Exciting News and a Playlist

IMG_5912

I’m a day late on my monthly excerpt, but in fact I decided to not post one this month, because (drumroll in anticipation of Exciting News) the messy manuscript is in the hands of a mentor and development director! Max has read it over and made his notes, and one week from today we will have a lengthy conversation about characters and story arcs, scenes and sequencing. Some good, expert guidance to help launch me into the next round of writing (I had definitely lost my way and needed another set of eyes on the thing, some help to get myself out of the holes I had written myself into).

I wanted to let the story stay quiet and simmer a bit on your back burner as well as mine – with hopes that next month I will have an excerpt that will be from an invigorated new sense of direction and energy – I am so looking forward to next week’s conversation, and to getting back into the kitchen with Bea…

…Speaking of which, that’s the “playlist” part of the title of this post. I have been in the process of creating Bea’s Kitchen Playlist; still in progress, I often listen to it while I work on the book. I find it helps to drop me into the story more readily. Who knew?

I decided in lieu of an excerpt, this month I would share with you a sampling from Bea’s Kitchen Playlist. Because of legalities and copyright issues, I may never get to share the playlist in any kind of physical form – but here is a list of a portion of it for you to sample.  Hope you enjoy it – take it with you to your own kitchen?

“Pacing the Cage” – Bruce Cockburn

“Last Night of the World” – Bruce Cockburn

“Ladies Night” – Preston Reed

“Concerto for Two Cellos in G Minor” – Antonio Vivaldi (performed by Julian and Jiaxin Lloyd Webber)

“Chain of Fools” – Aretha Franklin

April, In Like a Lion?

IMG_0441

No, wait, that was March….in like a lion, out like a lamb, right? I don’t know, this year it feels like March roared most of the month, so maybe it’s the story for April….though April is looking pretty lion-like:

It’s National Letter Writing Month! Well, the folks at Egg Press say it is, and have thrown down the gauntlet for a 30-letters-in-30-days challenge. Yeah, I have made my letter recipient list, accumulated all my letter writing supplies (yes, post cards count!) and I am going for it. You should too. It’s a creative act of resistance against all the boring, senseless pieces of paper that end up in our mailboxes. Remember how exciting it is to get a handwritten letter? As much as I appreciate the immediacy of text and messages and email, nothing beats the delight and sweet anticipation of seeing an envelope bearing the handwriting of someone near or far, who took the time to sit and write a letter. It is slower, more deliberate, more intentional. I love to write letters and receive them, and as my friend (and letter writer extraordinaire) Miss P says, “to get mail, send mail.”

So I am taking up the challenge, and hopefully my mailbox, too, will be full of tasty bits from friends near and far over the course of the next thirty days.

And, it’s also National Poetry Month. With everything else going on, I’m not sure I can manage writing much poetry this month, but I am going to attempt to read a poem a day.

 

And then, there is the first-of-the-month excerpt of the novel-in-progress (which will be leaving my hands in the next few days to go under the experienced eye of a trusted reader and developmental editor, to help me see what I have amassed and suggest how to move it forward. (I am both excited and nervous, I confess.)

I hope you enjoy it, and find things to celebrate this month!

###

Bea wandered amongst the stalls of the market in the staccato of sunlight through the trees. She liked the midweek farmers market because it was always less crowded than on Saturday mornings. Often she could find things that weren’t available in large enough quantities to bring out on the weekends; odds and ends left over from restaurant orders and yet still a decent supply of the usual seasonal offerings. She liked to walk slowly and take her time, picking up and smelling the stem end of heirloom tomatoes, so large that only one would fill her entire hand; admiring the abundant assortment of vegetables, the myriad shades of green; the less familiar curiosities like bitter melon and opo squash, the contorted yellow citron known as Buddha Hand that came from the greenhouses of a local specialty citrus grower.

Bea had bought one of these once and took it home, placing it in the center of her butcher block and admiring its strangeness. She had searched through cookbooks but finally resorted to the internet to learn what to do with it. She ended up grating a bit of the intensely tart-sweet scented rind into a small jar of sea salt, which she put away in the cupboard to infuse for several days. She later used the aromatic, flavored salt to season black cod fillets. The pale flesh (the fruit was nearly devoid of the usual citrus-like pulpy sections), she sliced thinly and tossed in a salad of soft  lettuces and peppery arugula, grating the rind into a nice, citrusy vinaigrette dressing. She also blended some minced rind and flesh into softened butter, shaped it into a log and put in the freezer – later to be sliced into yellow flecked citrus-heady compound butter that was delicious on hot cornbread.

