The Gift of Seeing

my hands, my message (photo by James Simpson)

A year ago I walked into a honey-colored cabin in the New Hampshire woods and was told: Find your seat by choosing the message that speaks to you. In every place around the fireplace sat a stone about the size of my palm, each bearing a short painted phrase. About half of the seats were already taken, but I didn't have to look hard to find mine. In the second chair from the door sat a smooth charcoal-colored river rock shaped almost like an egg and almost like a heart, with these words in yellow paint: we see you.

Yes, this was my message. This was the stone that spoke to me. This was the very thing I longed for: to be seen. The secret wish of my heart has long been to feel at home in my own self, to have my outside match my inside, and for others to see past all the things that trip me up when I look in the mirror or open my mouth to speak. To me, being seen is not about being exposed or made vulnerable, although those things can certainly come with the territory. To me, being seen is all about being part of a community, being valued, being loved.

That was Squam Art Workshops 2008. I left the whole experience feeling tender, disappointed, and lonely. I wrote openly about this, not to condemn the experience, but to be honest and to make sense of it.

Then a curious thing happened. In the months following Squam, people I'd met at Squam emailed me. We became Facebook friends. We supported each others' blogs. We talked on the phone. We met up in person. It took me months to realize it, but I had made meaningful connections at Squam. I left feeling alone and defeated, only to realize half a year later that these women had seen me. And they wanted to know me. I began to suspect that I'd been the one having trouble seeing things clearly.

So I registered for S.A.W 2009. I started to get excited about seeing my friends again. (I was even looking forward to trying my hand at painting once more, but that's another story.) As the calendar closed in on September, these women started leaving me little notes online, saying things like, "Can't wait to see you in a few weeks!" And still, after months of friendship, I was astounded. Me? They wanted to see me?

I arrived at Squam Lake this year with a friend at my side and many more to embrace. I flitted and socialized. I listened and talked. I laughed in the dark woods until I almost wet myself. I did my best to see the women in front of me because this is one of the most sacred gifts we can give one another. We can look into someone's eyes when she talks. We can ask questions not just for the sake of conversation, but because we care about the answers. These basic human things are so groundbreaking precisely because they are ancient and true.

It took me a full year to believe it, but the message on my rock was more than just the wish of my heart. It was the truth of my experience. I am seen. And because of that, I have a sacred duty to return the favor.

Sweet Tea for the Soul

image by Javier Álvarez J - bahaviours

If I were going to write you a letter, this is what I'd write today:

It's nearly 1:30 in the morning here. This isn't really all that late for me, the avowed night owl. Two nights ago I went to bed a little after 5:00am because I was scurrying to complete a packet of writing for school. It's not unheard of for me to go to bed that late, but anything after 4:00 is pushing it, even for me. I think I'm still recovering. 

I slept so late today that this is the first block of time I've had to sit down to write to you. I spent all day running errands: the butcher (sadly not the baker or the candlestick maker; come to think of it, I wish I knew of an actual candlestick maker in my town), the pet store, home improvement store, big box store (the one with the pretend French accent), and supermarket. We were out of everything at my house. That's what happens when you go away for a week and then hole up sick for another week. In the midst of all my running around, I stopped by the cafe (okay, the Starbucks) and got a black tea latte. I love those things, which is strange, since I'm usually a no-sugar, no-milk tea purist kind of drinker.

But something about those sweet, milky brews with the foam on top make me so happy. They feel like the grown up version of the beginning of my obsession with tea. Our childhood babysitter was a woman named Vali (sounds like valley). My mom had worked with her as a keypunch operator at an insurance company before I was born. Vali always seemed like an old woman to me, but she was probably only in her 40s or 50s when I was a kid.

Vali brought us toys every time she sat for us. My parents say she probably spent more on us than she ever made in babysitting wages. The most memorable gift was an elaborate domino set made up of brightly-colored plastic dominoes and contraptions like ramps and balls, sort of a design-a-crazy-mousetrap kind of toy.

I loved the toys, but I really loved the snacks Vali made. Well, just one snack in particular, the same one I had every time she visited: a ham and cheese sandwich on wheat bread, with mustard and sweet pickles. And to drink: hot tea with lots of milk and just enough sugar. I'm sure I ate those things when Vali wasn't around, but I always associate them with her.

I have a confession: I also went to Starbucks yesterday and got a tea latte. Once I have one I get a bit obsessed. I can't help myself: before I know it, I'm back for more. This is how I found myself today going through the drive-through and paying over $3.00 for something I could make at home for a fraction of the price. (Although I'm still trying to figure out how to foam the milk just so; do I need a special contraption?) There's something about the overpriced version that I can't seem to replicate, something beyond the foam. Maybe it's the syrup.

Yesterday was the first time I'd left my house in a week! How crazy is that? I'd hermited myself away with boxes of tissues, bags of cough drops, and mountains of school work. It felt so nice to be out in the world yesterday that I sat in Starbucks' parking lot and savored the thick layer of frothed milk on my tea. The wind was flying around and it started to rain, but I was cozy in my car with my tea.

I've found myself thinking about childhood a lot lately. Themes of lost innocence and longing for what now seems like a simpler, safer time have been showing up in my writing, too. I'm not sure what that's all about, but there it is. In the meantime, I probably won't go back to Starbucks tomorrow, but only because I'm meeting a friend at another cafe and will order something coffee-based. But I know it won't be long until I hit the tea latte again. And come to think of it, I haven't had a sandwich with sweet pickles in ages. Maybe it's time to buy a jar.

It Won't Last Forever

On my little brother's first roller coaster ride, as he realized the gravity of what was about to happen, my dad told him, "It won't last forever." My brother chanted that reassurance to himself until the ride ended. I imagine his young mind latching onto the saying with the same determination with which his little hands gripped the handlebar in front of him.

