Shaking Things Up

Last week, as my 32nd birthday approached I was feeling a little down. My annual tradition of gathering friends for a night of dancing was supplanted this year by a visit to the Barnes Museum and brunch at Blush, both lovingly arranged by my husband. And although I looked forward to these activities, as the day approached, I couldn't help but feel sad remembering the days in our early twenties, when staying up until 4 am and dancing into the wee hours was a regular activity, not just reserved for special occasions. I realized the last time I had tried to go dancing was November, and only two other people wanted to go. Something had shifted without me quite noticing. What was it?

Well, for one thing, although I love to dance, I no longer love staying up past midnight. Sad but true. Now my drinking is limited to a glass or two of good wine. My friends and I are older, most of us married, some with kids, many living in the 'burbs, where a night in the city is more than just a walk or a cab ride away. I guess many things have shifted.

Faced with this reality, I needed an alternate, something I could do to scratch my dancing itch. And so, I worked up my courage, and went to the hip-hop dance class at the Koresh Dance Studio that I'd been longing to try for years. Fear of looking or feeling stupid had kept me from going to the class, but last week, my need to do something new involving dancing won out. So on Friday I found myself in a questionable outfit, in the dance studio on Chestnut St., dancing hip-hop, or my version of it, having the most fun I'd had in a long time. As I walked out of the studio I realized that I was now one of those dancers I had envied for so long, and all it took was a little planning, some courage, and a crisis about my birthday.

Also this week I began a program in which I move nine things in my home each day for nine days, to get stagnant energy moving again. I love this idea because it is so manageable, and yet, after three days, has created some lovely changes in my home, including the long long-overdue unpacking of my wedding china. (Maybe it will all be unpacked by our fifth wedding anniversary!)

Trying new things and rearranging old things has brought some great changes in the past few days. In my 33rd year I plan to continue to shake things up, because as scary and uncomfortable as change is for me, so much good comes from it--new friends, new activities, new sources of joy and pleasure.

Now I'm off to unpack more china and practice my dance moves, but not at the same time of course.

Reunited and It Feels So Good

The romance is back -- for me and my novel. After some rough times, we’re honeymooning again. I’ve been working away, happily lost in the world I’m creating, hardly noticing my fingers as they type. I leave the computer with reluctance, long to return to it when I’m away.

This is not always the case. Some days, I’ll do anything to avoid the computer. Suddenly I have to clean the blinds, hang a shower curtain, prepare a three course dinner. If I drag myself to the computer, I may produce something, but it’s a painful process, and usually not very fruitful.

Now if I could just figure out what makes the difference between a happy writing day and a forced one. For the past week I’ve been experimenting with quitting while I’m ahead. I committed to a manageable goal, 1,000 words written or edited a day, and once I have met that goal, have let myself quit for the day. My inner critic protested of course. “But you only wrote 1,000 words! What about editing? What about research? What about finishing by September 1? The book will never get done at this pace.” I told her to shut up and wait for the results.

After a week I’ve found that if I stop when I still have creative energy left, I am happier for the rest of the day, and anxious to return to work the next morning. I’m left wanting more.

So now I’m thinking that maybe I need to monitor my creative energy the way I do my physical energy. Over the past year I’ve learned how to eat to keep my blood sugar levels steady. I notice when it’s getting too low, and generally prevent that from happening. If I can learn to notice my creative energy levels, recharge preventatively, and quit before I’m dangerously depleted, I hope to have a steady supply available for the book and other ventures.

I guess I’ve done a good job this week, because I’m already planning a tryst with my book some time this weekend.

Shout out to my parents who celebrate their 38th wedding anniversary today! They are an inspiration in keeping the romance alive!

Creator v. Editor: The Smackdown

Today my novelist friend said writing a book was like raising a child, because just when you learn how to handle a 10 month old, you have to learn how to handle an 11 month old, and just when you figure out one aspect of novel writing, a new challenge appears.

This has certainly been true for me. In writing my first draft, I edited what I had written the day before, then wrote at least 1,000 new words. But since finishing the draft, I’ve struggled to create reasonable daily goals for editing, and without them find it hard to feel satisfied, know when to quit for the day or to measure my progress. Also vexing is learning how to both create new work and edit existing work, tasks that use different parts of your brain and require different kinds of focus and energy.

In thinking about creating and editing, I have discovered a few things. My creator likes to work in the morning, as close as possible to waking, while in her pjs, before I talk to anyone or think about my “real” life. The creator likes to believe that nothing matters but the world she is creating, and this is easiest before the world interrupts. Having realized this, I’ve been writing new work first thing in the morning, consistently and easily meeting my daily goal.