Bea picked up a large fist-size Buddha’s Hand from a small basketful under a large red umbrella, along with some succulent looking pac choi and daikon radishes; she gave her money to the gray-haired woman sitting at the table, nodded her thanks, and went in search of other ingredients.

She knew who would have leeks for the terrine. She specifically wanted those delicious, small first thinnings from the field, no more than an inch wide, tender and almost sweet. A little bit like scallions on steroids. She scanned the market tents for the telltale orange and green stripes that meant Andy and Gail McKenzie were in attendance. Spotting it in the middle distance, Bea made her way toward it, making a mental note to stop back at the booth of her favorite cheesemaker next for the fresh feta she needed.

Andy McKenzie, his bright red hair moving in several unruly directions at once, was a good head taller than everyone else in the vicinity. He was talking intently with a customer, holding a small yellow apple in one hand that he expertly cut with an ancient looking paring knife, removing a thin slice that he handed to the customer to try, not breaking his concentration from whatever he was saying, whatever point he was making.

He caught Bea out of the corner of his eye as she walked up and stood at what she hoped was a polite and appropriate distance; he cut another slice of apple and extended it in her direction without looking directly at her nor interrupting his conversation. The customer nodded appreciatively as she chewed then, thanking Andy, filled a paper bag with apples, moving to where Andy’s wife Gail was standing at the ready to weigh and take money. Gail too, spotted Bea and waved with a big smile, then place the bag of apples on the scale.

“It’s Yellow Transparent,” said Andy in response to Bea’s raised eyebrows. “Will make some of the best applesauce you’ll ever taste.” He smiled and crow’s feet shot from the corner of his eyes like happy lightning bolts. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it.” He teased, winking at her.

“I know, I always forget about the early varieties, except for Gravensteins,” Bea replied. “They’re so early, before I start thinking seriously about apples. Besides,” she added, as Andy handed her another slice, balanced delicately on the flat of the knife blade, “you don’t see these very often. So delicious, too.”

Andy saw Bea’s glance casting around his tables. “What are you looking for?” He asked.

“Baby leeks. Got any thinnings this early?” Bea was starting to be anxious that she wouldn’t find them in time. But she knew Andy made a habit of planting earlier in the year than other farmers, starting them in his large greenhouse to give them a head start when the February countryside was still overlaid with cold, gray drizzle, occasionally a frost or light snow. He wanted to have a good supply of the increasingly popular small leeks for customers like Bea and for local restaurants.

“You’re in luck,” Andy smiled at her, “I harvested the first batch yesterday.” He pointed the hand still holding the apple toward a flat basket that was on a table next to where Gail was standing. “What are you going to do with them this time?” He asked as he ran a large-boned, well-tanned hand through his unruly hair.

“I’m going to make a leek and feta terrine,” said Bea. “I’m thinking of serving it for a dinner party but want to try the recipe first. I’m thinking of roasting a whole salmon, or baking fillets in parchment paper. Which do you think?” Bea knew Andy had spent time working in restaurants before deciding he wanted to get his hands in the soil at the other end of the supply chain.

“Hmm,” Andy considered, rubbed his stubbled chin. “I think I would go with the parchment paper. The fish will be more tender, more delicate, which might be a better match with the subtle flavor of the leeks?” His voice went up at the end in question.

“That was my thought too,” said Bea. “Thanks, Andy. I’ll grab a few pounds, oh and a bag of Yellow Transparents, too.” She smiled.

