about it. Then see what it is you have.

Maybe you have a book’s worth of stuff to say.
Maybe it’s an article’s worth or a blog post.
Maybe you have thoughts that ought to go in a letter to someone – just one someone. Or an email.
And maybe, just maybe, like with this, the whole shebang can be contained within the confines of a tweet and there’s no need to expand. Still, some of us can’t resist. :-)

Eliminate preconceived notions about what form a thing should take and just start writing. It will become clear as you go.

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1957
HEY, next week is my older sister’s birthday. She’s the one who, 50 years ago, suggested I write a letter to my grandmother who had just that day left us to go live in NYC with her sister.

I had been crying for hours. Everyone else in the house had gone to another room to get away from it, but my sister poked her head around the corner.

“Why don’t you write her a letter?”

I poured my heart out in 3 short sentences. I don’t know what I wrote, but when I was done, I wasn’t crying anymore. I count this as my first writing lesson.

Q: If you write, what was your earliest clue that you may be a writer? Leave a comment (below) or send me an email, whichever you like.

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FREDDIE dies.
Anchor to the whole neighborhood.
First house on the street before there were streets.
Freddie, the keeper of the history. Who will keep it now?

Freddie, #5 in my Gratitude Journal. He and Ginny.

Nine years I’m in this house. He was in his since the beginning of time, or at least time out here.

There was once a quarry
and a dirt road for trucks going to and from it.
And there was his house.
I wasn’t even born yet.

He and Ginny saw cornfields cleared piecemeal as houses went up, one by one. They saw families come and go, kids grow. They saw saplings turn into giants, giants removed and new saplings come as replacements. They were witnesses.

They told us the history of our property, how it was once forest-like and the house tucked back in there, dark. One of the owners had 35 trees removed. Was that 3 owners ago? Four? We tried to work it out a few times. Nobody could say for sure.

* * *

SEVERAL summers sitting, I talked about the screen room I dreamed of for the back of our house.

“That would be nice,” he said. “I can picture it.”

But by the time we finally did it, he couldn’t see that far and was already starting to spend more time at the rehab facility than his own house. And then they both went to assisted living.

* * *

SHE WAS NOT YET 18 when the far reaches of the county were beginning to get electricity and he delivered a refrigerator to her family’s home way up Rt. 7. That’s how it all started for them. And then a war and kids and sickness and health and plain old trying to make a life.

I came in at the end of the book and was brought up to speed, which was by then quite slow, but so was I.

It’s been quiet over there a long time now. And the porch swing that was hung every year at the start of summer has missed a few turns.

Maybe another part of the fog lifting for me is a day to stop and consider the long view and get some perspective.

first house on the street

Freddie and Ginny’s house. View from my screen room.

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bikes at rest
Yet another philosophical maelstrom. I’m sure to come to the end of them soon!

I give up chasing other people’s dreams
when I realize I’ve been doing it.

People make suggestions.
Sure. Sounds good.
I’ll give it a try.

Next thing I know I’m enslaved.
It’s running my life.

Do I regret
turning down her offer?
“You can use me as a reference
if you want to get on the circuit.
Just drop my name. People know me.”

Do I regret it,
turning inside-out
at the thought of the exposure
and saying,
“Thank you anyway, but I don’t think I’ll pursue that”?

Was that a mistake?
Hard to say.

But I remember
a few years ago
in a grocery-store chat,
someone dear and I
agreed:
We make the best decision we can
with the information we have
and thereafter let it go.

I think that’s right.

And I think the person
who offered the reference
saw my potential
to live her dream.

She shrugged and accepted it,
but didn’t understand.

And while I might have enjoyed it,
some parts anyway,
no, I don’t regret my decision.

* * *

image: “Bikes at Rest” by Marilyn….has absolutely nothing to do with this post. :-)

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the files

The greater story is unfolding before their eyes….and they are clinging to their smaller stories.” – Tina Howard

THE FILE CABINET I want is not in stock. It’s not available online either. But I’ve already given away my old one and the files from it lie everywhere.

I glance at the line-up on the bench, the many linear inches, and see that huge chunks are unfinished manuscripts and bits and pieces of once-important ideas I never started on, clippings that once struck me, the “someday I’ll write about” things.

Are they important to me now? Do I even know what’s there?

* * *

AN ARCHAEOLOGY intern, digging through these remains, might venture guesses about me and what presses in now. They’d get it wrong. No hint exists. Not here. There’s no room for now here.

Maybe a new file cabinet isn’t the answer.

I can’t write the stuff I once did and I need to let it go,” I say and it seems like such an epiphany. But didn’t I say the exact same words to a friend in Texas last September?

She heard me. I was the one not listening.

* * *

EPIPHANIES happen in an instant, but the follow-through can be long in coming.

“The greater story is unfolding before their eyes….and they are clinging to their smaller stories.” I read. Yes indeed. My feet are all tangled up in the old stuff and I have no room for what’s before me now.

Scratch file cabinet from the list. Add shredder.
Time to make room for now.

* * *

See all the Letting Go posts here.

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(untitled)

sympathy card
AFTER just 2 days
of seeing this one and that one
and the hospital bed going out the door
and meals coming in
and people paying a call
and sympathy cards making up
half what comes through the mail slot
and us not knowing what to do
with all the food being sent over
and seeing in every corner
reminders

I have no words
(not even for a title),
nothing to say,
except that I want to gather up
all the stories
and hold them close to me . . .
. . .and sit quiet for a long, long time.

* * *

See:

Going Home

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