SUMMER EXHALATIONS

The thing I loved most about poetry school was the time it gave me to write. More often than not, I was unhappy having to come up with a poem each week, but I'm not complaining about my weekly time. My weeks were outrageously busy with classes (taking and teaching), an internship, writing workshops, and seemingly endless social obligations. I was doing a mediocre job with most of these things, my heart gone missing. Energy divided and depleted, I did little quality writing.

I didn't enjoy ninety percent of what I was doing. I loathed eighty percent of what I was doing. In the midst of the spinning, I began a slow unraveling.

The withering was slowed by vacations and holidays.

I spent one of my summers visiting a friend in a small northeastern city. She was very busy and worked long hours so I was almost always on my own. I got interested in and did a lot of research and writing on post-mortem photography. I had a great routine that also included exercising, bike riding, cooking and exploring.

I spent another grad school summer in a teeny Western town in the middle of nowhere. I had an interesting weekend job and weekdays all to myself. I can still remember my happiness living in a small house -- again, with as much time as I wanted for reading, writing, exercise, etc. I swept the kitchen floor each morning and picked flowers for a small vase on the windowsill. I watched three baby skunks grow up; they bumbled across the street at dusk. Most of the time, the road in front of my house remained untraveled.

I was very lucky, and I think I knew it.

Summer is here again, and without a job for the first time in a long time, I have most of my time to myself. It's a little intimidating, but mostly exciting.

On one hand, I don't have the pressures I once had. On the other hand, I don't have the pressures I once had.

Don't get me wrong; in no way do I want to return to those days I bemoan so much. I think I am just in shock that I really can do exactly what I always wanted. It's a stunning opportunity; I just feel that I have to do better making the most of it.

STOP THE WHEEL SPINNING

A few months ago, I took a pottery class. I'm not hugely interested in pottery, but was interested enough to give the wheel a whirl. I began the class looking forward to an artistic pursuit where I could make mistakes and not worry too much about them. I consciously went in without my perfectionist tendencies. I was liberated!

My detachment made me look at everything with a new set of eyes. The other students (all women) had taken the class once before. They were extraordinarily critical of their work. Every microscopic flaw was a tragedy. Nothing was "even" or "balanced" or "symmetrical." Everything shrank too much, was too heavy, turned out the wrong color. Everything was a disappointment.

I was impressed by their work. To me, the lovely vessels looked like they had been made by human hands. I didn't see what others deemed "flaws."

No one seemed to feel any pleasure in what they were creating.

I've always been my own worst enemy, the person who sees nothing as "good enough." That's a big part of why I stopped writing; I was always drowning in the possibility of better titles, more striking images, perfect turns of phrase.

Another problem: everyone was very comfortable touching ("improving") my work. Sitting at the wheel, I got a lot of "oh, you just have to raise this part of your cylinder" as they guided my hands. Or they would sit down at my wheel, and ask "may I fix this?"

I hadn't asked for help.

At first, I thought these attentions were a necessary part of the learning process. But I wasn't learning. I was getting angry.

I suppose it's similar to what happens in a writing workshop -- "I would change this line" -- but guiding my hands wasn't criticism of a finished project. It was an unsettling alteration of a work in progress. It also crossed a physical boundary I wasn't comfortable with.

Not to be outdone, I also found myself jumping on the self-criticism bandwagon. As the newest student, I had the most to criticize. And it was rather comforting to complain -- because it was familiar. It made me part of the group. And my work really wasn't very good. In fact, it was pretty bad...

(See how that downward spiral starts?)

After several weeks, I decided to stop. I wasn't enjoying pottery-making, so I walked away from the negativity.

Was the class a waste? Absolutely not.

For the first time, I saw myself flexibly distorted in a fun-house mirror, didn't like the vision, and took the mirror down.

I used to think that the mirror reflected reality.

READY TO BE HUNGRY

Writing from my back patio, under dark sunglasses and a floppy hat. The temperature is rising, the sunscreen is on. The dogs are both flopped, snoozing. We had a nice walk this morning. I am pondering the upcoming week.

The promise of "Our Biggest, Best Summer Reading List Ever!" lured me into purchasing my first copy of O magazine this weekend. I have no particularly strong feelings toward Oprah Winfrey beyond "Good for her!"

