Luck was a Lady (or, Greetings from the Comfort Inn)

Tom and I decided that, instead of gifts this year, we would have a great date. So we dropped Gavin at Day Care and headed for the Mohegan Sun casino.

We are unaccustomed to being alone together, with unscheduled, uninterrupted time stretched out before us. We needn’t have worried--we eased into it just fine. First some Peppermint Mocha coffee from Starbucks, then a long stroll, people watching, and perusing our potential lunch menus. A half-hour before Tuscany opened, we climbed to the Martini Bar under the twinkling blue planetarium ceiling. Green Apple under the stars for me, Anti-Freeze for Tom. His was mellow, mine tart. We sat in velvet chairs and gazed down on the gambling populace.

Loosened by the martinis and influenced not so subliminally by the cha-ching of the machines, we decided to gamble, just some quarter machines before lunch. We won over $600 and, better yet, we managed to walk away with it. Could things get any better?

Yes.

After a side splitting Italian lunch we walked some more, then had some romantic time alone. Time passed wonderfully slowly, and we got back into normal life at a leisurely pace. We ran some errands before going to get Gavin. Sometime during the errands Tom suggested that I put some winnings into a W and R (writing and relaxation) evening away.

Why did I protest? Guilt, I guess. It was so spontaneous, and I felt like I was abandoning the family. Was it right to lounge around while Tom stayed home with the demands of the daily grind? Tom watched my smile spread wider each time he suggested and I demurred. He helped me heave my guilt aside, and I checked into the local Comfort Inn.

I couldn’t even think about writing. Relaxation came first—snacks in bed, back to back episodes of Law and Order. A long bath. A good, heavy sleep. Room service this morning.

I needed this desperately. Even with a carefully paced approach, the stress of the past 2 weeks had taken its toll. I accepted a job offer and resigned from my current job in the midst of Christmas preparations. Tom and Gavin were sick 2 days before Christmas. Just barely recovered, we cooked the ham and celebrated with my family, rested a day, and drove to Long Island to see Tom’s family. My sister’s clan is coming from Vermont today (but I have until check out to luxuriate!).

In reading back my last paragraph, I see so many blessings intermingled with the To Do Merry Go Round of the Christmas season. Tom and Gavin recovered in the nick of time. Our dinner with my family and our drive to New York yielded good company and generous gifts. My new job is much closer to home (my 3-mile commute buys back an hour of time each day!), and I expect it to be more stimulating, less stifling.

One of the lessons I seem to need repeatedly is that even good activity, good transition, can lead to stress. All of these abundant moments still required long task lists, back up plans, and lots of caffeine. I seem to scold myself when I register the dizzying effects of the Merry Go Round, rather than just accepting that this is what happens when you spin.

I also judge myself for being someone who wilts rapidly without down time. I see others who seem to go, go, go, cheerful almost always, despite never pausing for breath. I am not one of those people. Without a pause I feel withered. When my thoughts become increasingly resentful, it is my sign that I need at least a small break. A long walk, a night in a café with my laptop, an overnight at the Comfort Inn. Then all is right with the world again. My well is filled, and I have seemingly boundless energy for even the most undesirable tasks.

I have made the traditional American resolution of joining Curves and finally losing my extra pounds. But I have added something more personal to my list for 2006: I will stop faulting myself for needing these breaks.

When I worked as a therapist, I would say to my patients, “Suppose you had a friend in your situation. What advice would you give them?” Now that I am a parent, I think a lot about what is good for Gavin. I tweak my old technique and ponder what I would recommend to Gavin, if he were living a hectic life with many competing demands. I would say, “Be kind to yourself. Take a break. Take a breath. Forgive yourself for imperfections. Eschew guilt, for it will devour you.”

Taking my own advice, the same advice I may someday give to my son, I am finishing my hotel stay with toenail polish and the morning talk shows. What a blessing to start the New Year hopeful and rested. I wish the same for all of my readers.

The Light of the Season

The Christmas tree is decorated. No small feat this year. After we chopped it down it lived on the porch for a while. Tom cursed and muttered when he finally brought it in, for in the true Christmas tradition the middle strand of lights would not light. Then the tree sat, free of ornaments for another week.

This week, dozens of people I know have been laid off at work. Each night I have come home exhausted. Tom and I have looked at each other and said “maybe tomorrow” for the ornaments and the house decorations. He hauled the boxes down from the attic. They sat in our hallway, which looked like the hallway of a family that was moving out, or perhaps being evicted.

