Accountability

It didn’t take long for Your Daily Prompt to become Your Weekly Prompt.  And now it seems to be Your Whenever I Get Around to it Prompt.

This blog was meant to hold me accountable.  It was going to be my way of ‘writing down the bones’.  And with a bit of luck YDP would encourage readers to use the posted photo as their own writing prompt. My goal was to see Your Daily Prompt become a safe place to write and to share.

It was meant to be easy.  How difficult could it be to write for five minutes?  More difficult than I anticipated.

Yet I’m not throwing in the towel.  Not yet.

What follows are one hundred and forty nine words inspired by the photograph.  I took this image while on a ferry crossing the Irish Sea in 1991.  My jumping off point for the paragraph below were the three children at the railing and the man’s shadow.

They sent the children away during the war.  My brother and I were on a boat to our grandparents in Ireland by 1939 and that’s why I don’t always remember my father.  We were separated by time and circumstance. When I see him in my mind’s eye I see a man who was at first like a shadow. A man who was like darkness falling.

And then, after the war, my father became less than a shadow. He seemed tangled and wrapped by a shroud that bound him to his struggle.

Shipped back from Wicklow when I was nine, I spent 1945 shuttled between our shaken home and the cousins who raised pigs on a farm near Scunthorpe.    At home with my parents – the adults who were charged with teaching me about life – I learned to fear.  On the pig farm, with my cousins, I learned to live.

Summers at the Silver Bridge

What did you do during your summer vacation?  Take 10-minutes to remember.

My best friend Barbara and her brother Gary, that kid Eugene from down the street and sometimes Kim – we all used to meet under the silver bridge.  This was in the 1970’s, when kids could still disappear all day and no one worried.

We met underneath the bridge where the river rats scurried along the pilings.  It was cool and mucky underneath the bridge, a break from the stifling humidity of an eastern Pennsylvania summer.  There wasn’t much to do during those summers except dream.  We dreamed of building a raft and floating as far away as possible.  All the way to the Atlantic Ocean.  Or maybe only I believed that possible.  Maybe the rest of the gang simply hoped to build something that wouldn’t sink.  So the boys scavenged wood and rope.  Someone dragged two empty oil barrels that had been left to rust in the cow pasture. 

Barbara and I watched with the rats as the boys tied and hammered and dragged and cussed for an hour or two or until we grew too bored to bother. And then we went home for dinner.

On some days we followed the abandoned railway running along the creek to swim in the sunhole – a place where the creek slowed and the trees cleared. The sunhole was lined with thickets of blackberries and we dodged poison ivy and thorns from the rambling wild rose to gorge ourselves on ripe berries until our fingertips were blue.

There was an abandoned outbuilding, too, along the creek.  It may have been a home but most likely it belonged to the railway when the train ran one hundred years before.  We liked to think it was haunted.  It was two stories, with an attic.  Holes in the floor allowed us to see clear through to the basement.  The creek side stone wall lay in ruin allowing the sun to catch the musty air and drape shadows in ragged corners.

One afternoon, while the rest of the gang schemed in the basement, I climbed into the attic.  My footfalls and the creaking boards startled a giant white owl from her nest.  I ducked as the owl swooped the length of the attic several times, screeching loud in flight.  I had never seen anything so large and so commanding. I could feel the rush of her wings as she arced and danced and then finally found her way toward the trees outside. The image of that owl, in all her full winged beauty swooping and howling above me, has haunted me all these years, more than the memories of ghosts.  

 

When I returned home thirty years later, the silver bridge was gone.  So was the trail along the abandoned rail and even our haunted clubhouse.  But the creek still runs, and kids still swim in the sunhole.

A Poem for Thursday

jalandharabandha

the stem folds but does not break

clarity and joy lie still

in dappled water

Day Two

YDP #2

Natalie Goldberg, in her beloved book Writing Down the Bones, advises us to write.  No matter what.  Write. Every day.  Fill notebooks with words and ideas and dreams and gibberish.  Just keep writing.  Your Daily Prompt keeps me accountable.

One photograph.  Thirty minutes of writing.  A couple hundred words.  Light editing.

Feel free to share your prose or poetry inspired by the image.

It was the air that kept Connie awake.  It didn’t matter if it was Hong Kong, New York or London.  The air always smelled the same.  It always felt the same.  Heavy and layered with ozone and salt and the scent of strangers who called the room home for a day or a week.

She knew better than to think a budget priced room in an overpriced city could ever be considered home. 

It was near dawn and coffee was the only cure for her restless pacing.  Coffee calmed her.  It brought circumstances into focus and pulled together in sharp detail Connie’s task for the day.  Decisions came easily with caffeine.  She knew what she had to do.