Bea put her purchases in her deep canvas bag and the bag over her shoulder. She sighed, feeling a sense of wealth at even the slight weight of it. Then, waving a last goodbye to Andy and Gail, she stepped back out into the slow, trickling stream of market goers and made her way back to see her friend Martha. Bea realized she didn’t know Martha’s last name. She was just Martha-of-Blue-Waters-Creamery. Bea had been buying cheese from Martha for about a year, after she had gotten her first taste of the creamiest feta she had ever experienced, tossed in a simple green salad at a potluck at work. She’d had to ask around for a while to find out it was Marilyn in the Design Department who had brought the salad. Which had then led Bea to Martha, her goats, her devotion to making great cheese. Bea and Martha hit it off immediately at that first meeting across the table in Martha’s small booth. After tasting an array of cheeses and purchasing several, Bea had signed up on the spot for the wintertime subscription – November through February, a monthly delivery of three different cheese, waiting to be picked up from a cooler on the front porch of one of Martha’s grown daughters.

Bea was sorry to see it wasn’t Martha behind the table today.

“She’s at home with the flu,” said the lanky twenty-something who carried enough of a trace of Martha in his features that Bea guessed this was probably her youngest, Eddie. Bea said she was sorry to hear Martha was sick, and to please tell her that Bea said hello and get well soon. “And could I have a pound of fresh feta?”

Adding the cheese to her bag, wedging it in between the leeks and the bouquet of lavender, white scabiosa and tiny yellow asters she had bought from Gail McKenzie, Bea perused the fringe of the market for anything else that caught her eye. She added a fragrant loaf of dense rye bread and some late season tomatoes to her cache before turning her back on the vendors and heading down toward the waterfront and the fish markets, to see about that salmon.

Look What Arrived Today!

Self portrait with ETP book

I am so excited to dive into this book – from the cover that feels like letterpress-relief to the beautiful illustrations that accent the stories, recipes and poems throughout, this looks like it is going to be a feast for all the senses.

You should take a look at it for yourself – either at a local bookstore, or online somewhere like here or here or here.

That’s all.

The Link Between Poetry and Cooking

eatthispoem_cover-photo

Okay, I know I have already mentioned this book that is hitting the shelves next week – and that I am especially excited because I got to be one of the official recipe testers, have my name in the acknowledgements…

Okay, enough about me. Actually, I am unabashedly a fan of the author, Nicole Gulotta and her blog that shares the name of the book.

Recently, she very generously let me interview her about this book – and that interview will appear here later next week, shortly after the book is released – so stay tuned!

For now, I want to leave you with this tidbit that she offered up in today’s newsletter (hint: you can sign up to get her inspiring newsletter in your own mailbox here):

“But here’s what the book is really about:

Eat This Poem is a call for more stillness. Reading a poem and cooking a meal are, quite simply, acts of self-care in lives that are often busy, rushed, and filled with to-do lists.

We have three opportunities each day to pause, savor, eat.

Poetry forces us to slow down. Food does too, when we let it.

The combination of the two is, I hope, is permission to take a few minutes out of your day and enjoy the spiritual and physical nourishment of food and poetry.

Next Tuesday, the book arrives. And if you’re ready to bring poetry to life in your kitchen, you know what to do. “

Go take a look at the book, and I hope you’ll stop by for the interview next week!

EatThisPoem_illustration1

City of the Dead – Novel Excerpt

new-orleans-cemetary

I don’t really know if this will make it into the finished manuscript or not, but I do like it, and if it gets cut, may find its way into a short story or another novel someday; Octavia may be a larger, more interesting character than the current space for her allows. Who knows? For now, hers is the story-excerpt for the month. I hope you enjoy.

Every two or three months, Octavia would visit the cemetery. New Orleans St. Louis Cemetary 2, to be precise. There were three of them now, all within a few blocks of each other near the French Quarter. A mixture of city settlers, dignitaries, jazz musicians, a voodoo queen, and some just plain folks – generations of them – all sleeping side by side through eternity.

“The City of the Dead” they called it. Because of the high water table and occasional flooding, no one could be buried in the ground, so the practical alternative was  building family vaults above ground, varying in height and breadth and numbers, but all lined up with paths in between like a strange cityscape in miniature. Some were painted, usually in pastel colors; others were whitewashed and glowed in the moonlight; some had a short wrought-iron fence that ran around a large family plot, while others had a thin strip of grass; some had flowers or shrubs, either planted directly in the ground or in pots.

Octavia liked it here. Even though many warned her about coming, especially alone, she found solace in visiting her relatives and ancestors, tending the graves. Well, grave actually, since there was only one long rectangle of cement that held her lineage. It was longer than it was tall, which gave her a wide horizontal surface on which to place her offerings when she came. The only people she ever encountered were others who were doing as she was, respectful and understanding, a sort of unspoken kinship of grief, wonder and devotion.

