The Writer's View, 3Dec19

For some reason that still puzzles me, I signed up for, and participated in, a book-writers' boot-camp this summer.  The two dudes who ran it promised that if you did the exercises and activities when, and as, they described them, you would end up with a true first draft of a book by the end of four 8-hour days of constant writing.  Apparently, I thought the nudge would be worth it, and so I sent in my (non-refundable) full tuition payment, made my airline, hotel and rental car reservations, and cleared my calendar.  

I didn't enjoy the process, because I hate feeling pushed, and that's exactly what they did. The entire program was delineated into 6-minute increments.  Six minutes to brainstorm possible titles. (There was a little bit of guidance on the types of titles that generally are picked up by bookstore buyers, and by consumers.)  Six minutes to describe everything you know about, even stuff you don't think matters.  Six minutes to define your target audience.  Six minutes to come up with five chapter headings. And so on, ad nauseum.  And it did, indeed, work. 

One of the things about the week that I enjoyed was getting an increased awareness of the breadth and depth of stories I have in my own personal history. We all do, if we're paying any attention to the moments and interactions of our days. One of the leaders talked about his own process of practicing his story-capturing skills by challenging himself to write a story every single day and publishing them all on a blog.  By the time he stopped his daily activity, he'd written and published (if writing on a blog is publishing, which it is, sort of) 646 days straight.  Granted, they aren't all riveting and mind-expanding, but they are stories of his daily life, and remembrances of childhood that could be used to illustrate a point.  

One of the questions 'up' for me right now is how to mentally think about individuals who, for no apparent reason, walk out of my life. When asked about their departure, there are no hard feelings, and nothing is amiss. It's just over. They feel like they've changed. The whole conundrum does leave me puzzled though. And it reminds me of a story.  

On the first night my taiji group was in Fiji, the locals welcomed us to the island with sweet-smelling Plumeria leis and a welcoming ceremony. The younger women danced a stylized, formal dance while the men played drums, and some of the older women prepared this milky white beverage that was served to us in coconut shells, family style.  All the tourists who wished to drink this beverage were encouraged to do so.  It tasted like I imagine dirty socks would.  Fortunately, it didn't smell like them.

Several days later, I was sitting on top of a picnic table at dusk, after a long day of strenuous taiji practice, enjoying the night sounds of the insects, the sights of the fruit bats flying low, and sounds and scents of the waves crashing on the rocky beach. A couple local men who served as security guards for the small resort stopped by the table to make small talk. We talked about the weather and the beauty of their island, both of which were glorious. I asked them about the welcoming ceremony. The older man replied that it wasn't made up for the tourists, that it was used by the locals to include the tourists in their extended family for the duration of their visit for their safety and protection, and then, after the tourists had gone home, the locals did a second ceremony to remove the tourists from their protection.  

I wonder what sort of disconnection ceremony I might do for this one who has walked out of my life, and I wonder what impact that might have?  I'll have to give that some thought. 

The Orange and The Green

A bunch of years ago, when I was on an extended job in the UK, I was asked to accompany a young woman that I worked with to a girls' prep school to talk about atypical careers for women, or some such. It happened to be St Patrick's Day, which is not a 'major holiday' in the States, unless you happen to be Irish or live in Boston or Chicago or something like that.  Mostly, it's an opportunity for many of the States to drunk too much (green beer or Irish Whiskey), sing bawdy songs, and eat corned beef and cabbage and belch.  (Apologies to any  for whom this is a major/serious/meaningful holiday.)

In any case, I was pretty clueless about the importance of the day and the importance of wearing the green, etc.  I had only the wardrobe I brought with me for this month-long stay, so I rummaged through my suitcase, and found my least-wrinkled, most-reputable outfit, and put it on.  It happened to be a silk-linen pantsuit that was orange-sherbet-colored. 

I felt like my reception at the girls' school was a little stiff and stilted, but just assumed it was because I was a 'yank' and obviously not of their social standing or class, and thought nothing much of it.  It wasn't until we were headed back to the office that the young woman who asked me to accompany her asked me if I had worn orange on purpose on St Patrick's Day.  My naive reply was, "no, why?" She then informed me of a little bit of the history (as she had understood it) of the holiday, and the long-standing dissention between the Northern Irish Catholics and the Northern Irish Protestants. 