A shower, then room service. Toast and scrambled eggs. A small orange juice.  She ate with brisk precision, folded the cloth napkin and stood to dress.

For this occasion she chose the dark green pencil skirt. She’d wear it with the sling back burgundy pumps.  They showed off her legs.  The tight cashmere turtleneck highlighted other assets.

An extra brush of powder softened the dark circles around her eyes and the slash of Revlon’s Really Red across her lips was distracting. Constance Harrow took one last look at her reflection in the mirror, slipped the Smith and Weston into her purse and stepped into the Emperor Hotel’s faux royal hallway. She smoothed her skirt and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.  Then she closed the door to Room 421, rode the elevator to the ground floor and thanked the doorman as she walked out into the sun.

Regrouping

Your Daily Prompt #1

I stopped writing for a while.

When it was time to begin again I thought for a while.  Then thought some more.

I took a walk with a friend this past Saturday through UC Berkeley’s beautiful campus.  On our way to Telegraph Avenue we passed an over flowing trashcan.  Next to it, crumpled and discarded, was a denim jacket.  Someone had set fire to it, or it had caught fire, and then was abandoned.  No longer useful.

“That would make a good writing prompt.”

“What?”  The beauty of the day and a raging case of indigestion distracted my friend.

“That denim jacket.  It would make a good writing prompt.  I should take a photo of it.”

But I didn’t.

Instead, I’ll post this photo.  Your daily writing prompt.

Now feel free to pick up a pen and write.

A few ground rules:

• Timed writing – 15 to 30 minutes
• 200 to 500 words
• If you want to share, post your work as a comment

Here are my 263 words from Your Daily Prompt #1:

She admired the pattern of raindrops on the linen envelope and looked for the return address.  There was none, and the postmark had blurred from the rain and was now a red smeared remnant from a former destination.  But there was something familiar in a long ago way about the handwriting.

The freezing rain made her fingers ache.  Clare dropped the letter on the breakfast table next to the half finished porridge and cold tea.  Whatever it is, it can wait.  Her first spoken words of the day woke Jack.  The black tabby stretched down from his kitchen chair and rubber his body against her ankle.

Clare lifted the plate from the Stanley, took up the coal bucket next to the stove and spilled shining black chunks into its belly.  She made a second cup of tea – two teaspoons of sugar and a drop of milk – then sat down by the window.

She looked through the raindrops past the McSweeny kid’s swing set, past the arch of identical white bungalows that carved the green hill.  She looked all the way to Barnesmore Gap, all the way to the Atlantic and across.  She looked to a rocky shore, then cities, mountains, people, mad dreams and fields of wheat.

Jack reached his paws to her lap.  Come on then, she said, and Jack was in her lap.  She picked up the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of ordinary paper, folded in quarters and on that folded piece of paper was taped a single Gingko leaf and the words “Remember me.”

Moving On

Image via Wikipedia

Sometimes a girl just needs a little balance.  And I’m not talking about tree pose.

What’s most important to me?  Managing two blogs badly or sending my work out into the word with polish and panache?  I’ll take the polish and panache, thank you very much.

I kept two blogs because I wanted to keep my two lives – my writing life and my yoga life – separate.  Yeah.  How’d that work out for you, Mimm?

Not too well.  How can we keep separate the parts of ourselves that make us whole?

And so I say a fond farewell to Diving with Gems.   If you want to keep up with me (and I know you do), you can follow me on my other blog Practically Twisted.

Encouraging Words

I loved Rachel Gardner’s blog post so much that I decided to reprint it.  It first appeared here.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2010

 

Here’s to You

(Repost) 

Hey… you.

Yeah, you, the one sitting alone in your basement hammering out a thousand words every morning before you go to work.

And you. The one filling out your registration for a writers conference and terrified to click “send.”

And you in the back, there… frantically taking notes in the writing workshop, attempting to be invisible.

And what about you, about to sit down at your first-ever meeting with an agent, trembling with nervousness.

And you, the writer who’s signed your first publishing contract and suddenly feel the pressure of deadlines and marketing and expectations.

And you, the multi-published author, thankful for your good fortune and praying everyday the words continue to flow.

I just wanted you to know that I see you. I know you’re there. I hear what you’re saying, I feel your fears, I love your passion, I understand a lot about what drives you and what terrifies you.

And I admire you. I am so incredibly awed by your bravery. I know it takes courage to do what you’re doing. I’m impressed with your persistence, your enthusiasm, your dedication.

I know it takes sacrifice. I know you give up a lot… I know it’s a significant chunk of change to go to a conference; it’s a significant commitment of time to write books and build platforms (and read blogs).