The one exception to the rule of not coming here at night was on All Souls’ eve. Everyone came out on this night of the year when it was believed the veil between the worlds was thinnest; a time of remembrance, of celebration, of community. On that night – the first of November – the City of the Dead was very much alive with the living. The cemetery glowed in the dark from hundreds of votive candles  placed on the tombs, casting long, slanting shadows and illuminating the faces of those paying tribute and tending the graves. There were flowers and food for honoring and sustenance, shots of rum or rye or sazerac, and maybe a few cigarettes, depending on the predilections of those entombed there.

Octavia always started out by kneeling by the tomb of her family, pressing her hands against the cool surface of the whitewashed cement, and silently saying the old prayers and greetings to the dead in French Creole. Then she would lay out her offerings: No less than a dozen votive candles, evenly spaced around the edge of the box-like tomb. She worked her rosary and said a Hail Mary with each candle lit. Then she set the vase of flowers from her garden, the cosmos and dahlias and snapdragons that held on late – this, especially for her grandmother, who had always loved her garden. It was still warm enough this time of year that there was always ample in bloom.

Octavia took a flask from the canvas bag she’d packed and brought to this night, along with a small shot glass. She carefully poured a small measure of rye and set the glass at one end of the arrangement. For Uncle Philippe, who had always been fond of his after-dinner drink by the fire, this time of year.

She set out a bowl of red beans and rice, a small plate of sliced sausages and tomatoes. A small bowl of late season plums and one with tangerines, a special favorite of her great-aunt Tilly, who had died just this last year at age ninety-eight. It was thought that the spirits on this night were hungry for some of their earthly favorites and it gave Octavia pleasure to be able to provide for them these small tokens of the lives they had enjoyed here on earth.

Octavia reached into the bag and brought out photographs of some of those buried here, placing them around on the tomb, securing them with the votive glasses, protecting them from the breeze that was starting to stir.

She placed several sprigs of rosemary from her garden in the middle of the tomb’s surface. For remembrance. Octavia smiled and stood up, looking at the finished makeshift altar. For her it glowed and hummed with the swirling memories of her childhood and of stories about her relatives that had come and gone before she was born. She felt a part of a stream of life that was as tangible as the flowing of the nearby Mississippi river. She crossed herself instinctively, with reverence.

She turned and looked at the rest of the cemetery. It had come alive with the twinkling of votive-candle lights and the movement of people and the soft cadence of voices that carried on the breeze; combinations of French, English, African and Arcadian dialects. There were traces of song and soft laughter. It reminded Octavia of Christmas. The chill of the tombs, the evening air, balanced with the warmth of the candle light, the warmth of the voices as people prayed out loud and told family stories to the children they brought with them. Octavia hoped that someday she would have a son or daughter that she could bring here, to teach the prayers and the predilections of their ancestors, to pass on the lineage and responsibility of honoring and celebrating those no longer present.

It never felt morbid to Octavia, though both her parents were still alive, and she wondered if it might be different for her, years from now. But she felt that even then, they would be somehow at home, protected and at peace here. She would help see to it, she thought to herself.

Holding Space

ginkgo1
This month marks Tracking Wonder’s #Quest2017, where Jeffrey Davis assembles a dozen visionaries from many directions, offering prompts for our reflection and exploration as we stand on the threshold of a new year. It is an invigorating and enlightening undertaking (this is my third year participating) and here you can read #WhyIQuest
And, by the way, it is free – it’s not too late to join in!


The first prompt comes from someone I much admire: OnBeings own Krista Tippett:

“What is your vocation, your sense of callings as a human being at this point in your life, both in and beyond job and title?

Practice internalizing a more spacious, generous sense of what animates you and why you are here (e.g. as a human being, partner, child, neighbor, friend, citizen, maker, yogi, volunteer, as well as a professional). Honor the creative value of ‘how’ you are present as much as in ‘what’ you are doing in the everyday at work and in the world.” #yourtruecalling

 

***

Sitting with this question, my first inclination was to talk about my calling as a storyteller. But I hesitated, wondered if there wasn’t something more fundamental, more elemental, underneath that; something that encompassed storytelling but wasn’t limited to it.

