Leaning Out - Week 9

My new schedule continues to be soul-feeding. I think the last time I had this kind of spaciousness in my life was in my twenties, maybe in college, when I still lived at home, and my "job" was reading great literature and then writing papers that called forth new levels of understanding, not just of the books and poems I studied, but also of myself as I related to those works.

Then, as now, much of my time was a meditation. I just didn't know it. Writing is, after all, very much a way of witnessing our own thoughts. So much of the time I only have a vague intuition about things until I write them down. This is also very much how therapy works. Clients begin to understand themselves better as they say out loud the things that have been floating around their minds. Making thoughts more concrete brings clarity. It helps if the words are met with kindness and interest.

Seventeen days ago, I was in Los Angeles, having a socially distant visit with my sister and her family. Checking email, a note from my friend and publisher, Jeff, announced that my first volume of poems was live on Amazon. It was the day before my 56th birthday. I had started writing poetry in college, at the tender age of 20. It was wild to have this book arrive some 36 years later. 

I could not have done it any sooner. Writing in my twenties was fraught with anxiety and insecurity. If people responded well, I felt validated. If not, I was doused with shame. This is a terrible way to make art. Every creation becomes a plea for approval.

The inside work I have done all these years to love myself no matter what allowed me to write for the sake of writing, for the love of finding just the right image or rhyme, to tickle my brain and touch my heart by putting pen to paper and waiting for the muse, who I like to call my "inner narrator" to begin dictating.

I am so delighted to share the book with anyone who finds resonance. And I'm fine that many will not. Poetry, of all things, is not exactly popular these days. But it is so much fun to find my fellow word-nerds and geek out together.

But I digress. These stretches of time could so easily be filled now with marketing the book. At least three people have asked me, so how are you going to sell it? Just the question creates tension, as I feel my muscles readying to pounce on some opportunity as though I were playing musical chairs and the seats were becoming scarce. 

I remind myself that this is the farthest thing from the truth. I have taken 36 years to put this work in the world because that's how long it took. I have an ongoing agreement with my publisher that neither of us pressures the other to get anything done. And still the book is here, solid, real. 

I trust the same will happen with marketing. I've made an author page on FB and ordered copies to share with local booksellers. I think that's more than enough for right now. Maybe, when the time feels right, I will do a virtual reading. Maybe serendipity will bless me with a friend who wants to spread the word, just as serendipity led me to Jeff who made the publication process such a dream.

I am writing new poems - including one below that I penned at UCLA, my alma mater, sitting just where I used to write in my twenties, which was such a kick. I'm writing my non-fiction, how to love yourself/memoir, practicing the same gentleness, never pressuring myself to write, but still finding myself drawn to the computer on nearly all of my non-working days, letting what's in my head become concrete, knowing that later, I will find a shape and a structure, maybe with the help of a genius editor I haven't met yet.

Today I felt pulled to do very little. I spent most of the day in my backyard, enjoying the (finally) crisp, fall air, reading Leigh Bardugo novels and watching hummingbirds, towhees, house finches, and blue jays snacking at the feeders I've gotten, now that we are cat-less. Between stretches of reading, I cooked and ate, did a little restorative yoga, and not much else. 

I suspect that tomorrow, or after another day of restorative puttering and reading, I will feel an urge to write again, maybe a poem, maybe more of the book. But the amazing thing is living within these long pockets of time without any pressure or stress, following whatever whim comes along. It's like being a kid again.

Here's my poem, written at UCLA, the day before my birthday along with illustrative photo. I hope you enjoy it, but no worries if it's not your cup of tea.

This is My Breast

The sculptor did not name her.
Clad in white, presiding over a pale blue pool,
we christened her: This is My Breast,
patron saint of meeting places.
 
The bells tolled on the hour
signaling convergence.
The emergence of friendly faces
between classes, rallying
 
for a march on the coffee house;
for an impromptu poetry reading;
for a date to sit on the quad,
calculating the angle of the boys’
 
behinds, and surmising the size
of their shoes. We wore mid-thigh skirts
and sky-high heels, clinging tops that cried,
“This is my breast! This is my breast!”
 
As though we too were nameless.

Leaning Out - Six Weeks In

My last post was a celebration of my decision to work a new schedule: four days on, ten days off. It was also a send off for myself, into unknown territory. Like all of the big, life-enhancing changes I've made over the years, this one started with a leap of faith. I didn't know for sure if I would still make enough money to cover my bills. I didn't know if I would feel more creative, feel more rested, feel more centered (which is what I hoped). I just knew that what I had been doing wasn't working. I watched my beloved mentor, Robyn thrive in a slow-lane, work-less life. And I decided to join her.

The first two weeks I had off, I felt drawn to home projects - things that I'd put off, some for years. In 2006, I installed shelves in my closet, but didn't have the right tools. So the screws anchoring the shelves in place along one wall were never stable. It was one of those little things that gnawed - not a significant part of my day, but there, annoying, day after day. I fixed that.