Plus, I love magazines.

"I think it's good to expand my horizons in as many different directions as possible" is my excuse for unabashedly buying random fun-seeming magazines.

In the back of the issue, Oprah mentions a book called Women, Food, and God. After reading it, she "decided to end my battle with food." Oprah writes:

"I've surrendered to what my body really wants. And I can feel the change already. Since I began giving myself permission to eat whatever my body desires, instead of what my head tells me I should have, my relationship with food has become more peaceful. I might even say joyful."

These words really struck a chord since I have been seriously pondering my approach to food and eating.

This week, I am not going to worry about what I eat. I am going to eat what I feel like when I feel like it. I am not going to eat according to a clock. I am not going to eat because I am bored. Or sad. Or lonely. Or angry. I'm not going to eat anything because it's the "approved" food for a particular meal. I'm not going to select a food because it is a "good" food or a "bad" food. No emotion, no habit, no tradition. No self-chastising. No numbers on a scale. Eating is not going to be associated with worry. Eating is going to be associated with my physically hungry body. End of story.

It's the thinking of things, not the doing of things, that slows me down and holds me back.

This is a hot dog and garlic fries I had during my January trip to Florida. Totally delicious! I felt guilty eating this meal. Guess what? Guilt didn't reduce the calories and didn't make anything taste better.

KITCHEN COMPANIONS

WHERE THERE'S SMOKE...

I used to be a smoker.

At my smokiest, I inhaled about four packs a week. All of my closest friends smoked; at first, I bummed cigarettes here and there. Eventually, I bought my own. I refused to be the cheapy who "didn't smoke" but always managed to finagle that final cigarette. My cycle of starting and stopping began in college and ended about ten years later.

Whenever I felt I was getting to the point where quitting might be difficult, I threw away my cigarettes. I went cold turkey and never longed for another puff. I'd just slip back into the habit months (sometimes years) later, usually when I was sitting at a bar, a few too many drinks under my belt.

I mean "in my belly."

During my final smoking cycle, I started to analyze my inclination. I noticed I was smoking when I was bored -- not surprising. However, I discovered something surprising -- I didn't actually like to smoke. At all. Smoking made me feel dizzy and nauseous. I estimate that I actually enjoyed one out of twenty cigarettes. I was doing something hazardous to my health -- and wasn't even having fun. It was a bad habit with zero upside.

Pretty goofy.

So I thought some more. And of course there's no need for me to outline all of the reasons why we shouldn't smoke; however, I decided to focus on the shallow, vain reasons: I didn't want my skin to age more quickly than necessary and I didn't want to be looked down on as an "old lady smoker."

You know who I mean? The fifty-year old who looks seventy-three in the shade?

Smoking was semi-acceptable as a twenty-something. But I fast-forwarded through my life and couldn't stand the thought of huffing and puffing in my forties, fifties and beyond. There's an age where smoking just -- looks sad.

I finished my Parliament Lights, and, miraculously, that was that.

No kidding.

TINY ANNIVERSARY (TAKE TWO)

Today marks two months of writing this blog. Not feeling majorly celebratory -- just quietly happy. Here I am. I wrote for another month. Yes, I am pleased with myself. No, I am not that pleased. Yes, I want to continue. No, I don't know where I'm going.

I'm expressing, exploring, figuring out, crossing out. Writing. A huge departure from what I was doing and saying.

As I celebrate these past two months, I am brainstorming what things i did and said might become, and how, and why. I'm not questioning whether or not I want to continue; I feel certain I will.

My three month anniversary (check back July 26!) seems like a "biggie." I don't know why three months is particularly special, but I think it should be. I want to arrive at that three month point with a newfound clarity.

Some modest goals for the next month are to write a daily entry and post a daily photo.

Happy Anniversary to me!

IN THE DREAM

Friday evening, early summer. The wind blows hot and hard. A tornado in the making?

Where I grew up, there were no tornadoes. There was sun and rain and snow. Our natural disasters were floods, blizzards and occasional riots. Tornadoes never crossed my mind, except when I watched The Wizard of Oz. 