What kept whispering in the periphery of my thoughts was “holding space.”

There is a mindfulness and careful, sharp sense of presence that is required to holding a space. It is something I realize I practice and have consciously tried to cultivate, but that the deliberateness often follows behind a more intuitive recognition.

I emailed a Quaker friend of mine and asked her if “holding space” could be considered a vocation. She replied, “I would say yes.”

***

I think about how often, and for how long in my life – as far back as high school if not farther – friends seek me out to share confidences and heart-concerns. They trusted me to hold space for them.

I think about the years I worked as a dinner waiter at a neighborhood Italian restaurant (actually, one of my favorite jobs), and the importance I placed on welcoming the diners at my tables and giving enjoyable experience along with the nourishment of a good meal. It was a type of holding space.

I remember when I worked at a group home for pregnant teenagers, and volunteered as a birth coach to some of the girls. Getting the phone call in the middle of the night and driving to the hospital to be there as they traveled that amazing and powerful liminal journey through labor and delivery. I held space for them. They gave me their trust.

I think about the weddings and memorials I have officiated as a Life-Cycle Celebrant; of how people have come up to me, complimenting me on how well I “held space” for the ceremony and those attending. It was the confirmation of that, at the first wedding I ever officiated; I knew that something very real existed there for me.

I wonder at the job I held for more than two decades, the bulk of which involved getting needed supplies and support to multiple school and low-income community gardens. I often considered this work to be Right Livelihood. I would like to think I was able to help others hold space – gardens that can be as sacred as they are common.

I have interviewed numerous makers, told their stories in print. I have been called specifically a “good listener.” To me, that means I have done a good job of holding space for the person’s story.

Even as a fiction writer, I feel my task is to hold space for the book’s characters; to tell their story, or let them tell their own. I’m not sure how that works, but it feels like a kind of holding space. Poetry is definitely a holding space activity. Writing is an act of holding space, period.

holding-figs

This photograph hangs in my kitchen, near the stove and tucked in next to the spice racks. It came from a magazine, and it is one of my favorite possessions. I thought about it when I started to respond to this prompt. It strikes me as the visual embodiment of what I have been trying to explain, here.

***

Within this prompt is a wonderful, compassionate invitation that feels like a gift:

“Practice internalizing a more spacious, generous sense of what animates you and why you are here…”

Krista Tippett, thank you.

Autumn Equinox

dsc_9209

So, here in the Pacific Northwest, autumn is starting to make itself known – in the cool mornings, bright sunny days without the scorching heat, the coloring of leaves, the winding down of the garden. The mornings will soon start to occasionally be blanketed in fall.

The equinox is that liminal tipping point that comes twice a year, when day and night are in equal balance on the teeter-totter of the year. It is that moment’s pause before the balance shifts toward the light in spring or toward the dark in fall. It signifies the ending of the harvest season, the time to take stock of the abundance we have received and the remnants of which we will carry into and through the winter; likewise what we leave behind to feed the soil for next year’s planting.

And it is also the time of year for reflecting on the personal seeds we planted earlier in the year, and what those seeds yielded. It is the time of year when we begin to take stock of what we have been able to harvest – what we have achieved, accomplished, realized – and what seeds never managed to sprout or thrive, maybe even despite our best efforts.  It is time to celebrate what we have been able to produce and glean, as well as release our grip on what didn’t come to fruition.

So, with that in mind, I offer up a writing prompt:

Reflect on the seeds you planted earlier in the year – which of them bore fruit and which lay fallow? What do you celebrate from this year’s harvest, and what must you simply release?

 

“In holding these two in tension we are reminded that in our letting go we also find abundance.” – Christine Valtners Paintner

 

(I have written more and have shared others’ wise and inspiring words about the autumn and its equinox here.)

 

 

 

 

One Dish at a Time

traveling-distances-300x300

So, today (thanks to the generosity of Marisa Goudy) marks the publishing of the first excerpt of my novel!  There, I’ve said it out loud – I have called it a “big hot mess of a fiction piece” as recently as a year and half ago, but not too long after, at the end of a five day intensive workshop with Jeffrey Davis and Tracking Wonder, I found myself willing to say that yes, I was actually working on a novel. In the time since then there have been scenes sketched, characters poked and prodded to see who they were and what they were about; there was a blooming of sorts, like a picture coming gradually into focus. You can read this short excerpt here.

