Writers Talk: I Am Good, and They Are Also Good

I had dinner this week with two friends who are also writers...

Find the rest of the post at Words' Flavors, my writing blog.

Muses

Sitting in Starbucks, working and grooving to the catchy ever present tunes.

I just met Goldberry Long, author of Juniper Tree Burning. She's a lovely person, glowing with energy and intent on her writing. We chat about growing up eighties and wearing designer jeans.

I leave her alone and turn to my grants as I can tell that she is trying to sink into writing mode. She has that slightly anxious air of the writer who needs to tune into her deeper self.

I wonder if I will run into her again. Will we become friends? I have a growing collection of books signed by their authors and an even more vibrant collection of friends who write.

I think I'll buy her book. It promises to be lyric and moving. Maybe she will sign it for me.

BlogChemistry

There are so many of us
did you ever notice
that there are so
many of us

buzzing about like atoms
vibrating with our sense of self
and other and work and
our striving for
success, money, fame, art

bumping up against the other until
bonds, thin but sticky
fine as spun glass or
hot candy stretch between

like clumped up popcorn balls that
you made for childhood Halloweens

or like molecules
join into a forming substance

there are so many

Just Thoughts

In almost every moment, I catch myself - reaching, grasping, worrying, rushing or trying to win. Then, I have myself relax and wonder why. Also ... what will I win if I win?

******
This morning, I am deeply touched by words, and I am grateful, so grateful, that they exist. The wonder that there are many of us who love them, and that I can count myself among the many, both seem overwhelmingly beautiful to me.

******

I think perhaps I will give books of poetry as Christmas presents this year.

Back to Work Mode

I'm procrastinating writing by flipping through Natalie Angier's book Woman - An Intimate Geography. I remember her as a brilliant and captivating non-fiction writer, and I'm trying to figure out what makes her so good.

Each page sucks me right in to the story, even though the "story" is various explanations of biology. It should be dry, but it's fascinating, even personable. The narrative flow hooks me over and over. I want to be able to do that!

Here's a sample passage, turned to at random. It ends the chapter titled "Labor of Love, the Chemistry of Human Bondage" :

Cort Pedersen has pointed out that we humans can maintain with our mind's eye the neuronal state of attachment, which other animals need their real eyes, noses, and ears to keep alive. We rarely can sever all components of an intimate bond, he says. We have photographs. We have friends who mention the loved one. We walk the same streets and eat in the same restaurants where once we strolled and dined and released cholecystokinin with the loved one. We have Sam playing that song, you must remember this. We have too many senses and systems eager to reenact the past, and we have too much memory. Again and again the pathways of old love are reignited. Our analytical minds feed and protect the circuits of attachment. The human capacity for thought and memory keeps love alive long after the lower brain, the Rattus brain, would have thrown love away. Eternal love is a myth, but we make our myths, and we love them to death (350-351).

I love that last line.

Divided

On my way home, I drive past an old man strolling along the sidewalk. He is carrying a book on this clear, sunny day, reading intently as he walks. Even from my car, I can see that its paperback cover is worn and faded, its pages yellowed. I wonder what is so compelling that he cannot bear to stop reading it. I almost pull over to ask. But I do not want to break his absorption.
That is so sweet, I think. How touching to see such devotion to letters.
Then misgivings creep in. Is it really a good idea to do two things at once? His attention cannot be fully on what he reads, or on his journey. It almost seems that he is trying to trick himself into exercising, trying to do something healthy for his body without being aware of it.
In my rear view mirror, I study him. His walking is stiff and cramped by the need to hold the book. Reading pulls his head down from his neck and misaligns his back. His arms are not free to swing and give him balance and momentum.
Also the pace must be bouncing the words around below his eyes. Reading is difficult when the book is jouncing about.
Perhaps he would enjoy his reading more if he gave it his full attention, letting his body sit quietly in a comfortable chair while his mind devours the words.
Perhaps walking would be better if he were fully present with his body’s motion. Free to see the sunshine on the flowers and the birds flitting and the neighbors who drive by and notice him.
I drive past, uncertain.

In Everything Give Thanks

Originally posted at Bliss on 9-14-08

It’s Sunday. I may not make it to church, but I will be worshiping. Below is probably my favorite verse in the entire Bible; it has comforted me greatly times without measure.

Rejoice always; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18).

I have to confess. When I was ordering checks recently, I almost ordered checks with this verse blazed across them, even though they were horribly country cute with bluebirds and birdhouses and bees and butterflies – not my style at all. That’s how much this verse means to me.

Then I came to my senses and realized that I am a WRITER. I’m not reliant on some printer – I can write my own message on my checks – anything I want. So I ordered the awesome island beach scenes instead.

"Slow-Paced" Yoga

I should have known better.