Now I worry about tornadoes. I don't worry about humidity or rain. Though I rant about any temperature over 75 degrees, I live where the heat is celebrated as "dry." Despite my complaints, it is better than the other, wetter kind. Nights and early mornings are always cool -- the best parts of summer days.

Lazy summer evenings. Dreams percolate, lull you into belief. 

In this evening's dream, I live in a small mountain cabin. I wake before sunrise. I sit and write at the kitchen table. I type and type and type and type, sipping my iced latte, glancing at the sun's climb. It's chilly; I'm in a cozy hoodie. I write for several hours. I go back to sleep for a while, wake again, do yoga, eat a nice breakfast, and continue writing.

I also write late into the night.

I'm silent on these dream days, alone but not lonely. 

Zoom the camera out: I'm the figure in the window, bent over a laptop, illuminated by the computer's glow. Concentrating. 

Zoom further. Hold your breath. I am going to tiptoe behind myself, see what I am typing. What is this project in which I'm so delightedly lost? Is it a novel? A memoir? A cookbook? A compendium of jokes? I suspect something grandiose, yet humble. What is it? Is it my abandoned thesis? 

Whatever it is -- does it need me to write it? I feel like it does. I'm holding my breath, about to discover what it is.  

DOLDRUMS & PROJECTS

I love working on "projects."

"Working on a project" means completing a particular number of specific creative acts. Some examples: take one hundred photos of silver things, write a dozen poems about fruit, cook seven recipes whose titles have seven syllables, drive one hundred miles while composing forty-four songs.

Projects keep me focused. They get me out of ruts, shake up my way of doing and seeing things, and are usually quite fun. Since I assign myself my projects, I can also alter or abandon them at will.

I haven't worked on a project for a long while. Here is my list of criteria:

• Project involves zero possibility of encountering people walking around in a public area eating fudge
• Project involves zero possibility of encountering people who are telling their children what not to do

Yes, it's that time of year. Everyone is wearing shorts. I am testy. 

Hence, the Necessary Summer Project. 

I spend my entire year pining for warm and sunny days. Where I live, there are cold and sunny days immediately followed by hot and sunny days. Days I stay inside with the blinds closed.

Yesterday, I ventured to the Big Sunny World and unwittingly found myself in a touristy little town. If you live in the U.S., you know the town. The merchants hawk one of four things: overpriced crap emblazoned with cartoon characters, fried foods that were never meant to be fried, oversized t-shirts with majestic portraits of wolves. The fourth thing? You see it in the hands of the "fudge walkers." 

They wait in long lines for fudge. They walk around eating fudge. 

I never like fudge, but I detest it on a hot day. 

Wilting in the heat, a blister ballooning on my right heel, all I wanted was a catnap in a shady castle ruin.

Twenty-four hours later, at home with my air conditioner and dogs, a full recovery seems likely. 

I hope a project will rouse me from these inevitable summer doldrums. 

HUNTING THROUGH WINDOWS

I've gotten into the habit of not keeping one window open when I write. I don't mean windows to the sunny outside world; I mean virtual windows. As I work, I have windows upon windows open on my laptop. Lately, I constantly monitor Twitter and The New York Times. My other obsessions include email, Facebook, and Bloglines. What's most important about these starting points is that they inevitably lead to other virtual destinations, interesting and sometimes irrelevant locales, and things that just make me laugh. I can't write so much as a paragraph without checking just to see...

See what? "What's going on," of course. There's always something to learn, to laugh at, to mope about. Online, there's always a reason to marvel.

Plus, I write very, very slowly.

It's always taken me a long time to write. I fret about what I want to say, how I want to say it. I audition words, rearrange phrases, cross out, tear up, start over. Part of my attention to minutiae comes from "training" as a poet; I think poets worry more about commas than novelists do about chapters. I was attracted to poetry because poetry buys you time. No one rushes a poet.

After considering a makeover of my online life, I've decided I don't want to stop dividing and subdividing my attention. I know there are times when focus is mandatory, and I recognize when I need to "unplug." These time-outs come and go as my need for outside stimulation waxes and wanes.

After all, I spend most of my time alone.

