On a cellular level...

My writing took a nosedive during the past three days as my body tussled with some cold bugs. Outside, the cloudy, dark skies and almost constant pounding rain gave me added license to stay indoors.

Almost the entirety of each day was spent reading … just one book, beginning to end. A fabulous book! The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot. 

This is a true story encompassing everything imaginable: racism, medical science and research, family, greed, faith, idealism, small town dynamics, on and on and on.  

The blurb on the front cover reads: “...doctors took her cells without asking. Those cells never died. They launched a medical revolution and a multi-million dollar industry. More than 29 years later, her children found out. Their lives would never be the same." I turned one page to the next, savoring every word and eager to read more, learn more.  The author’s long slog to publication sure seems worth it to this reader.

In these three “out of touch” days, I found great contentment in simply being and healing.

Backing up a bit...

Writing poetry, personal essay and narrative non-fiction has always been a passion. Drawers and cabinets hold pages and pages of handwritten work in journals and on scraps of paper; also, there are notebooks in storage which hold 20 years' worth of letters written to my parents (and Dad saved) when my young family and I were living long, lonely miles away.

In 1997, my son and his wife gave me my first computer and printer. I enjoyed learning to navigate my way through this new technology, although the “curve” was steep. Of course, it didn’t hurt one bit to have a son who had jumped into the burgeoning IT world with both feet and was eager and willing to help me. In a short while, I became quite computer literate.

Ever the wordy one, I enjoyed the ease with which I could tap out letters to friends (at that time few people had e-mail). At first, I used the computer (and printer) mainly for these snail-mail letters.

My fingers flew on the keyboard of the new wonder, moving as rapidly as my thoughts; when I reread and wanted to move sentences or paragraphs, delete, correct or enlarge upon any of this work, it could be done with an ease I marvel at to this day. Understandable when you realize I go back to the era of clunky Underwood typewriters and mimeograph machines! To an era when we really did use cc (carbon paper copies) and bcc (blind carbon paper copies)!

In a few months, I bought and began using Intuit’s Quicken program to keep track of my finances.

I saved all writing and other information on floppy disks, which was state of the art at that time.

Now it’s 2010 and I have my fourth computer, a laptop. I can’t say I’ve kept up with technology; however, I have become more and more adept at knowing how to get the most out of my computer and its programs.

I’ve often said, “... my life is on my computer.” Well, that’s hyperbole of course. The point is losing the files on my computer would be a devastating blow.

I'm far from a fearful or paranoid person, but I did have concerns about the safety of the information I had on the computer. Purchase of an external hard drive (over $150 at the time) didn't seem to make sense as it would usually be left at home with my computer (fire or burglary, while a remote possibility, was still something to think about). I bought a USB Flash Drive, backed up data on that and kept it with me at all times, apart from the computer.

One book, two book...

Upon arriving home one afternoon, I noticed a UPS tag on my front door telling me of a package at the apartment complex office. I hadn’t ordered anything and it wasn’t my birthday so why was I receiving a package?

At the apartment offices, the receptionist rifled through a few dozen boxes and packages of all sizes, looking, looking. She asked me if I knew the size of the item. No, I had no idea. Finally, she discovered a small, book-sized package with my name on it. A book? A book! Someone had sent me a book??! But who? And why?

I consider books to be treasures and books given as gifts hold even more meaning. I tried to look and act nonchalant as I walked out the door with my package. Through my front door five minutes later and I had the brown wrapping torn off.

I read the cover: Naked, Drunk, and Writing: Shed Your Inhibitions and Craft a Compelling Memoir or Personal Essay by Adair Lara. I’d never heard of the book or the author. Who had sent this to me? Who would have thought this book was just what I needed, just at that time? Well, no, not the "Naked, Drunk..." part!

A shipping confirmation fell out of the crumpled brown wrapping. Two lines of extremely small print, a note from my brother: “I’ve enjoyed Adair Lara’s columns in the SF Chronicle. Thought this book of hers is one you’d like. Love, Warren.”

Silly as it may sound, I clasped the book to my chest feeling as delighted as a child on Christmas morning.

Samuel's Sunrise

Last fall I sent a birthday card to a young friend who was celebrating the end of his 13th year. Sam sent me a thank you note along with a picture showing him standing on a knoll overlooking a vineyard. His back is to the camera. The sky is autumn orange and red, shafts of the just-rising sun pierce a few errant clouds. Sam’s young body is straight and stalwart, watching.

He wrote “…I got to see the sun rise on my birthday.” His comment and the photo inspired this poem:

He’s on the hillside of the vineyard
His back to me,
to the rest of the world
aware, calm, a fire within

The sun is rising golden
He’s facing that sun
Watching a miracle rising
Just for him

Just for this day
He’s 13 years old today
he’s facing life
thirteen is rising and risking

For My Reading Pleasure

I recently read Wallace Stegner’s Angle of Repose and John Daniel’s Rogue River Journal. With each book, I reveled in the evocative prose, enjoyed the lilt and lyricism; I delighted in the authors’ ability to draw me into the lives and landscapes using only the written word. What amazing talent!

Neither book was read via an electronic book (such as Kindle). That is just not the way I want to read my books.

There’s something calming in the tactile process of turning the pages. My mind is restful, open and ready to receive the unfolding story. When it’s time to put my reading aside, that act of placing a bookmark and closing the cover reminds me of the way I feel when I say “S’long” to a friend and close the door: I know we’ll meet again.