I tagged along with my parents to their weekly yoga class, and, just because it is composed of a handful of senior citizens, some of them with major physical limitations, I thought it would be easy.

Slow-paced, indeed. Sure, we focused on only three poses. That meant, that in the experienced hands of this unbelievably intense teacher, we had nothing but time to hold and fine-tune each pose. I broke a sweat almost instantly.

See, it doesn’t really matter what everyone else in class is doing. If you’re working at the edge of your pose, at the farthest limit for your muscles, you’re working hard. C. demands that of each student.

It was a completely new experience of Trikonasana (Triangle), Tadasana (Mountain), and Virabhadrasana (Warrior II). By using wall-mounted ropes Iyengar-style, we were able to focus in on the inner thigh muscles. C. taught us the three types of muscle contraction – concentric, eccentric, and isometric. With the ropes holding a bit of weight and providing resistance, it freed up the thighs to experience eccentric contraction. We lengthened and elongated from the ball of the heel up through the inner thighs.

With proper inner thigh rotation, beautiful space opened across the low back, the pelvis aligned, and the tailbone scooped under.

C. was so patient with my many questions. I truly believe that she is one of the most informed teachers around. For sure, she knows her anatomy inside and out! (Ha Ha).

So when she showed me how to open across the chest by drawing my shoulder blades down and feeling my collarbones lift up and over my highest ribs, I paid attention.

I think I’ll go back for more “relaxation” next week.

Thank You, Chris Erskine

This week I got around to something I’ve been meaning to do for a long time.

I emailed LA Times columnist Chris Erskine and thanked him for his column. I’ve been reading Erskine’s columns for years, laughing and sighing along with his spot-on observations of modern family life.

I just wanted to tell him that I appreciate his hard work.

And guess what? He emailed me back!! This modern communication stuff is a marvel of instant connection!

Even better – he offered to send me a copy of one of his books, Surviving Suburbia. (Check it out on Amazon here.)

It arrived yesterday. My birthday’s this week so I’m waiting to open it. It’s my first present.

One more time - Thanks, Chris Erskine!

Writer's Block

For the first time in a long while, blankness grabbed hold of me today as I stared at my computer screen.

I had a grant to write. It was already half-way done when I opened my document in my favorite café this morning. I read the directions for application. I reviewed the points I wanted to hit. I reread what I’d written to get a running start.

Then I sat there.

I looked around. I stared blankly out the window at the blue sky and watched cars drive by.

I realized I wasn’t writing. So I brought my focus back to typing a few words.

Next thing I knew I was watching a fly buzz against the chipped windowsill. The coffee-drinking lady reading a novel became fascinating.

I forced myself back to the page. Then I thought, maybe I should order a sandwich. I studied the overhead menu, craning my neck. Hmm, maybe I should start eating beef again. Am I getting enough iron?

One more time, I shook it off and took myself in hand.

“Look, You,” I said sternly, “just write. Let it be bad. But for God’s sake, fill this page with words and do it now. You are not allowed to eat any lunch unless you write for at least 15 minutes.”

That did it. The flow opened up and an hour later, the grant was finished. And I was hungry!

Whew.

An Anecdote about Ego

My Yoga Teacher Trainer S. spent a bit of time this weekend trying to convince our group of aspiring yoga teachers that ego is not a bad thing. It simply is a part of who we are and something to be aware of.

At one point, he told this story.

S. was in India training in a crowded shala with a well-known teacher. Because he had done so well in his Ashtanga series to that point, the teacher wrongly assessed that S would have no trouble dropping back into Urdhva-Dhanurasana (backbend). S worried that he couldn't do it, but the teacher was insistent.

So S thought, What the heck? What's the worst that can happen?

He folded his arms across his chest and dropped back. The slight 78 year old teacher quickly realized his mistake and also that he could not catch S. So he stepped back and let S crash to the concrete floor.

S lay there wincing. The teacher bent over to make sure he was still conscious. Then he used one of his few English phrases.

"Bad man!" the teacher declared, pointing his finger in S's face. "Bad man!"

S could only laugh. Ego doesn't always have to be offended by life.

Where Does Time Go?

I had so much I wanted to do today, and I'm only barely into my list. Sigh.

I have at least four grants that must be written and soon. But I've spent today cruising the web and finding new blogs to follow. Sometimes that's important too. I console myself with the idea that it is all writing-related and therefore useful.

One thing I've learned in life is that sometimes we think we'll walk down one path but suddenly find ourselves on another - often exactly where we need to be.

So perhaps I've just found the blog of my next wonderful new friend or perhaps an idea that will finally become that book. Who knows?

No matter what, life is good.

Get Your Copy Signed!!