The phrase has become a sort of mantra in my family, one we still use some 20 years later. We usually reference it with a chuckle, a gentle reminder that no matter how scary or troubling a situation, it will eventually end. It won't last forever. It won't last forever. I realize there are grave situations in which this would bring little comfort, but it does come in handy in places like the gynecologist office and airport security lines, or when you have a head full of soggy cotton and a cough interrupting every other thought.

The latter is why I've been using the mantra, reminding myself that no matter how lethargic and pitiful I feel right now, this doesn't doom me to a lifetime of cloudy thinking and an incessant need for naps. (Okay, truth be told: I do love a good nap, even when I'm healthy.) I've caught myself feeling hints of panic over the past few days, worrying that the ideas in my head will stay muffled and just out of reach, like underwater mirages.

But that's just crazy talk.

I'm swimming my way back up to the surface here, hoping you'll join me from whatever depths (or shallows) you're currently in.

Moon Sky

 image by Dee Adams

It will be quiet here for the next week or so while I pursue flights of creative fancy and take a break from the computer. I look forward to seeing you soon. In the meantime, here's a little story I wrote earlier this month.

What story do I want to tell you? What story do you want to hear?

Late one night – or early one morning if you prefer – I stuck my head and upper body out my second floor studio window, stretching to peek around the far left corner of the house where the full Corn Moon lit up the sky. It was nearly 5:00 a.m., but I hadn't gone to bed yet.

With the full moon and light fog, even the darkness was luminescent, seemingly lit from within. The sky was a pale blue pool, with stipples of white clouds glowing in the moonlight. I've never seen such a friendly and enchanting night sky.

I leaned out the window. The window frame cracked, and I yanked my torso inside, imagining the weight of wood and glass on my back. When nothing happened, I poked my head back out into the night. I leaned out, just a bit further than I thought was safe. I inadvertently imagined falling into the small bushes below. I wondered who would hear my cries and find me first, doubting it would be my husband, so soundly does he sleep. Everything was quiet and still. For once, I didn't feel very afraid. If I were just a little braver or had had some company, I would have taken a predawn stroll around the neighborhood, just to walk about in the open under such a sky.

I would have liked to swim in that sky. It was like a sea lit up with bioluminescence. It was like a cool baptismal pool. It was like the portal to all my dreams.

But it was nearly five in the morning, so I shut the window and closed the blinds. But before I went to bed I opened them once more for one last glimpse. I was sad to leave that sky for sleep. I dreamt I told you about the sky. But even in my dreams I couldn't do it justice.

* * *

How can I recreate the sky in words? What can I say about the moon that hasn't always been said? All of the words that come to mind are hackneyed: shining, silver, pale, glowing, bright, mysterious, cool, benevolent, majestic, luminous, round.

Maybe I could say that the moon looked like a luminescent opal. Isn't that a moonstone?

How do I tell you about the precise color of light blue that shone in the sky around the full moon? I don't know what to call that blue except "my favorite." Maybe pale watery blue. It was like a patch of day in the night-dark sky, the opposite of an eclipse. It was like a drink of water after a long nap.

The full moon shows me that the sky is still with us, even without the sun. The blue and white do not disappear, rather they just go unlit.

Is this true? Are blue and white really the truth of the sky? Or is the unfathomable darkness with pinpricks of starlight the real thing? Do the moon and sun lie to us, perpetuate an illusion that we're bathed in light, be it golden or silver? How do we find the true sky? How can my words ever reach so high and so deep into the heart of things?

This is exactly why I do not try to describe the sky.

Thriving Through Limitations

image by NCinDC

This is an obligatory blog post. I think it's only fair to be up-front about that. For the past few days, everything in life has felt obligatory: eating, bathing, reading email, going to the bank, feeding the cats, trying to write. My husband had out-patient surgery on Tuesday, but by the way I've been sleeping and moping around the house, you'd think I was the one in recovery. He's way more chipper than I am. (Then again, he's also on prescription pain meds, so that may be helping his outlook.)

I'm freaking out because life is busy and I'm trying to stick to an unrealistic, yet necessary, time table for everything. As a result, life feels like one big, heavy medicine ball of obligation. And here's what I think of that: obligation is creativity's arch nemesis, because I don't seem to be able to create a damn thing, not even dinner. That's a shame, because most of the things making my life so busy right now are things I willingly signed up for, things I want to do, things I'm actually happy about.

It's disturbing how my energy and excitement for things I love can shift into procrastination and dread as time constraints close in around me like plastic wrap sticking to itself. Suffocating.

Sometimes I work well under pressure. And I'm always determined to meet my deadlines. But let me tell you: it's not always a pretty picture. Okay, it's often not a pretty picture. Yesterday I was so sick of my whining and wide-eyed project paralysis that I told my husband, "If I were another person, I'd leave the house to get away from me!" Bless him, he's mostly unfazed by these episodes (even when he's not on pain killers). I, on the other hand, am completely fazed by my own issues.

I heard Imogen Heap interviewed on NPR the other day. She was talking about all the wonderfully strange noises she jams into her songs, like the sounds of a video game or the kitchen sink. On her latest album, she wanted to include the sound of a jack-in-a-box that a friend had given her. Was Imogen fazed by this challenge? Well, we'll never know if she moped around her house (which, by the way, is shaped like an ellipse and inspired the title of her current album, which, by the way, is lovely) or maniacally worried about it, but here's what she told the interviewer: "That's when the creativity really thrives...when you have these limitations that you set on yourself."

That girl has a can-do attitude, something I could use right about now. So I'm trying to stop thinking of obligation as the creativity killer. Instead, I'm looking at my current obligations as merely a limitation of time to see how that can feed my creativity.

And look: It's working already. I wrote a blog post.