I got a sewing machine, tired of hemming by hand, especially as my eyesight changes. Plus, I wanted to make my own COVID masks so the inner lining would be soft and comfy. I ordered anti-microbial fabric for the outer layer and the filtering inner layer. Then I cut up an old, cotton pillow case, washed a thousand times, and used that for the lining. I measured and adjusted for my face size and shape, then my husband's. We have masks now that are so much easier to wear.

I fretted in those two weeks, that I wasn't writing. I've had a book in mind for many years, self help, teaching others what I've learned about self care, what I share with my own clients. I was convinced I had undiagnosed ADD made worse with menopause. I wondered if a little Ritalin or Adderall might help me focus. I wondered if maybe it was time to let go of the idea of writing a book. Maybe it would feel better to stop struggling to get my thoughts onto the page.

Despite the fretting, I honored the promise I made to myself to spend my time off following where my heart led me. I napped. I played video games. I read. I watched British television. I didn't know at the time that I needed those first two weeks to tend to the house projects that had been pulling for my attention, resting and entertaining myself between painting and drilling and sanding. I needed two weeks not to think, but just do the kind of manual labor that leaves you sweaty and happy, because things actually get finished.

I needed time to stop thinking, planning, tracking, and responding to emails, phone calls, and texts. In the quiet that followed, I could see clearly how distracted and fragmented my time had become. No wonder it was hard to focus. I had been like a pinball, pinging from one bumper to another, all the dinging and ringing making it hard to think.

Just before my third stretch of ten days began, I had an online visit with a psychiatrist to help determine whether I really have ADD. My test results had been inconclusive. I might have a very mild case. Not enough to warrant the risk of taking medication. 

In our talk, he wanted to know why focus felt so important now after 56 years of managing life pretty well. I explained I have wanted to write a book about my work. I told him what I've been teaching clients about self love and how it is healing insecurity and anxious attachment wounds for my clients. He was very supportive. He said, "I hope you find I way to get it done. We need that book."

Sometimes, a little encouragement is all it takes. On my next day off, I sat down with Scrivener, a tool I had heard so many good things about - especially for people who need help getting their thoughts organized. I wrote an outline, and turned the headings into chapters. The next day I took all the writing I had done in the past - several beginnings without endings, and I put them in a folder to refer to and draw from. On the third day, I took out my calendar and calculated how many words I would need to write per day to finish a first draft in a year - 400 writing only on my days off. On day four, I wrote the introduction. Days 5-10 I wrote more than 400 words each day - sometimes 600, sometimes 1000. 

When I found myself going off on a tangent, I copied the meandering paragraphs into the "Notes" window, beside the main writing window. I had no worries about losing something important. It now had a home where I could find it later. And then I kept writing. I have never felt so focused before.

Each day I'm not seeing clients, I pick up wherever I left off. I've never been able to do this so consistently before. Scrivener is a big part of it. But bigger are these long blocks of time without interruption, knowing I have auto-responders on every form of communication, so I don't have to check compulsively to see if anyone needs me. I float along these slow moving rivers of time, writing, napping, exercising, cooking, gardening, cleaning, and not much else. 

I feel zero pressure to get anything done because there is plenty of time. I can sew until I finish making my new Ukulele case. Did I mention I got myself a Ukulele to help with some arthritis? No? Oh, well that happened too. 

I can write till my 400 or 1000 words are done. I can walk the neighborhood for an hour or longer when the air quality is good. Or I can pop on a 20-minute YouTube workout if I need to stay inside. I can nap every day - essential as the summer heat lingers into fall, and my hot flashes flare at night.

I don't feel like I have ADD now because there is time to sit with one thing until it is done or until I am at a good stopping point. On the days I see clients, I am utterly present for them. Nothing is pulling at me. I cook up a bunch of food on the Sunday before work starts, so I can grab lunch or snacks on my breaks. I have time to take care of myself in ways I didn't even know I needed before.

Today I checked my total word count in Scrivener, 14,684 words completed. I expect the first draft will be between 80,000 and 120,000, so I'm more than a tenth of the way in. And it feels easy so far.

I don't think I'm alone. I think most of us feel scattered and fragmented between the demands of work and family. I think we are so tired that when we have time off, all we can do is stare into a screen, reaching for the dopamine hit of likes and hearts or falling into the rabbit hole of the latest political shit show. I think we are tired and lonely for our very own company. I think we have become afraid to listen to our own thoughts, knowing we might find out just how exhausted and dissatisfied and utterly off track we feel. 

I know you may not have the same choices I have - to schedule your time as you might need to. Our society is not structured for the wellbeing of its members. We still live in a world of vasselage - working according to precepts developed to keep the coffers of kings and lords filled - though the kings and lords today are called CEO's and shareholders.

By living differently, I hope I am doing more than just taking care of my own self. I hope I am gently fomenting rebellion. It doesn't have to be so hard. We really don't need more stuff. We need more time, more connection, more kindness, more slowness.

Be gentle with yourselves, my loves.