In reading a little of the history of Ireland, it seems that Patrick went to Ireland well before there were Catholics or Protestants.  He went to Ireland to convert the pagan Irish to Christianity.  And that's another story all together. 

There's so much that we don't know, even when we think we do, and so many ways we are unconsciously unaware.  It's not a bad thing.  It just is.  

The Dog and The Trash Can

Yesterday a dog tipped over the trash can at the office.  When I went outside to see what the noise was, he was totally nonplussed.  He didn't even move away when I walked up to him, nor did he respond at all to any of my 'chasing away' sounds, or movements.  He had a collar and a tag, and he was healthy enough looking, I imagine he belonged to someone at the city park that is just down the street.  Since I heard no one yelling for him, I assume it is normal for them to let their dog run the neighborhood.

Of course, he wasn't satisfied to tip over the cans.  He wasn't a hooligan with the objective of destruction.  He pulled most of the bags out of the can and ripped them open looking for something edible.  The humor of it for me was the primary thing in the trash was leftover Valentine's Day candy.  There was no chocolate, I don't waste chocolate, and only buy the kind I like, but there was probably five pounds of hard, and not too hard, red bits of compressed sugar, some flavored and some not.  I just imagine when he returned to his humans, with his mouth, teeth and tongue brilliant red, they wondered what on earth he had gotten in to.  Then, if they smelled his breath, it was likely to reek of cinnamon, red licorice or fireballs. It wouldn't surprise me if he had some physical reactions to eating that much sugar.  I certainly would have, which is why I dumped it all in the trash. Hyper dog, anyone? 

While I was finding my gardening gloves this morning, I was fantasizing that the owners would go looking for the source of the red coloring and would come upon his mess and clean it up.  But no, it was still strewn across the side yard in all its glory this morning.  I left most of the sugar on the ground and picked up the remainder.  It didn't take long, and it wasn't too distasteful, since it wasn't gooey trash.  

So what's the moral of this story? Heck if I know.  Maybe it's that cause and effect is seldom a simple linear thing.  It's more like Russian nesting dolls, or interlocking Venn diagrams.  If the owners had kept their dog on a leash.... If the owners had trained their dog that it wasn't OK to forage for scraps in trash cans... If I had disposed of poison, antifreeze or paint in the trashcan, which I know is illegal, and I imagine that people sometimes do.  If the dog had been aggressive to me, I suspect I would have called Animal Control.  If the javelinas, coyotes or bobcats had decided the spread-out trash was a potentially interesting food source for them, the mess would have been greater.  (Apparently they know better.)  If, if, if, if...

So, I guess I'm back to the Stoic view, which dovetails nicely with the one espoused by Don Miguel Ruiz in The Four Agreements.  Take nothing personally.  (The Stoic version of that: Manage your own self and don't worry about what other people/beings do.  That's none of your business.)  It is enough.

Just Be There - 22Jan19

I had the luxury of traveling away from my present hometown for a quick 36-hour trip to take care of a little business and visit with two friends that I hadn't seen in 15+ years (other than on FaceBook). Fifteen+ years ago, we spent a fair bit of time together several times a month, and then life happened, people moved away, interests changed, people just did 'people stuff', and life moved on.  We stayed tangentially connected because of social media, which sometimes feels more intimate than it actually is.  Sometimes it does serve a degree of intimacy.

With one friend, it was a treat to be able to sit face-to-face sharing a meal of good Tex-Mex and just catch up.  We'd talked for well over an hour, suddenly noticing how easily we fell back into that camaraderie that we used to share, and took completely for granted. So many stories we re-told, and so many were left unspoken.

With the other friend, we sat in her living room, in adjacent comfy chairs with her cats exploring as they chose, and the same magic happened.  Real people, real life, real stuff.  Clearly time had passed, but it was an illusion that the passing of time made any difference at all.  What a joy.

Then later in the day, I was in the airport terminal having a lovely meal before heading out and I watched the people walking by.  Since I used to live in this town, part of me wondered if I'd see anyone I recognized.  No, and that was OK.  

There was one young couple that caught my attention for several minutes, he was leaving and she was not.  She did the obligatory recording of him waving goodbye, interrupted by a farewell kiss and hug, she watched him as he made his way through the security checkpoint.  Who sang the song, about it being easier to be the one leaving than the one left behind? I'm sure I could find out, if it mattered enough.

Maybe that's what we are here to do.  Just be there. Be present and support each other in any way we can. That's quite a good gig.