Sunday night, and my family will be attending Michelle's book launch in beautiful Pasadena. If my earlier post intrigued you, come on out to Vroman's and meet Michelle in person. She does fabulous author talks, and gives away loot as well!!

The following, which appeared in Michelle Moran's Autumn Newsletter, gives you a feel for her fascinating range of interests:

"If you'd like to learn more about ancient Egypt and have your copy of THE HERETIC QUEEN signed, why not visit me at the launch?

Sunday, September 28
at Vroman's Bookstore
from 7:00pm-8:00pm
695 E. Colorado Blvd
Pasadena, CA 91101
Tel: 626-449-5320

There will be HERETIC QUEEN gift-bags, Egyptian-themed chocolate, plus some great conversation about ancient Egypt and the publishing industry. If any of this interests you (and I hope it does!), try to get there early, because seats will fill up quickly!
For those who can't make it, pick up a copy wherever books are sold, or on Amazon.

Behind The Story

In many ways, The Heretic Queen is a natural progression from my debut novel Nefertiti. The sequel picks up the plot after the brief interceding reign of Tutankhamun. The narrator is orphaned Nefertari, who suffers terribly because of her relationship to the reviled “Heretic Queen”. Despite the Heretic Queen’s death a generation prior, Nefertari is still tainted by her relationship to her aunt, Queen Nefertiti, and when young Ramesses falls in love and wishes to marry her, it is a struggle not just against an angry court, but against the wishes of a rebellious people.
But perhaps I would never have chosen to write on Nefertari at all if I hadn’t taken a trip to Egypt and seen her magnificent tomb. At one time, visiting her tomb was practically free, but today, a trip underground to see one of the most magnificent places on earth can cost upwards of five thousand dollars (yes, you read that right!). If you want to go with a group, the cost lowers to the bargain-basement price of about three thousand. As a guide told us of the phenomenal price, I looked at my husband, and he looked at me. We had flown more than seven thousand miles, suffered the indignities of having to wear the same clothes for three days because of lost luggage… and really, what were the possibilities of our ever returning to Egypt again? There was only one choice. We paid the outrageous price, and I have never forgotten the experience.
While breathing in some of the most expensive air in the world (I figured it was about $20 a gulp), I saw a tomb that wasn’t just fit for a queen, but a goddess. In fact, Nefertari was only one of two (possibly three) queens ever deified in her lifetime, and as I gazed at the vibrant images on her tomb – jackals and bulls, cobras and gods - I knew that this wasn’t just any woman, but a woman who had been loved fiercely when she was alive. Becausecos I am a sucker for romances, particularly if those romances actually happened, I immediately wanted to know more about Nefertari and Ramesses the Great. So my next stop was the Hall of Mummies at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. There, resting beneath a heavy arc of glass, was the great Pharaoh himself. For a ninety-something year old man, he didn’t look too bad. His short red hair was combed back neatly and his face seemed strangely peaceful in its three thousand year repose. I tried to imagine him as he’d been when he was young – strong, athletic, frighteningly rash and incredibly romantic. Buildings and poetry remain today as testaments to Ramesses’s softer side, and in one of the Pharaoh's more famous poems he calls Nefertari “the one for whom the sun shines.” His poetry to her can be found from Luxor to Abu Simbel, and it was my visit to Abu Simbel (where Ramesses built a temple for Nefertari) where I finally decided that I had to tell their story. "

Re-Vision

When I was younger, I had no patience for revision. In my college years, I wanted to write a paper one time and be done with it. I didn’t understand the craftsmanship implicit in the process of going over and over my work, slowly improving it.

But there are times in life when a fresh approach is just what is called for, a change, a new way of seeing. Take this blog, for example. Initially, I wasn’t sure I wanted to re-begin. I was just settling in with my first attempt. But this is a better URL and, in the long run, I think I’ll be happier here at Begin.

In customizing this blog, I surprised myself by creating a look, a color scheme, and a focus that I actually like better than my first. Improvement through revision.

As an increasingly devoted writer, revision is my salvation. When faced with that daunting blank paper, I don’t have to produce perfection. I just have to produce something. Then the revision process will let me slowly sculpt it into a finished piece that works.

The more I work through something, the more practice and experience I get with it. The more experienced I am, the better products I ultimately produce. That applies to writing, blogs, baking… and, of course, yoga.

Take standing poses. I approach them with the prejudice of not liking them. Particularly Triangle. Because they tend to be difficult for me to do as well as I’d like, I have pre-decided that I don’t enjoy them. I’m all set to falter before I even begin.

But the truth is, if I push my preconceptions aside, sometimes I really like Triangle. I’ve had practices lately where the standing felt effortless and fun. I enjoy the focused attention required to rotate my femurs, while also opening and twisting in my pelvis, aligning my hips and revolving my spine. An incredible amount of motion dances through this pose that appears so still. I love that paradox.