I have carried this story in fits and starts for a long time, but haven’t ever been able to simply walk away from it: This story of family, of the struggle to understand and forgive; of the connections and anchors that come through food; the physicality of cooking, of the stories and shared experiences that get passed down through the generations, that weave family members together whether they like it or not; of finding one’s own place in the world. For some reason this story has captivated me, so I have to think that there are readers who might likewise be captivated by it. I hope so anyway.

I printed it out the other day, and yowza, I had a stack of a bit over a hundred pages of text! Well what the hell…. that’s not huge, but it means I am definitely a good way into a first draft; further than I’d anticipated, more substantial in its still-growing parts than I’d thought. A good thing.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I have set myself the goal of having the first draft done by the end of the year. It is time for me to settle in and write this. Seriously. I have just signed on for an eight-month mentorship program with Jeffrey Davis and Tracking Wonder, which will help me focus and direct my trajectory toward that goal.

Last week I  finished a five week “hammer & nails” novel workshop with Jennifer Springsteen and PDX Writers, and there were some significant breakthrough moments – including  A WORKING TITLE! Even though the title may change and change again before it’s in print (note the optimism, there?), for now One Dish at a Time suits me just fine. A title makes it real, right?

I’ve decided I am going to post snippets and scenes every so often here, just to keep the tease and hopefully the interest (of you, dear readers) sparked and alive. Also to keep me accountable, for this is a fairly daunting project. But it needs to be written. I really believe that. I like and have stake in these characters, so I need to tell their stories. So, here’s the first published bit. Thank you very much to Marisa Goudy and #365StrongStories for honoring me with a place at their table.

I hope you come back and read more as it’s posted, here. And leave me your thoughts down there in the comments box.

Book Release!

It has been a long time since I have posted anything (there is a New Year’s Resolution looming, I’m sure of it), though it has been a busy early autumn of writing and puppy-raising – but the book has arrived! It landed in my hands a few weeks ago, and on the shelves at Powell’s not too long after. More locations to follow.

But for now, as promised, your invitation to the release and party! Come say hello, meet some of the makers, help us celebrate this most amazing book. I couldn’t be more proud to have been a part of this project (yes, that is my name below Kelley’s on the cover).

Portland Made Poster

Writing Time Do-Si-Does With Nap Time

IMG_4633

This is Moe. At fourteen weeks he is all teeth and wiggle, vacillating between running and chewing and sleeping, back and forth and back again,  in a glorious display of life-loving, open-ended sense of wonder at the world  – something that is so much the province of small animals, humans included. He reminds me to delight in the simplest of pleasures, and calls upon my deepest reserves of patience and compassion (especially at the end of a busy, tiring day, when I want him to go to sleep so I can). He is my teacher in being exquisitely present and discerning of what is and isn’t important, as these days my available time is in small, not always yet predictable, parcels.

Having a puppy reminds me of the attention and prioritizing of time and energy that is required with a baby and toddler. It’s been a lot of years since my son was new in the world, but in these last few days I have been reminded of that particular juggling act: The need to try to get things done in those periods during the day known as Nap Time. Sometimes utter exhaustion demands I take a simultaneous nap; or the siren’s call of the sheer pleasure of being able to sit, unencumbered, basking in the peaceful quiet of the house or porch is not to be denied. But there quickly evolves a fine-tuned sense of importance and the artful streamlining of tasks. My focus becomes more sharp-edged and certain.

I dislike the notion that I work more efficiently when I have a schedule or a deadline, but it is sometimes true.

Last year, after a long life of being employed by others (with a delicious three-year break when my son was born), I was able to leave my day job, and suddenly found my schedule was entirely a product of my own creation. I had a couple regular freelance writing deadlines, chiropractic and acupuncture appointments to hook my new life calendar onto, but that wasn’t much.

I was surprised at how adrift I felt. I who had been for so long craving and dreaming about quiet mornings to myself in the house and garden; not having to get in the car and join the stream of others motoring toward their jobs that took up the bulk of the day. But, I realized, I hadn’t been without a prescribed daily/weekly schedule since I was, what? Six years old, when I started first grade? Yikes. And that was a hell of a long time ago. So that I couldn’t be the master of my daily doings yet wasn’t my fault, I’m out of practice!