I just want to thank you for what you’re doing. I’m so glad you get up every morning and do what you do. I’m so happy you’re up for the challenge. It’s because of you that I’ve been a reader my whole life. It’s because of you that I love books. It’s because of you that I’ve had the good fortune to work for the last fourteen years in a career I absolutely love.

You are incredible. Keep up the good work. Keep writing… so I can keep reading. And thank you.

Resolutions and The Best Intentions

Image via Wikipedia

December 2007:

Maybe this happens with age.  A compulsive list maker from the age of six, for the first time EVER in the entire History of the Universe I’ve not written the list of resolutions that will change the course of my life forever. While I may be exaggerating somewhat, this is still completely out of character.  I’m so baffled that I find myself attempting – even now, on January 3^rd – to plot the course of the next twelve months.  Each time I believe I’ve set aside the time to do this I find something better to do.  Like washing the dishes.  Or folding laundry.  Taking out the recycling. And I have to ask myself, “What’s up with that?”

My enthusiasm and optimism for this New Year hasn’t waned.  I’m thrilled to have left 2007 – a very challenging year for me – far, far behind.  But I simply don’t seem to be able to put in writing my hopes and dreams for the Great 2008.  Maybe they’re bigger than the written word.  I hope so.

And maybe somewhere inside me I have learned that it doesn’t matter how many times I write my list of aspirations.  If those intentions don’t live in my heart and soul, they’re paper tigers.  They’re meaningless.

December 2010:

I never did get around to writing a resolution for 2008.  Nor did I write one the following year. And by the end of December 2009 I’d convinced myself resolutions were for the weak.  No more resolutions for me.  I had a far more cunning plan for 2010.  It was failsafe. If I really wanted to keep my life moving forward, I would forget about writing a list of dreams that might never happen.  Instead, I’d write a list of victories as they occurred.  In other words, I didn’t scribble a few things down on a scrap of paper on December 31^st, 2009 and then forget about it.  Throughout 2010, as each new hurdle was surmounted, I recorded it.  And then I did a little Dance of Joy.  While my cunning plan was good for my self-esteem – my list grew steadily longer throughout the year – it failed at keeping me focused on the Big Picture.

So, after a few resolution free years, I think it’s time to go old-school again.  Yep, that’s right.  I’m setting some intentions for 2011.  And I hope I won’t be alone.  Anyone care to join me?

My immediate intention is to find a few quiet days between now and the New Year to contemplate the journey I’ve been on in the last five years since my return to California and the journey I want to go in the next five.  It will involve writing and working out a way to feel less lost in the universe, choosing to be a caring and giving human and, of course, the old stand-by intention – being the healthiest Mimm I can be.  And when I figure out the specifics the Whole Wide World (or the couple dozen folks who stumble upon this blog) will be the first to know.

 

Truth, Chutzpah and Joseph Campbell

Pastel by 81-year-old Lew Silvers.

Remember when The Power of Myth, Bill Moyers and Joseph Campbell were water cooler conversation?  It was 1988 and we all wanted to ‘follow our bliss’.  We wanted to ‘make our heart sing’.  And it sounded easy enough to do.

So…how’d that work out for you?

Trying to follow our bliss is a little bit like trying to grab smoke.  The more we struggle, the more elusive it becomes. Twenty-two years later and I’m beginning to realize that while bliss is nice, it shouldn’t be the goal.  These days, I’m inclined to believe bliss is the reward for a living my truth.  These days, it’s chutzpah that makes my heart sing.

Last night I was organizing a few computer files and I stumbled upon a blog post I wrote three years ago.  The Mimm back than has managed to encourage this Mimm.  And so I’m posting the essay again.

It Takes Chutzpah

Yes, I’m one of them.  I’m one of those people who want to write a book.  We’re a dime a dozen.  We fill cyberspace, bookstores, writing clinics, and book clubs.  And how many of us will actually make it past verbally expressing our deepest secret: “I want to write a book.”  I imagine, very few.

I’m thinking about this because I’m sitting in a public space.  I’m people watching in between paragraphs.  A few moments ago one of my yoga students happened by and asked what I was up to.   I explained the blog, and the daily entry I promised my Life Coach and myself.  I explained, too, how I hoped to move out of body therapy over the next few years to focus on writing.

She then proceeded to tell me the amazing story of her friend who decided that most children’s books were rubbish and that she would write her own.  Rather than stopping there, she actually did it.  She wrote the book, she found an illustrator and then she hooked up with an agent!  The book hasn’t been published, but I don’t doubt for a moment that it will be.