Friday night was a big sigh of relief, and we took that extra bit of oxygen and fueled our Christmas spirit. This was the first year that Gavin could really help decorate. I told stories of our special ornaments from the top of Mount Washington, from New Orleans, from Gavin’s first Christmas. Not one ornament was broken. We had takeout from the noodle house. Tom and I “clinked” our wine in a toast with Gavin’s sippy cup.

All week I looked out at that tree on the porch. I didn’t have time for it, but I gave it a secret nod, reserving some hope for the day when the tree would glimmer. This is how my writing career has been. An idea that needs polishing rests on the porch of my mind. I finally invite it in and put it down on paper. Verbs that do not work and misplaced adjectives reside untouched on my hard drive. Finally, a moment to breathe. A fresh printout of my draft, subtraction and addition of words with happy purpose. Then, stepping back, a completed piece that shines.

Other than the occasional insomniac burst of compressed prolific production, or a rare writing retreat weekend, this is how my writing develops. Fits and starts, dormancy, apathy or despair, resurrection. Some pieces are finally finished more than a year later.

Sometimes I wish it were otherwise. I wish that every day I could start with a long stretch in my bathrobe, a thoughtful cup of coffee, then a few hours of writing. Maybe a nap, then some editing. Another chapter drafted, a sense of satisfaction by dinner.

But I have chosen to be a mother, and, for now at least, to put finances before my wish for creative abandon. Motherhood and work consume my days. If I won the lottery I would be drafting my resignation letter (no writer’s block there!). But motherhood is something I chose, and I keep choosing it every day. It is another circular act of trying, failing, making headway, and it finally results in breakthrough moments of joy. The joy, often packaged in small incidents, affirms my choice. Gavin uses manners without prompting; he runs around the house in a fit of giggles; he drapes his arm over my neck and grins happily as he falls asleep beside me. Yes, I tell myself, I am doing a good job. Yes, it is worth it. Yes, I am exhausted, at wit’s end sometimes. Yes, I would do it all over again.

I hold on to my fantasy of the long cup of coffee while my writing plan for the day before me brews. But I know that writers who have the luxury of time are not always visited by the muse. They also have their fits and starts, their distractions, their sense of failure. Although it may feel that way, none of us are alone in our struggle.

Next Saturday is Christmas Eve. Unless the muse pounds on my door with fierce urgency, I may just skip my weekly blog. I will be wrapping Gavin’s gifts and making the bourbon molasses sauce for the ham. While I wash the dishes, though, I will be considering the next thing I want to write. I love that my writing is always there in the background for me, like the Christmas tree that signaled hope on my porch.

Wishing you the light of the season,
Katherine

The Present Imperfect

What does it mean when my eyes pop open at 2:30 AM, and I am seized with the idea that I must produce my blog? It is Saturday.

The fact that Saturday is now first and foremost Blog Day (as opposed to Put Away Tons of Laundry Day) has great meaning to me. I wish I could bottle this Saturday morning anticipation, this kid at Christmas feeling I get when I rush to my computer.

Later, after I sneak back to bed for a few more hours sleep, I will wake up to a day to catch up with housework, take Gavin to Coral’s birthday party, and get ready for a dinner dance. The babysitter comes at 5, and she is a housekeeping-inducing trick the way this blog is a writing-inducing trick. It really works: when you know someone else is coming on the scene, you try harder. I am not much of a housekeeper, but since Annette is coming I will drag out the vacuum, finally scrub the sink, and remove that growing pile of miscellaneous items from the hallway table.

Why the pile on the table? Why have I not simply put these things away as I go? I do have a loose routine at work, but here at home any regularity is hard to find. There are always sippy cups to wash and lunches to be made in the morning. There is always the dishwasher to load or unload, the maddening mountain of laundry to process, Ricky’s need for a walk and a dog treat. And yet every morning there seems to be great variation in how these things get done. I have been oversleeping (I am trying to hibernate), so that throws everything off. Gavin has had to get “time outs” for some really rude behaviors. And then there is the searching for the left mitten, the right boot, the car ice scraper. The pile on the table exists because full-time work, parenting, and the ever growing task list leaves me exhausted. Winter (and its supplemental Christmas task list) just adds another layer of complication.

While my life may feel like chaos, Gavin does have a morning routine that he can count on: night time diaper off, getting dressed, breakfast with PBS (thank God for Dragon Tales), grooming for school, and the great flight out the door, one parent always urging, “Come on, Mommy (Daddy) is very late”. He seems reassured by our daily rituals, imperfect though they may be.