I admit I frittered a lot of time in that interim, with the help so many interesting things crossing my screen on the computer; because well, I could. The feeling of open-ended time was divine. But at the same time, in an extreme pendulum swing, I found myself scheduling the hell out of myself, with workshops and seminars; coffee and lunches with friends I no longer saw everyday at work; a sizable freelance writing project that was on a very tight deadline.  It was exhilarating. And exhausting.

My creative learning curve went into a steep trajectory as I put myself in the company of an amazing group of people via Jeffrey Davis and Tracking Wonder, both in person at YBNS and more recently in an intensive online workshop known as ArtMark. I put my butt in the chair in a serious way for an online “boot camp” with Max Regan that proved I could indeed crank out 1000 words a day of decent early first draft material. Wow. Work on the fledgling novel rekindled. Experiments in a poetry class proved fruitful and expansive in rich possibility. I continued to meet monthly with the writing group I have been a part of for several years. I submitted pieces to journals and started amassing the requisite stack of rejections. Posted photographs for an online photography workshop, and a daily posting of a writing (usually) – related photo via #continuouspractice  – as exciting and enriching as all this has been, it was too much. I hit a wall. My attention was too divided, even though with a cornucopia of wonderful experience and new friends and colleagues.  What to do…

And there were all those ongoing distractions, false starts and near misses that come from trying to work/produce at home, that many writers and freelancers have talked and written about at length. Though it was nice to not be alone on this crazy roller coaster, to have the company of so many others that have faced the same challenges.

I freely admit this is a good problem to have. But I still hit the wall.

So I started to discern and be more selective, started saying no to invitations and not having to take every interesting short course that crossed my radar. All with a determination to start to more productively craft and sculpt my time (for in with all the creative work there was also the more temporal matters of a clean house, healthy food, regular exercise, attention paid to partner and dog, friendships maintained). I had some good tools for this in hand: Jeffrey Davis’s time management and prioritizing tools, the Mind Rooms Guide and 7-Minute Prioritizer.  I was set. I was ready to really get into the groove of regular creative work, self-care, life’s practicalities covered, relationships not given the crumbs of what was left. Okay, here I am.

And then along came Moe.

IMG_4626

All of a sudden, I knew I was going to long again for those stretches of totally self-directed time, because it was going to be awhile before I got them. It was funny, in a way, to think that years’ worth of my days being scheduled, followed by months of flailing self-determination, suddenly finding myself back to an almost 24/7 accountability to another being; molding and shaping my time to his needs.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not doing this by myself, I have help – but there is this sense of having to nevertheless be always at the ready. His needs will come before mine, much of the time. He is the one needing shepherding and guiding to find his place in the world. And in this task there is an amazing sense of grace and purpose. I enter into contract with this pup willingly. I have had to learn to parcel time to available slots before; I can do it again for a while. And I have my dog to reassure as to her place in the pack.

Tonight I cooked dinner while the puppy was resting after his dinner. I started this post during an afternoon nap and am working on it more as he is sound asleep after lots of running and playing with my older dog Juno (bless her heart, my special dog helper).

I was still able to attend my final poetry class today. In the coming weeks, when my partner gets home from work, will likely be the time that I will take myself to the pool for a swim and sauna. It will all work out, and it won’t be forever. Puppies grow fast. Faster than human babies.

One day there will be two dogs instead of just mine keeping me company in my office and when I take my laptop out on the back deck as the weather gets warmer. Time will again open out and become more spacious. I have the feeling that the lessons I learn and the priorities I discover in this compressed period of available time will make that time to come more potent and purposeful and directed. I’m keeping hold of all the pieces. Nothing is getting truly lost.

All this makes me think of the wonderful writers and creative people I know who are successfully making their way – and time for their creative work – while in the midst of raising children: Jeffrey Davis is one. Marisa Goudy is another. My good friend and poet Claudia Savage is collaborating with her musician husband John Savage on joint projects and performances (watch for their emerging recording label, THrum), as well as collaborating on the raising of their young daughter, River. Claudia’s blog, aptly named: While River Sleeps.