Still I struggle with my editor. In fact, I had begun to hate and resist the editing process. But this week I remembered that I love to edit other people’s writing. I love getting a piece of work and tearing into it—rewording, excising and rearranging until it’s as strong as it can be. So if I love to edit, how can I learn to love editing my own work?

First, I’m going to pretend that the editor and creator are actually two different people. I’ll schedule separate sessions in which I will either create or edit, but not both. When editing, I will play with words, rearrange, and delete, but when I see a gap, I will merely note it for the creator, who will come back to work the next morning and fill the hole when she is ready. (She’s an artist, you know, you can’t rush her.)

I hope that with separate and reasonable daily goals for my creator and editor, and more of a separation of tasks, I will make more progress, feel better as I go, and love both the creator and the editor, each of whom I need to get the job done.

Kind People Rule

This blog entry would have been called Mean People Suck if I had written it anytime in the previous two weeks, during which I encountered vicious and sneaky meanness masquerading as help. This nastiness created doubt—in myself and my work. Julia Cameron says that for an artist, entertaining the first doubt is like an alcoholic taking the first drink. If that’s true I went on a doubt bender.

Thankfully, today I finally feel free of this nasty web of negativity. But getting my optimism and good spirits back wasn’t easy. I had to acknowledge to myself that I was hurt. I had to be extra kind and gentle with myself. I had to (gasp!) ask for help, and then accept it. To reaffirm my faith in humanity, I’d like to share a few examples of the kindness that has helped me to heal.

1) My Artist Friends

They listened, sympathized and encouraged. Then they invited me to create a collage. Making any kind of visual art intimidates me, but with my friends there, all working quietly, I dove in, ripping out pictures, playing around with them, immersing myself in the moment. The result was a beautiful collage, full of life and color that literally brightened up my house, and by extension, my mood. God bless the artists!

2) Leslie, Owner of The Bead Garden

Encouraged by my collage experiment, I visited a bead store, to try to make something out of three small white shells I found on the beach. They already had perfect little holes, as if God had intended them to be worn. I’d never made a piece of jewelry, but the idea enchanted me.

The store itself was magical-a place where pretty shiny things get made. Beads of every size, shape, and color glimmered at me appetizingly. Sparkling glass beads from the Czech Republic covered an entire wall in garnet, tangerine, amber, dusty rose. Sea treasures gathered on another—smooth pebbles of coral, spiny shells. Turquoise, rose and purple marbles called to embrace my wrist, dangle from my ears.

Leslie looked at my shells, listened to my ideas, made suggestions. Together we picked out flower coral, chocolate-brown beads, and silver wire to complement the shells. I strung it, Leslie fixed on the clasps and voila—a necklace was born! I raced home to my writing, wearing my treasure and bursting with creative energy.

3) Kathy, Beautician and Friend

I stopped in to Eterna Bella to buy some moisturizer, and received a rousing pep talk (in Spanish!) about how yes it hurts when people are mean, but we have to learn from the experience and sigue adelante (keep moving forward.) Kathy knows my book is going to be a success, and gave me solid reasons to support her belief. I left with a huge boost of energy, morale, and gratitude.

With the help of these and many other kind people, I’m back on the wagon of optimism and faith, and I intend to stay there.

O Ye of Little Faith

That’s me. A Doubting Thomas. I’ve always related to the story where Thomas didn’t believe Jesus had risen until he saw him, until he put his fingers in the wounds. I myself am slow to belief, quick to demand proof. That may be a good quality for a law career, but how about for a life?

While waiting to see my holistic healer last week (I know, I know, I belong in California), I read an excerpt from The Call, a book written by Oriah. The book began with a poem with the following lines:

“Remember- there is one word you are here to say with your whole being.
When it finds you, give your life to it. Don't be tight-lipped and stingy.

Spend yourself completely on the saying.
Be one word in this great love poem we are writing together.”

Intrigued, I skimmed through the chapter where she elaborates on this idea. What I gleaned is that each of us has one overarching lesson to learn in life. And that once we learn it, or as we learn it, we can teach it to others. The word is the thing that encapsulates this message, the thing we would entreat people in the world to do. Oriah’s word was “rest.”

She said one way to find your word was to look at where you have really struggled in life; to see if there was one lesson that we really struggled to learn, some mistake that we repeated over and over.

As I’ve thought about this over the past week, I decided my word is “trust.” My lack of faith is what gets me in trouble: my shaky faith in any kind of higher power, my lack of faith in humanity, in myself, my talent, my intuition. Faith does not come easily to me.

But here’s my new realization: just because it doesn’t come easily doesn’t mean I can’t have it. It just means I have to work harder at it than other people. So that’s the good news. It’s still possible. And maybe (dare I even wish this?) maybe once I finally learn the lesson, my faith will be even stronger for having been tested so severely. A girl can dream, huh?

