A woman I’ve never met made my day yesterday. Actually, she rescued from the the flu blues, as well as a bad case of the Eeyores (woe is me… life is sad…eat worms…). Not to mention a spiralling why do I bother?? mindset… And to repeat: I’ve never met her. Wouldn’t recognise her if she whacked me on the butt.
But she’s my new publisher, and deserves a huge round of applause. Her impact on me is proof positive that small gestures on our part can have large impact on others.
In the publishing business — especially poetry — much of the contact is done by email. I have actually met very few (two? three?) of the people who have published my work. But that’s true for much of my life these days — increasingly, it is online.
I spend hours daily on email, connecting through FaceBook or LinkedIn or Google+. There are people I think of as friends — not simply peers — whom I’ve never met: a lovely dog-lover & fellow teachers in Massachusetts, a dear retired professor in Mississippi, an artist & fossil expert in Ohio… Such is today’s network of friendships, the ersatz sangha I belong to. Nice people, friends of dear friends, with whom I’ve struck up ‘virtual’ — but real — friendships.
But my publisher doesn’t have to be nice to me — she already accepted my manuscript, and she could ignore me until there’s actual work to do. Instead, when I send her an email updating her on the progress of various manuscript submissions to this & that journal (bad…uniformly NOT GOOD), she sends me a cheerleader of a letter. Tongue firmly in cheeck, she reminds me that if this was easy, everyone would do it. And somehow that helps.
What helps even more is her belief in my work, which feels like a belief in me, the person. The sad-eyed Eeyore heart behind the brave shell of a writer. We’re such fragile, self-absorbed folks, writers. I’ve been known to tell a classroom of writers — of any age — that everyone in the room (myself included) believes that what they think & have to say MATTER, or they wouldn’t be writing it down! That asserted, it doesn’t mean anyone else will want to listen. Or that they won’t (worst possible scenario!) LAUGH AT YOU! (Cue evil laughter…)
I happen to know that Sammy (my publisher) is always busy. Probably frantically busy, as most folks involved w/ writers are. She juggles a life (even writers are allowed one), her writers, the publishing biz, her own writing, interviews, advocacy… the list is long and literate. But she still found time, late the other evening, to write a new-to-her writer a note of encouragement. And she didn’t laugh once.
How many times daily could I make a difference? How many times might eye contact, a smile, a word of genuine thanks, a note of appreciation, smooth the wrinkles from a rumpled day? And how many times are we too busy to even notice, much less take the moments necessary?
Here’s to Sammy, and words of encouragement. I’m tearing a leaf from that book. And the words don’t even have to rhyme…
Sophie the cat came to us about 10+ years ago. So she’s an elder cat — well-versed in the wiles of felines. She knows that when I’m sitting at the breakfast table, and the mid-day sun is slanting over the table, I won’t object to her laying on the table beside me. After all, the sun is warm on both of us, and a grey cat is greyt inspiration…:)
I sometimes wonder if it’s attachment to be so fond of the family animals. There are animals in my life — far far back — for whom I still grieve. A dog; a cat that didn’t even belong to me; another dog that didn’t, either… Their names and faces are fresh, like a beloved aunt’s.
Sophie isn’t a ‘life cat.’ She isn’t as amazing as the cat who lived w/ us courtesy of friends. Grabber seemed to know my every thought. And while she’s certainly as beautiful as (if not more than) any cat I’ve had, she’s pretty well-adjusted, as cats go. She doesn’t have any real idiosyncracies. Perhaps that’s enough to make her idiosyncratic…?
Because cats always come w/ baggage. Sophie is a rescue, a feral kitten born at the site of my son’s camp counseling job. He brought her home 10+ years ago, and she’s been with us since. Several years back, the neighbour behind us shot her; the pellet from what should have felled a racoon instead remains lodged in her flank. The vet told us it’s too dicey w/ cats to operate, since it doesn’t seem to do more than make her gimpy. She can still take a hummingbird down from mid-air, even at 10. Still, she is simply herself — a grey cat, sleeping in January sun.