Chutzpah.  The woman has chutzpah.  And we all know a little chutzpah goes a long way to realizing a dream.

When an idea makes our heart sing, why do we try to stop the music?  If I invested as much time trying to achieve my goals as I do telling myself why they’re impossible, think of how much closer I’d be to having them become living, breathing reality.

My yoga student’s friend decided to write a book, and from the moment she made that decision, the book existed.

I can decide, right now, this moment, to have not just her chutzpah, but her conviction and clarity of vision.  So what’s stopping me?

May we all have the chutzpah to live our truth in 2011.

A Big Year

Is it possible that my writer’s block doesn’t actually exist?  After all, at this very moment am I not sitting at this desk, listening to the rain, engaged in the very task of putting words in order?  Am I not writing?  Maybe what I want to call ‘writer’s block’ is simply generic malaise.  An unease or a longing that I can’t quite define.   If that’s true, then I’m lucky, because I love December.

December, sandwiched between my birthday and the New Year, is a gift. My teaching schedule is reduced and many of my private clients take days off to travel.  In other words, I’ve got time on my hands.

For this reason, I always look forward to the month.  I know everyone else is going to be preoccupied with shopping and skiing and partying.  Everyone else will be running faster than normal.  And I, more than any other time during the year, am given days of stillness.

Yes, I love December. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my ability to unwind.  Instead of sitting back with a good book, I’m pacing and twiddling my thumbs.  I’m racked with guilt and the tape in my head is playing “I should do this, I should do that” on a continuous loop.

A chronic optimist, December is the month when I eagerly plan for the next year. This is the month I count on to recharge my batteries.  To fill me with hope.   This year, however, I find myself incapable of thinking beyond my next meal (speaking of which, it’s almost time for lunch). I often advise my students to not become overwhelmed by thoughts about the past or the future. To remain in the present.  But I feel stuck here, in the present – in a bad way.  I’m spinning my wheels and there’s no traction.

Maybe 2010 was too big a year for me.  Maybe I’m going to need more than a reduced schedule to recover.

Here are the Top Ten Moments, listed chronologically:

1. In January I completed my first novel and prepared two non-fiction proposals for yoga books I’ve been noodling around with for a couple years. Anyone who has attempted this will understand the work involved.  I’m proud of the accomplishment.
2. In February I attended the San Francisco Writer’s Conference and pitched my novel to six agents.  I am not a natural sales person, yet the agents I met all requested that I send them pages. Speaking to those agents and being asked for more was a huge victory – even if, after sending them my work, the answer was still ‘it’s not for us’.
3. In March I flew to Washington DC and witnessed a friend receive the Congressional Gold Medal for flying military aircraft during World War II.  She was a part of the civilian Women Airforce Service Pilots.  I wish I had even half her bravery.
4. In April I polished and submitted Practically Twisted (one of the yoga book proposals) to a local publisher for review.  It was ultimately rejected, but still a worthwhile experience.
5. In May I also began working with a mentor.  Our weekly meetings, which continued for several months, lifted my writing but demonstrated how much more I needed to learn.
6. In July I had my first colonoscopy.  Stop giggling.  It counts.
7. In August I attended my two-week Yin Yoga Teacher Training. I promised myself I would continue the thirty-minute meditation practice we began each day with when I returned home.  Right.
8. In September, days after my return from Yin training, I boarded a plane bound for Pennsylvania and reunited with my mom.  We had not spoken to one another in over two decades.  I had not seen her since 1984.  I’m still processing.
9. I also reunited with my high school friends Beckie, Patty and Donna.  Everyone looked exactly as they did in 1976.  Seriously.  We did.  Especially Beckie.
10. In October I drove to Reno, Nevada.  My first solo road trip (I’m a road wimp.  This counts more than the colonoscopy). I had another reunion, this time with my friend Mike.  During college, he and I were good friends.  We lost contact, as friends do, but found one another again on – where else – Facebook.  Of all the moments this year, sitting in his music room, picking up the guitar again and singing brought me the closest to home.

Meanwhile, I continued to teach yoga classes and saw individual clients for private yoga sessions and body therapy. Of the three hundred and sixty-five days of 2010, I housesat for two hundred and thirteen.

And I continued to write.  I entered dozens of writing competitions and submitted essays and poems to several literary magazines.  Not only did I not set the literary world on fire, I don’t even think I threw a spark.

But there’s always next year.

And as this year winds down, I know that I am lucky.  Other lives had tragic losses.  I had warm reunions. Other lives had breathless gains.  I moved forward, sometimes patiently, one single step at a time. It was a good year.  A big year.

But I’m worn out.  And hungry.  It’s time for lunch followed by a nice, long nap.