Sometimes I think I should stop being this way. It must be wrong, an addiction. Why do I worry? Because "people" might find my behavior unhealthy. Because it's important to stay focused. Because divided attention means poorer attention. Because there's a world out there!

The truth? I get bored thinking about one thing. If, day in and day out, I sat and wrote without distraction, I'd go insane. Throughout history, writers have needed "external entertainments." I know somewhere there is a cave painting of a caveman's empty writing spot -- big slab of rock, clumsy chisel, buzzing flies.

And I know where he was -- off gossiping about the mastodon hunt.

Hmm...what if I Google "mastodon hunt"?

DREAMING A BETTER BODY

"Most of my life is lived in my head" is fancy for "I neglect my body."

"I neglect my body" is fancy for "Is THAT my ass?"

I want to pay better attention to my physical needs. First step? Admitting I have physical needs.

"Physical needs" -- one of those concepts I don't quite get.

I eat when I'm hungry or stressed, I drink booze when I want, I sleep as much as I can, and I exercise when there's nothing better to do. However, I'm always hungry, am addicted to worry, am quite fond of vodka, like to stay up late, and loathe even the thought of exercise. Plus, I love lots of things in addition to vodka -- reading, writing, eating and cooking. I also like to wonder if Funyuns and Munchos are cousins.

Hence, the ass.

At least I know how it got behind me.

A few weeks ago, after many futile years, I began making my home a more welcoming place by reconceptualizing it as a bed and breakfast catering to persnickety guests. This re-imagining has worked wonders. Apparently, I think imaginary beings deserve to be cozier than I do.

Will the same concept work in my not-quite-a-quest to eat better and exercise more? Should I play personal trainer to an imaginary client heading to the Caribbean? Pretend I am a nutritionist for a squirrel dreading her twentieth high school reunion? I would practice what I preached to those two.

And as my guests appreciate my hospitality, so may my squirrel admire her shapely derriere.

HOW NOT TO COLOR PANTS

Once upon a time, in a kindergarten far, far away, I sat at my tiny table, coloring.

It was a picture of a smiling little boy. He had lots of curly hair. The boy was running, arms pumping. His outstretched leg was drawn so you could see the front and back of his plaid pants.

It was the 70s -- of course his pants were plaid. 

As I pondered which of my eight crayons to pick up, the whole world brightened. A dart hit a bullseye. A page in my imagination turned. 

I know what I'm going to do! I have an idea no one else has ever, ever had! How very smart I am!

I was going to make the front and back of his pants different colors. 

I had no choice. I grabbed a green crayon and carefully colored the front of his pants. I used purple for the back. I didn't go outside the lines at all. The little boy's pants were the best pants in the universe. 

Until Mrs. Shawn came around. She made a funny face at my boy. 

She leaned over, perfume too sweet. I don't remember what she said. She talked a long time. She pointed at her pants, at my pants, at my little boy's pants. She was wiggly through my tear-blurred eyes. She was loud. I said nothing.

I am wrong! Pants never, ever look like this! Why am I so stupid and dumb? 

After a few minutes, I felt blurry. One part of me said Mrs. Shawn was sort of right (no one did wear pants like that), but also sort of wrong (people could wear pants like that). Was she more wrong or more right?

Was I more wrong or more right? 

I was a good girl. I simply couldn't bear being in trouble. So I decided I was more wrong. And Mrs. Shawn, whom I loved so much, had to be more right.

But I knew people should wear pants that were different colors. 

OVER MY SHOULDER

Yesterday's post is one of my few autobiographical narratives. I rarely sit down and write "straightforwardly" about my past.

For a moment, I thought it would be easy to simply tell a simple story.

When I write, I approach memories sideways. In dark glasses, I peer from behind a curtain, scribbling a secret alphabet in invisible ink. With kaleidoscope, scissors and chance, I reconstruct (disassemble, scatter, twirl).

Complicated and convoluted intricacies bring us to "here's what happened."

In every remembrance, time is a prism refracting memories, senses, and desires. We write of mirages when we write of ourselves.

Nothing is as simple as "I enjoyed the crunchy celery."

CHILDHOOD SUMMERS

When I was a child, I lived with my grandmother. Her name wasn't Jessie, but her sisters called her Jessie.