Something there is, as Auden would say, about sitting in the lazy sun w/ a dozing cat. But I don’t think it’s attachment. It feels more like this moment, expanding outward like a warm golden field. Kind of like a black hole in reverse…? At any rate — I wish I could send it to each of you. Because I’m pretty sure we need more of it this coming year ~
It’s all done — the build-up of lists & wrapping & shopping & cooking. The family from out of town have departed, or (if you’re that family) you’re home again, and back to work. You’ve written (maybe even already broken? :)) your resolutions, and the whole world is missing its red & green, its blue & silver & gold…
I recommend a journal. Seriously. Find a book — it needn’t be a fancy hand-made Italian leather, w/ handsewn pages. It can be what teachers call a ‘cow book’ — a dollar-store black&white composition book. It can be a Moleskine (mine are). It can be a spiral or an online app or whatever you like. It’s the writing that’s important, not the written in.
Use it as an excuse to buy a new inkpen — roller ball, fountain pen, or a freshly sharpened pencil w/ a knife-edge point. Take a moment to list a few things you’re grateful for already this year. Jot down something you’d like to accomplish (don’t make it as fancy as a ‘resolution’…). Doodle or draw in the margin, and you’re set. You’ve started a journal.
My son asked me last night if I could fit everything I need in five boxes. “NO!” I said in utter horror at the thought. And then I reconsidered… What would I fill my boxes with? First, he had to kid me (we have those kids…): What if the box is as big as your house, Mom? And yes, this is a grown man. Sort of…
Given five U-Haul boxes, of medium-large size, I know I would put into one my journals. They pre-date the birth of the son who asked me about my boxes: there is a list of what I needed to buy on a trip to England, from where we were living in Saudi Arabia…And I still grieve for journals left on planes, stolen from luggage, lost to carelessness. Each as valuable as if it had lived its own singular life.
Over the years my journals have filled small hardback books (3×5, 4×7), leather-bound refillables, Moleskines, & the lovely books friends & family have given me. I’ve settled on Moleskines, as I like their durability, the pocket for mementoes, their size. This year my elder son & daughter-in-law bought me an e-version, complete w/ stickers for referencing online. Another chapter!
I hope this year’s journal is full of birds — the sketch book is where I’ll be doing my work, but I figure my journal (always with me) will see some spillover. It will also be full of poetry starts, lists to organise me, pasted-in cartoons & weather forecasts & who knows what? That’s half the fun — looking forward from this side of the empty pages to that side of the full ones ~ If you just pick out a book & start, when 2014 comes, it will be full. Who knows? You may even have filled TWO!
This year’s holidays brought many gifts — some the kind you unwrap, others less tangible. An Amazon gift card — how intangible is that?? — morphed verrry quickly into a book on drawing birds that I’ve been eyeballing for weeks. Three days after opening the email w/ the giftcard, I held John Muir Laws’s Drawing Birds in my hands.
Although it’s (obviously) a book about drawing, it’s already becoming a metaphor as well, as so many things do in my life (and books are some of the metaphor-iest). I’m only on page 2, and the book is talking to me: We assume that if we can see, we know how to observe. But true observation is a skill that we must practice and learn. The deeper we look, the more the miracle of being alive opens to our eyes. How Buddhist is THAT?
Laws asks that I (the gentle reader) give him a year. One year of drawing birds. In return?… the world opens up to you in ways that you could never have predicted. All that for something I want to do anyway?? Wow — if only my diet & exercise program would go so easily… 🙂
So today I sat at the breakfast table, the sketch book my wonderful husband bought me a year ago ready for birds. I took out a graphite sketch pencil from my small box of art tools, and watched cardinals feeding against the darkening sky. I made two lines; the cardinal moved. I made four new lines (always begin a new bird when it moves from a pose); that cardinal moved. I drew crests for at least three different birds — not one was vain enough to stay posed… Laws says to make lines that recreate the angle of the bird’s posture, or movement. I have crests in various states of deconstruction.
Now tell me: doesn’t that sound pretty metaphorical to you?
So share — what are you going to try that’s new this year? What are you trying yet again (that would be diet & exercise for me!)…? What would you like to deepen your understanding of? Who do you need to re-connect with, possibly?
It’s the time of beginnings, and fresh starts. Make a mark on the clean pages of January. Make another, and another if you need to, until you begin to see a shape forming. That’s the new year. Learn it well; use it wisely ~