Gavin is intensely attached to the Sharkboy and Lavagirl video this week. One concept that fascinates him is that if Lavagirl goes under water she loses her light. Although I don’t have her pink hair, I feel like Lavagirl this morning. Instead of lava, it is creativity that courses through my veins and sustains me. If I let myself go completely under this sea of tasks, my light will fade, too.

Within the mess on my table is a wealth of reminders on my blessings: a Crayon map that Gavin drew, a Christmas gift for my brother, a half-written essay, a carefully typed schedule that I only follow sporadically. The mess is, well, a mess, but it is also hope and effort and letting go.

Maybe it is okay to have piles to sort through. It is a chance to start fresh. Every day I have to learn, simultaneously, how to work/parent/housekeep efficiently and how to let things go. Writing is the same. It is the yin of showing up and writing intensely, the yang of Web surfing and failing to rework a recently rejected piece. And I fall somewhere in between the expert, successful writer and the amateur who just can’t get her act together.

Dreaming of future perfection, which I do a lot, serves an important purpose. But I have discovered an early Christmas gift this year. I am learning to appreciate the present imperfect.

Fuzzy Blue Robe Chat

I am in a fuzzy blue robe in my uninsulated, cinder block basement. My legs are freezing. My eye is swollen (conjunctivitis). My papers are a mess. But I am delighted with myself, sitting here in my cold basement with my mini-hangover.

My friend Sara gave a dinner party last night. It was a thank you for her girlfriends, who have stood by her during her messy divorce. The wine flowed, and she is an amazing cook. Naturally, I didn’t get to bed until 1 AM.

A few glasses of wine tend to shorten my sleep cycle. But the wine is only part of why I am up after only 4 hours of sleep. The idea of this blog (I promised myself I would blog every Saturday) is what kept my eyes open after my 5:30 AM alarm sounded (I always forget to cancel the alarm for the weekend!).

I am delighted to be up, hangover and all, because I am writing. I hear a satisfied little chuckle in my head—the sound of my creative self tricking my tired self into writing. The blog is a particularly useful trick: I chose a manageable timeline, and have convinced myself that I have a growing audience. Whether or not this is true, I feel I owe this encouragement-starved audience something. And my book on the “digging with a spoon” phenomenon seems so daunting sometimes. A blog I can manage. Maybe later I can glean some material for Chapter 4.

I have to face it. I need tricks. Yes, I love to write. But I also love to turn over and fall back asleep, or flip channels (even when my lean cable selection offers nothing but infomercials).

I make a lot of excuses, and sometimes motherhood is one of them. While motherhood can bring schedules from hell, emotional exhaustion, and tons of guilt, non-mothers also find great excuses not to write. I have a foggy memory of this, pre-Gavin. I seemed to need a lot of naps. I was stressed out from my nursing job. I needed (well, wanted) to shop.

I am not alone in the trick department. Julia Cameron, author of The Right to Write (I recommend it for the exercises in every chapter), is well known for her encouragement of Morning Pages, also known as freewriting. Write every day, just write. Let it be crap. Let it be nonsensical. Just write. The trick is to tell yourself that you don't have to write well.

Writers embrace Julia’s books because they know that she gets it. Your muse may come and go, but you have to show up first. You have to show her that you are ready and willing. Oh yeah, the muse is another good trick. Imagine her, invite her to tea, become superstitious about what she will and won’t tolerate. She can whip you into shape.

I am also devoted to Julia’s suggestions for “artist dates.” Plan some free time and go out with yourself. Julia recommends that there is no need to write, that these dates are more about renewal than productivity. But I I have to seize the moment and bring my laptop. Escaping for those few hours is a dose of magic that I can not waste. I drive 20 minutes away for my writer’s dates, to Borders Bookstore. I can be anonymous there. I can purchase one latte (another writer’s trick: latte as elixir of creativity), plug into the wall outlet, and they will leave me alone.

I must stop here. I am paying for last night's reveling and am feeling slightly queasy. But it is a happy sort of queasy because I wrote anyway.

Thank you for being part of my elaborate hoax on myself! May you trick yourself well and often this week.

PS: Must add a happy note on yet another trick that worked. Contest entries, with their promise of a potential reward, are a great device for getting yourself going. I just found out I won second place in a contest at one of my favorite Web sites: Funds for Writers.