My grandmother had two sisters -- Mary and Lizzie. They lived in the same house -- Aunt Mary, downstairs; Aunt Lizzie, upstairs.

I spent part of my childhood summers with them -- days, sometimes weeks, at a time.

Aunt Mary and I baked doughnut-shaped yellow cakes and filled them with Cool Whip and My-T-Fine chocolate pudding. I'd add Cool Whip to the pudding until it was almost, but not quite, white.

We made shiny, sticky pizza dough from scratch and sauce from big cans of tomatoes. We fried disks of dough in deep oil, spread them with warm sauce, and grated cheese to sprinkle on top.

The three of us played school. I was the teacher, giving and grading spelling tests. My students had to sit with their hands folded, and raise their hands if they had a question.

I starred in commercials alongside the kitchen's jars and cans: Hi-C Fruit Punch, 4C Iced T, strawberry PDQ.

The cutlery drawer was a cash register. I was a waitress; spoons were dollar bills, forks were twenties.

I was a reporter, asking Mary and Lizzie about each other, asking them both about Jessie -- what she had been like as a little girl.

Downstairs, the tv was on all day: first, game shows, then soap operas ("stories"), then Donahue, then news. Over the years, Donahue would turn into Oprah.

When it was cool, we sat outside on metal chairs, shaded by sickly sweet-smelling grape vines that also harbored bees. The damp grass grew too long, gave me chills. I played hopscotch by myself.

Once a week, Lizzie and I walked up the block to pick up Chinese: big, greasy egg rolls, immense fried chicken wings, saucy pepper steak. I picked out the peppers. No one minded.

On Wednesdays, we walked to Foodtown. Men talked and laughed on corners, in front of empty stores, on their porches, at bus stops. If their voices got louder, or angry, or stopped -- we walked a tiny bit faster.

At Foodtown, the frozen food greeted us. If we picked our ice cream when we arrived, it melted as we shopped. In the snack aisles, people tore open bags of cookies and chips -- "free" samples I sneakily munched. When we'd finished our rounds, Lizzie headed to the check-out and I ran and grabbed a half-gallon of Neapolitan or Heavenly Hash.

I wrote stories on the green pages of a steno pad. Aunt Mary sharpened my pencil with a knife. Aunt Lizzie blew a shrill Oscar Meyer wiener whistle when "creeps" called. When she talked to her sisters on the phone, her hearing aid whistled.

She once left bacon frying on the stove. The ceiling caught on fire.

I took naps, read books, snooped in drawers when I could.

I was skinny. To fatten me up, Lizzie snuck raw eggs into my afternoon milkshakes.

When my grandmother came over, we all quieted down.

Every couple of months, these three daughters of an Italian drunk dyed each other's hair.

Upstairs, I slept in my own bed in my own room. My room had a desk -- the best spot of all. After Lizzie tucked me in, I dozed off to the smell of minty denture cleaner, and the shrill voices of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.

QUIET IN IMAGINATIONLAND

I took two days "off" this week -- no writing, no picture taking, no anything remotely creative.

I've had nothing to say, just hoping some words or bits of inspiration will eventually arrive. Still tapping my foot, checking my watch, looking up the street...I think I spy a tumbleweed.

Oh. It's rolling away.

Although I've been out and about more than usual, I'm in full zombie mode. Achey and dull, I long to rest at a sanitarium, taking daily strolls, breathing fresh air, wearing a grey shawl. I'd bravely sip broth, work on a complicated needlepoint and daydream over a small pressed flower tucked inside an elicit novel.

Someone bring me a blanket already. Tuck me in, draw the blinds, and let me sleep for as long as I want.

Yesterday, I bought one of those supermarket watercolor kits -- the kind for small children: sixteen little pans of bright color, a plastic-handled brush in the middle.

Once I awake from my nap, I will put it to good use.

IN THE GARDEN

BUYING CREATIVITY

I've begun researching "creativity," purposely choosing a vast notion without boundaries.

My specific interests:

• how creativity has been defined in different times and places, particularly right now in America
• creativity's "value" to society & ways it might be measured
• the industry that's developed around "helping" people become more creative 
• how today's "creativity" has changed our perceptions of art

I love the exploration of vague notions. So much is possible...