Rather than read news online, I subscribe to a daily newspaper. I enjoy that morning ritual of getting the coffee started, opening the front door to a new day, stooping down to retrieve the paper, cocooned in its plastic wrap. As I settle into my “reading chair,” that fresh cup of coffee and waiting newspaper help welcome the beginning of my day.

Even when I worked full time and had a home and family to care for, I made time for this morning ritual. True, I didn’t always get to the paper first thing; the “morning” ritual sometimes became a “mid-morning” event. There were other priorities in those days.

One afternoon not long ago as my nine-year-old grandson and I were walking in town, he popped out with “Reading is a kind of power, isn’t it?” He didn’t break his stride, didn’t look up at me as he said this. Of course, I agreed with him but mostly just let the observation hang in the air.

There was a sense of purity, clarity, epiphany about his rhetorical question and it didn’t call for any discussion. He had made a connection and his book-loving, word-enjoying grandmother was very, very pleased.

This Writing Life

I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words 
as they tangle with human emotions. 

~ James A. Michener

Two months ago I joined seven other women at Jill Kelly’s “Writing With Intention” workshop. Jill combined writing prompts and visualization with collaging. A very innovative combo!

I first met Jill 13 years ago when I timorously attended one of her a day-long writing classes. I say “timorously” because, while I’ve always used the written word as a way to work through life’s problems as well as chronicle its joys, up until that one-day class my writing had never had another’s eyes look upon it, another’s ears hear the words.

I knew writing could be cathartic for me; however, I never thought anything I wrote might have meaning for anyone else—might verbalize what another was going through—might be of interest to others. As it turns out, I was wrong. I did have something to say and others wanted to hear it.

Jill’s calm demeanor and coaching ability, her very apparent knowledge of the craft of writing as well and her talent to see within another, to prod that bud of creativity and urge it to bloom and grow, served to make the day worthwhile and memorable.

The years ran, stumbled and scurried past. I continued to journal and write essays and poetry—for myself. I attended a term-long writing class at Marylhurst, two separate two day classes at the coast and one or two other six-hour classes. Along the way, I learned something more about the basics of writing. I didn’t learn a lot about myself. Something was lacking. I assumed I was lacking…something.

PACE explained:

The letters forming the word "PACE" arranged themselves in my mind one day about ten years ago as I thought about the impact--negative or positive--my perceptions, attitudes, choices and expectations had on my life.

I remember hearing "there is no reality, there is only perception." When I thought about how I perceived any occurrence in my life, I realized there is no right or wrong to my perceptions; however, I have control over them and therefore control over how I act or react.

When I understood that I owned and therefore was the sole proprietor of my attitude, I discovered I could be much happier if the attitude I chose to own was one of peace and calm.

It is really entirely my choice. No one is forcing me into a particular frame of mind. When I realized this, I gained a huge sense of personal control.
Expectations—we all tend to have them and we are most often brought down by them because the planned for, hoped for, joyful, entertaining or delightful outcome doesn't occur the way we'd expected.

Because I had expectations that may have been unmet, I closed myself off from experiencing life to the fullest.

I continue to work on my PACE. It's not always easy. Every day I give myself a little "CPR." That is, I try to be Calm, Patient and Reasonable so that I might enjoy each step of the way and savor the PACE of my life.

"Goal" Post

With apologies to Giacomo Casanova,"[It seems] … I never had any fixed aim before my eyes, and that my system, if it can be called a system, has been to glide away unconcernedly on the stream of life, trusting to the wind wherever it led."

I've often spouted that I've never set a goal for myself. As of this weekend I've realized I do set goals for myself; I just don't tell people what they are because...well, because then if I don't accomplish the goal I feel I'm diminished in the eyes of my friends. How dumb is that??? Seems I'm a prime example (albeit not a perfect one!) of continual learning and self discovery.

I had a goal for Saturday: painting a couple of walls. In my younger days that would have been a snap and most likely accomplished, along with 10 others things, in one day. Now however, it's an all day project: moving furniture, getting the ladders, brushes, paint, wiping cloths. Most of you know the routine. Anyway, I did it and I'm very proud of myself for attaining a goal.

Some of my friends exclaim over what they perceive to be my deep well of energy.

WELL … that's totally their perception of course. From my standpoint, my energy level is flagging and lagging more and more as the years creep (slink?) by.

There are times when I laugh about this waning stamina. For example, when I finished the Saturday painting, I flopped on the couch, panting and pooped. Worn out yet joyous because no matter how long the process took I achieved my goal. I know I'm fortunate to get as much out of this ol' body as I do (flopping and panting aside!).

Balancing Choices

One summer several years ago, I was visiting my nephew and his family in California. His two-year old daughter Kyra scampered around the yard in a pink tutu and bare feet (what she called “happy feet”). Her laughter and antics enthralled me.

Several times, Kyra balanced those “happy feet” on two large boulders in the yard. The pride she felt about this accomplishment was obvious in her wide smile and her shrieks of joy.

When she stubbed her toe on the patio stones, she cried. However, because she wanted so badly to be free of shoes she resigned herself to the possibility of more scraped toes. As I watched Kyra’s agile balancing act I thought of how life is a balancing act at all stages

We balance or weigh things, one against the other, our entire life. Of course, many times we don’t even realize we are doing this until the event is over. At times we make conscious choices that put our lives out of balance—when we must reconcile our actions to the possibility of a painful outcome.