So over the past few days, as I’ve been panicking about throwing a party for 60 people in my small home, and getting ready for my first writer’s conference, when I find myself anxiety and doubt-ridden, heart racing, breath shallow, overwrought, I’ve begun gently saying to myself, “Trust.” Just the word. And miraculously, it works. I get a small reprieve from my fear. Even if it comes back 30 seconds later, for a short time, I enjoy the belief that I am good, safe, and loved. That I am enough. What a gift.

Trust.

Make Art! Make Art! Make Art!

So said Glen Hansard, the winner of Best Song for the movie Once, in his acceptance speech at the Oscars this year. I loved the film, loved the music, loved the story of how it was made for $160,000, found by a vacationing Sundance employee, and catapulted to huge success. Great inspiration for all us struggling-artist types.

Closer to home and even more inspiring for me is First Person, a film directed by my friend Ben Herold, which premiered at the Philadelphia Film Festival last Sunday. I will disclose here my awe of Ben’s vision, courage, and cojones. But putting that aside, his film is a powerful, beautiful, stop-your-heart, challenging work of art (that incidentally won Ben the Philly Film Festival’s award for best new director.)

Just as amazing as the film is the story behind it. Ben was involved with a program that helped Philadelphia public school students make it to college and had an idea to follow a group of the students through their junior and senior years of high school, documenting their educational progress. I don’t know much about what is involved in making a film, but I know it takes a lot of money, time, people and expertise, none of which Ben had when he came up with this idea. But he began it, feeling his way and figuring it out as he went. And with lots of help, perseverance and good old-fashioned chutzpah, he created an incredible piece of art.

First Person is not just about the six kids featured, or Philadelphia, but the challenges that face our children, our education system, our neighborhoods, cities and societies. The film raised many questions for me. Like what is the difference between these kids and myself? I grew up within miles of these children, and my life couldn’t seem more different. Why is that? And what can we do to make sure that we don’t lose the potential, the talent, the gifts that our children have to offer? When bright, ambitious kids end up failing out of school, working at McDonald’s, or God forbid, in jail, we all lose. What can we do to change this? How do we support our teenagers to keep them from falling through the cracks, from giving in to the temptations that surround them to devastating effect?

Big questions, I know. One could feel overwhelmed by such questions. And I think the answers are different for everyone. Some of us can give money (right through the First Person website - check it out!) Some of us can give time, talent, love. Some of us can and should make art.

Art? you ask? Yes. Because as shown by both Once and First Person, art challenges, provokes, makes us feel and think, shows us new perspectives, introduces us to people, ideas and circumstances we might not otherwise see.

Thank you, Ben for making your art and sharing it with the rest of us. None of us knows the good that we do, the ripple effects our actions have. None of the creators or fans of First Person know how it already has or will continue to affect people. But I believe it has already greatly impacted many lives. And that is a beautiful and inspiring thing to witness.

Feathering My Nest

Nesting is not an instinct of mine. A friend of mine bought a house a few months ago, and already it looks beautifully homey—pictures on walls, bright pillow arrangements, knick-knacks artfully displayed.

In comparison, I moved into my house three years ago, and my walls remain mostly barren, the home lacking much indication of who we are. Now, in my defense, having bought our home from my Great-Aunt Minnie, who God bless her, hadn’t done much to it since the 1970s, it took three years to transform the kitchen from a superfund site (see photo!), repair plumbing, replace ceilings, remove wallpaper, paint the entire interior and put down new carpet. So when in February we finally completed our initial work plan by having the floors refinished, maybe I just needed a break.

But recently, my lack of a comfortable work space began to bother me. And perhaps my vacation, where we stayed in other people’s homes for 12 nights straight, elevated my need to have a little corner of the world all to myself. So this week, I finally finished fixing the wall in my office. Then I set out to create an artist’s altar for myself, one of my assignments from The Artist’s Way. The idea is to have a place that belongs solely to me, a place filled with things that inspire me and lift my spirits.

So after a week of work, I now sit at my brand new desk, looking out my front windows at the dogwood tree that is just beginning to think about blooming. To my left are two curvy glass vases that fit into each other like puzzle pieces, one a deep pink and one carnation. To my right is a magenta candle, lit, in a black ceramic dish. On the windowsill are two fuchsia frames—one for a photograph of hot pink tulips and one for a card I received when I left my job that says “Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and go where your heart takes you.” In either corner sits a new lamp, one short with a long, narrow pink shade, the other a floor lamp with a multi-colored shade covered in circles, stars and flowers.

And sitting here, well, it feels like home. My very own writer’s home.

What I have learned is that we get back what we give out. So having put energy into my work space, through physical work, thought, time, and money, my work space is now giving energy back to me, through inspiration, comfort, motivation and joy. Pretty good trade.