HERMIT

Is anyone a hermit anymore? Or has hermit-ing gone the way of gladiators and ice boxes?

Because I would make a damn good hermit.

I like solitude. I like being alone. I like quiet. I like peace. I like doing not so much. I like pondering.

And living among others sometimes cramps my style.

I like my iPhone, though, and wasabi. Does that automatically kick me out of the hermit club?

Do I have to smell? Do I have to have dreds?

What about kettle corn? Do I have to give up kettle corn?

FRIDAY NIGHT

Friday night isn't the big deal it used to be. It's the same as other nights. Dating is behind me, and I'm not part of a group of friends who goes out on Fridays.

What a relief not to worry about Friday night.

I'm sitting at my desk. My dogs are snoring.

I made a rotten dinner -- my first failed cooking experiment of married life; the first in many years. Shrimp souffle. An idea that seemed great until it turned ugly.

At home. My desk. My dogs. Rain. The day no longer incredibly hot, a soft breeze wafting in. No stickiness, no sweat. I feel okay. I feel good. I'm cozy. I'm loved. This is my place in the world.

I'm at my desk, typing on a Friday night.

So what if I ruined dinner?

I'm a pretty good egg, a pretty good cook.

I'm nice. I'm smart. Far from the nicest or smartest person on the planet, but that's okay. When I tried to be that nice and smart, it hurt.

I quit.

I can type fast, and my dogs love me, and I'm a good cook.

I'm a little insecure, but you might be, too.

I can type with my eyes closed, which feels like a superpower. It's one of the greatest gifts I've given myself. I didn't know it would be, sitting there in high school, diligently pecking at an actual typewriter, clueless to what life had in store.

Some of my classmates made our typing teacher cry. Despite all the malice I've seen, their cruelty still astounds me.

We all start being our exact selves at some moment.

DON'T MAKE IT HARDER

...and I'm back. New day!

Days like yesterday -- I was uninspired, unmotivated, unproductive -- happen. It's naive to think such days can be forever banished from my life. Today I'm once again reminded that hours of sloth aren't as detrimental to the universe as they can seem.

Perhaps it's one of those "being human" things that are better to embrace than eschew.

Even when we don't write, thoughts are incubating, ideas are generating, subtle rhythms are percolating. Something is still happening in the head and heart. Being self-critical on "unproductive" days is probably the most unproductive thing we can do.

If you're feeling floppy and listless, maybe you need a day or two to rest. Maybe your body or your mind is trying to tell you something. Maybe not.

Maybe you don't need to rest, and you are, in fact, lazy.

So?

Rest, relax. Take a nap. Be lazy. But enjoy. Don't sulk about your break. There are way better things to mope about if you absolutely must.

Just wake up the next morning and give it another shot.

SLOW START

Damn!

One of those days.

Woke a little blue, a little dull, a lot tired. Didn't want to think. Listlessly clicked: online news, useless internet sundries. Contemplated trip: New Mexico? Halfhearted sigh. Put morning latte off as long as possible. Shut off phone. Didn't put dishes away. Didn't shower. Didn't dress. Didn't start laundry.

Some days are like this. Some days I need to go back to bed so I can start over.

At least I'm typing, eyes closed.

READING ABOUT WRITING

Over the years, I've read dozens of books on creative writing. I couldn't stand most of them.

Wasted time was part of my dismay. If I'd spent half the time I spent reading about writing actually writing, I would have accomplished a lot more. I never believed the other people buying and reading the same books were writing as much as they could, either.

Despite my suspicions, I was absolutely addicted to these how-to guides and never quite lost the hope that once I read the book, I would suddenly be my generation's F. Scott Fitzgerald, drinking champagne and splashing in fountains.

In addition to taking up a lot of my time, most of the books weren't advising much more than "you have so much to say so just be free and forget the evil naysayers and don't worry about spelling and write what you know but change it a little and whatever you do don't stop don't stop don't stop just write." Some ended with a chapter on agents and publishers. Others droned about colons and clauses. Many devoted an entire page to a five-line exercise. Most included inspirational quotes -- always italicized -- by Henry Miller and Anais Nin.

