MUSINGS - September 29, 2015

"It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer."

- E. B. White - 

I attended a literary conference this past weekend at Casper College. It was a delight to sit with other writers and artists and conceptualize what we do and the supposed reasons behind our doing it.

There is something to be said for conversing with people who "get" why I write, even if I'm not truly able to put it into words. They don't need my words to know why I write. They write for the same reason.

There is something powerful that happens when I connect with "my own kind" even if we write in different genres. I get filled up and inspired, and I leave with the fortitude to keep writing.

I am blessed with many friends, and I connect with them in different ways. For some our connection is writing, but with most of my friends writing is not the reason we connect. We connect in other ways, whether it be through yoga or playing music or healthy, yummy food or spiritualism.

With each friend, I find something to hold on to, to honor and love, and each connection motivates me to move toward who I can be as a person, because my friend's example of doing so inspires me.

But I have to say, I don't always get the opportunity to mingle with writers that are truly in it for the craft, to appease the compulsion in their soul to do it. Most writers I run into these days are more out for making money that writing can potentially bring rather than the craft. I'm not so inspired then.

I so appreciated the conference and the opportunity to meet other writers in my community, to broaden my circle.

Mostly, I'm continually grateful for those I cross paths with that write and love the craft of writing, whether it makes them money or not. And I definitely met some of them this past weekend. Thank you.

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Elwyn Brooks "E. B." White was born in Mount Vernon, New York on July 11, 1899 and left this world on October 1, 1985. He contributed writings to The New Yorker and Harper's Magazine. He worked at The New Yorker for close to sixty years, having begun his career there in 1925. He wrote children's books and co-authored a book called The Elements of Style. Most may associate his name to Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little. Of course there are many other books he wrote, such as: Is Sex Necessary? Or, Why You Feel the Way You Do; Subtreasury of American Humor; The Wild Flag; Here is New York; The Second Tree from the Corner; and The Trumpet of the Swan (this isn't a complete list).

MUSINGS - September 10, 2015

"Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live."

- Haruki Murakami -

In this moment, as I write, time passes. The inevitability of change is all around me: in my breath and the cells of my being; in the wind as it changes course; in the weather, as it doesn't do what it did last year or the year before; in the love I feel for my husband, because it's quadrupled since I first met him and keeps multiplying exponentially; in my writing. 

Hence, everything.

And what was a day or a year ago is no longer. It passes. And that's okay.

I used to have moments that were profound, dripping of happiness or love, and I would want to stay in that moment forever, milking that feeling for eternity.

And then the moment would pass.

I would be left with living life where things happen, like me not getting the job I wanted, or running out of milk, or having to show up in my effort to move forward in life, or . . . whatever it may be. In those moments I would feel stuck in the muck of mundane-living—this will never end, I will always be here, this is too difficult, etc.

Whether I perceive the moment passing as something worthwhile or not, it will still leave me.  

Now, I attempt to stay with my moments, feeling them as they go, passing through my fingers like sand in the hourglass. I am not regretful of their passing, more accepting of what was to what is, until what is changes to was and so on. 

There is joy and grace in my days, a sense of honor and privilege to experience my life.

The question always is, "Am I truly experiencing my moment?"

Today, I can say, "Yes!"

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Haruki Murakami was born in Kyoto, Japan on January 12, 1949 and hasn't left this world yet. He is an international bestseller of contemporary fiction and non-fiction. He's won a plethora of awards, as well as gaining a steady collection of critical acclaim in Japan and elsewhere. Some of his works include, but are not limited to: Kafka on the Shore, A Wild Sheep Chase, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, 1Q84, and After the Quake.

MUSINGS - September 8, 2015

"Sometimes you can do all the right things and not succeed. 

And that's a hard lesson of reality."

- Donna Tartt -

The reality of living, in that nothing is permanent or necessarily a guarantee that x and y will lead to z.  

I have definitely had moments where I believed if I did this, then that, and so on, I would for sure get what I wanted. Of course, I was then greatly disappointed when the situation fell through and it didn't go anywhere near the way I planned. 

I've also started a project or job and believed I was heading in a particular direction to only find myself being diverted to another path, a path which I needed to be on. I can't always see that. I can get stuck in the two-year-old-response of, "Why aren't I getting what I want?"

Now, I'm more willing to go along for the ride, not in a passive, non-participant sort of way, but more of a gathering-information kind of way. When I do the latter rather than the former, I enjoy myself more, and I usually find that everything is just fine, even when I don't get what I want.

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Donna Tartt was born in Greenwood, Mississippi on December 23, 1963 and hasn't left this world yet. She's a novelist and writer. She's written three books: The Little Friend, The Goldfinch, and The Secret History. She's won awards, such as the WH Smith Literary Award and Pulitzer Prize. She was listed in TIME 100: The 100 Most Influential People in 2014. Her writing also includes novellas and short stories.

MUSINGS: Freedom from Grief

I began the week with one foot in grief and the other in the present, trying to stay centered with what needed to be done instead of sinking in the quicksand of what couldn't be.

The recognition of grief is profound, considering I used to not know when I was grieving, unless, of course, someone actually died then I could put two and two together.

What I didn't know was that grief accompanies any loss, large or small. And, as one dear friend of mine suggested, feelings are meant to flow in and then flow out. My feelings flowed in alright, but I wasn't big on letting them flow out—that might mean I'd actually have to feel them.

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My grief centers around the lost-plan of moving back to Montana. Now, me wanting to move back doesn't mean that where I live now is wrong or bad, because that couldn't be further from the truth. Which brings up the other realization I had: I can have multiple feelings, even conflicting feelings, simultaneously.

I used to think one feeling canceled another, or should, but that's not true. 

I have grief in not moving this year, but I also have gratitude for where I am.

When I dropped my boys off at school this morning and stopped in the Metro for a cup of coffee, I was delighted to be there. I appreciated every minute in the Metro, writing non-stop on a short story I'm finishing for a submission later this month.

And later in the day when I locked my keys and purse in Luna (our Landcruiser), I was pleased to know that I had friends that would come and help me out. And I got the added bonus of visiting with a friend while we drove all the way out to the airport to get my husband's keys.

In the middle of what is pleasant there is grief, right under the surface, not enough to pull me under the water, just enough to periodically poke me in the side. What I've learned, when that happens, is to let the grief flow in and then flow out, so I can feel it, as it is, without embarrassment or judgment.

Amazingly enough, the grief passes and then the pleasant I'm-okay-feelings surface until the grief flows in again, but with each letting out the grief is less potent, less consuming, and before long I begin to feel freedom from grief.

What a magnificent process.