My favorite writers on writing? Natalie Goldberg, Brenda Ueland, and Stephen King. They say it all, and they say it well.

Yes, writers should read. But, mostly, they should write. Just like the damn books say.

INN KEEPING

Six days ago I vowed to to turn my house into a "Bed & Breakfast" this month -- meaning I would make it comfy, cozy, and homey. All sorts of words that end in a long e but aren't "messy" and "clutter-y."

I've been a good girl/busy homemaker and have almost completely transformed the main floor -- save for one room. It grudgingly holds my random pain-in-the-ass-to-deal-with stuff that has to go somewhere. If this room had a face, it would be scowling.

I also need to tackle the garage (jumbled with boxes from my old job).

I won't consider the basement this month -- another project entirely, and practically another world.

I'm picking/straightening up several times a day, not giving piles the opportunity to form or dust the chance to accumulate. It's a neverending process, but overall it takes much less time than decluttering once a week when the piles are immense and the dust inches thick. The accumulation of mundane tasks is what deflates me.

Yes, it may be better to do things right away.

Dramatic improvements came from the ridding of strewn-about odds and ends: purses under a desk, magazines piled beside a reading chair. Sort-of organized shoes were lined up like soldiers, bathroom countertops stripped of superfluous hair care goos. Seventeen dollar peppermint-scented hand lotion was banished from the edge of the kitchen sink, and a bottle of dishwashing liquid stripped of her crocheted "dress." (Yes, I'm a kitsch-o-maniac.)

I've never known the comfort of "everything in its place" but I'm getting a glimmer. I'm also programming a teeny tiny airhorn in my brain to alert me the moment things start going downhill.

Thinking of myself as a "guest" in my home has also helped. For whatever sad reason, I am more motivated to clean for "guests" than I am for myself.

All in all, I am trying to learn not to settle for less, but to aspire for more.

We can easily say "Oh, I don't particularly care how my home looks." But when you go to a hotel, isn't there an "aaaah" feeling (relief, excitement, comfort) from everything being so...neat?

You deserve that feeling at home.

Housekeeping from a place of indifference is not the same as housekeeping from a place of awareness. When you consciously work to make your home a place of comfort, you are respecting yourself. Housekeeping is not an oppressive task; it is an act of love -- for you.

BEAUTY SCHOOL DROPOUT

I thought "poetry school" would be akin to beauty school:

If I wanted to make people more beautiful, I would go to beauty school. Since I wanted to make my poems more beautiful, I went to poetry school.

Believe it or not, my logic was full of flaws. 

My Master's program added little beauty to my life, and brought out my ugly: pettiness and paranoia; jealousy and bitterness; weakness and submissiveness; sensitivity and cynicism; depression and defensiveness.

Sure, there might have been a way for me to cheer myself on, my throat rough and bloody. And I could have sipped honey and repeated until I made it through.

Instead, I stopped flailing in that sea of so many words.

I sank and sank, then slowly rose to the silent surface.

Seduced by a skyless world, I floated away, mute.

Beautiful.

AUDIENCE, AGAIN

I'm writing in a bubble -- audience-free and (mostly) loving it.

Who needs an audience? An audience inevitably changes me and my writing. I cannot resist the urge to amuse. Yet when my readers aren't amused, or don't "get" me, I'm indignant. I can't help but wonder what's wrong with everyone.

Or, worse yet, what's wrong with me.

I want to please people -- I love to please people -- but I'm at a point where I only want to do it by being myself. Does that make me a genius or fool?

Did I start a blog in the hopes of finding an audience? What was I hoping for?

I wanted to practice writing clear and succinct prose and to develop a daily(ish) writing habit. 

Lately, I've made a conscious effort not to read much about writing. In many ways I'm cocooning myself from what I would typically do: getting bogged down in the shoulds and should nots of "the writing life." When I start reading about writing, I stop writing.

Self-criticism has been a massive roadblock. I'm maybe almost ready to wish I had written thousands of pages of crap instead of a few lovely turns of phrase.

WORKSHOP

I like writing a blog because it will never get "workshopped" on a Wednesday night. Those who have taken a college writing class likely know about "workshop." Everyone sits around a big table so they can look into each other's eyes. This eyeball-to-eyeball perspective presumably creates the intimacy and trust necessary for thoughtful dissection of, and commentary on, each other's work.

That's the theory.

I've spent years among the critiquers and critiqued, mostly in graduate-level poetry workshops. I've even been "The Leader" of writing workshops. Whatever my role, I'd leave in one of three states: satisfied, sickened or surrendered.

You might think that when my work was praised, I was satisfied. And that when I received criticism, I was sickened. The calculus was never that simple. "Surrendered" was how I most often felt.

I can't remember much of the writing advice I received, though some of it was certainly useful. Stephen King exhorted me to banish every unnecessary word. Though he told me in an audiobook, I took his advice to heart.

Walking to my car post-workshop, I'd begin the pep talk I needed to return, smiling, in seven days. I carried a heavy packet of to-be-commented upon poems. The heaviness wasn't in the weight of the paper, but in the expectations between the lines.

My own expectations were carried off in backpacks and notebooks.

Workshop: inevitable collisions of ego, misinterpretations of metaphor, glances at watches. Phrases and images still linger in the periphery of my imagination.

Sometimes I dream green ink on a wordless manuscript: question marks, arrows, exclamation points. Invisible words underlined once, twice, three times.

But I no longer dream in verse.

PROCLAMATIONS, REALITIES AND REGROUPING

It is easy to make proclamations, and even easier to succumb to realities.

I have several goals for the month of June. On June first, I visualized my grandiose plan and its amazing outcomes. On its second day, I hadn't inched toward any of them. The morning was cool and serene. I tried to write, had nothing to say. I "tried" for two hours. The afternoon arrived, sunny and inviting. There was an entire month to get my world in order, to do the things I want and need to do. Why rush?

As the nagging part of my brain knows all too well, taking one day off leads to taking two days off leads to taking a week...and suddenly I'm wondering how the hell it's already June 30th...

I had to get going. Last night I became a little dynamo if for no other reason than to stop my own nagging.

I find it increasingly difficult keep my mind focused on one thing for more than a few moments. My brain keeps flitting about, dividing itself so many times I need a huge dustpan to re-collect my wits. Yes, yes, I too blame the internet and all its charms and chatter for my tiny attention span. But I willingly give myself over, knowing it will exhaust me.

It's slowly dawning on me that I need to "regroup" more often than I care to admit. Why does this seem such a terrible secret? I'd sooner acknowledge my impressive laziness than to needing a mental and spiritual reboot. "Regrouping" feels weak and wussy. Plus, I don't really know how to do it. I've always sulked and flopped instead of controlling my slumps.

Looks like I have something else to add to my list of June goals.

JUNE GOAL: INN KEEPER

Bold Proclamation Time:

I deserve a nice home!

I deserve a clean home!

I deserve a cozy home!

I deserve a home that feels like home!

I grew up in a house that wasn't any of those things. I suspected but didn't quite know that wallpaper isn't supposed to be sticky and toilets aren't supposed to be stained. 

Is it surprising I've always been a slob?  Most of the time, I haven't cared about my surroundings. Or is it more fair to say that I haven't cared enough to do something to improve my slovenly nature?

I take that back: I've read a lot of books on how to cure myself of this terrible, terrible affliction. But the books never so much as dust themselves.

The truth? I am a much better homemaker than I used to be. My house is mostly not a disgrace;  I even have some routines to keep things under control. 

Yet after all these years of strife, it's finally dawning on me that I'm not really concerned about cleanliness. Sure, I like a clean sink and don't want to see dust bunnies roll like tumbleweeds across the living room floor. More than anything, I just want to be somewhere comforting.

No matter how far we go, we return to our childhood homes. Yikes. But I am a grownup now, ready to give myself the welcoming home I've always deserved -- no matter how foreign or scary that may be. 

My goal for June is to transform my home into a Bed & Breakfast. Not in a flowery, sickening potpourri-y way. But in an "ooh, this is so cozy, don't I just looove to be here" way. 

Maybe it's time to stop complaining and just be the person I've always wanted to be.