By approaching the pose again and again, I grant my body the chance to do it differently, to learn. I practice; I play. I revise.

Robert Cormier says, “The beautiful part of writing is that you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike, say, a brain surgeon. You can always do it better, find the exact word, the apt phrase, the leaping simile.”

In writing and in yoga, I start from where I am. I am inspired and reassured by the knowledge that I can always do it just a bit better – through revision.

Yoga at the Edge of the World

For like the fourth Sunday in a row, my family goes to the beach for the late afternoon and dusk. I cannot help myself. I have become the kind of person who sits on the shore, right at the water’s edge, and does yoga.

I worry somewhat about this. I don’t want to look pretentious, laughable, or more likely, crazy. I even ask my husband, Do I look okay? I reassure myself that I must look passably socially acceptable because I have the perceptible normalcy of spouse and lovely children going for me.

In any case, my ego worries are not as strong as my irrepressible urge to celebrate the glory of the beach. What better than with my favorite and most heartfelt kind of prayer?

There is no yoga surface as intriguing as sand. You haven’t done standing poses until you’ve done them on shifting sand in the moving sea. (Yeah, technically, I haven’t done them either because I always fall. But that’s so not the point.)

Also irresistible to me is doing poses atop the rough rocks that dot the shoreline. I did some kick-ass tree poses, made all the more awesome by the rugged uneven rock below my feet, the constant churning of the water, and the danger that if I lose my balance and fall, I am not only going to be completely embarrassed as onlookers rush to my aid, but I am also going to seriously injure myself on a lower rock. Nothing makes you focus on balance in the present moment like the awareness that both your body and your pride are in peril.

Sitting in lotus on the unforgiving yet so comforting surface of a broad sun-warmed rock, my breath and the rhythm of the ocean are one. The horizon …and me… and you… are everything.

Away From Body

Maybe because I am so tired, during final relaxation I achieve a state of body-lessness. I feel myself floating around and that just-before-sleep feeling washes gently over me as my body’s heaviness relaxes down into my mat.

I don’t fall asleep. I remain aware and conscious, but with almost zero sensation from my body. Just pure energy of me.

It reminds me of the deep relaxation and detachment from physical senses that I’ve experienced through hypnosis. It’s very relaxing to feel myself as a disembodied consciousness.

Also very paradoxical, because usually in yoga I work to be less in my mind and more in my body. I love yoga. I never know ahead of time what I will experience.

Man, I can’t wait to start my teacher training and go even deeper.

Broken Beer Bottles

(Note- I actually wrote this on January 23, 2008. It's been hanging around waiting for me to get this blog up and running.)

I treated myself to a trip to the park today. I love the park. I go there for a double reason – to be immersed in nature and to be immersed in my Self. Walking the trails through this particular park soothes me and helps me think. My exploration becomes a walking meditation, a large-scale labyrinth that I am unfurling with my motions as my heart unfurls its emotions.

Trees grow, wind blows. Birds chirp, call, and circle in the sky. Squirrels hop from tree to tree. Various nooks hold benches that invite me to sit and reflect.

One spot I adore is a concrete hexagon terrace overlooking an orange grove. This morning, I notice that someone has been partying here again. That tends to happen. Apparently, I am not the only one who finds this spot the perfect place to hang out.

I can tell partiers visited because they have shattered their discarded beer bottles. The broken shards of glass trouble me. They contrast with the atmosphere of peace and growth. One time I threw away two dozen bottles that thoughtless rowdies had hurled down among the orange trees. The soft earth kept them from breaking.

These couple of bottles had no such luck. They have fragmented into hundreds of pieces against the hard stone. I am about to walk on when I realize that there is something I can do. I can pick the fragments up.

I have a little internal debate, listing all the reasons that I don’t have to take on this chore. Yes, it will be hard, Yes, it will take a while. Yes, I should be careful. No, I don’t HAVE to take the responsibility.

But I choose to.

I kneel and begin to tidy up. Slowly I bring my attention to the task. I begin to practice being mindful. The first challenge I notice is that I am impatient. I try to get away with only picking up the biggest pieces. I am skipping on to the next one before I have even finished with the one in my hand.

I access gentle compassion and tell myself to slow down. Take your time. You have nowhere else to be, I say. I pick up each piece slowly. I notice their shapes, their textures. Some are brown squares; others splintered into knife-like shards, miniature amber icicles. Truly, they are beautiful. I consider that people from the long-ago past would have viewed these crumbles with awe. What I conceive of as annoying trash would have been a miraculous substance.

I watch my hands. They are amazing. I feel my cupped left hand, patiently receiving each new chunk. I watch my fingers move on my right hand. I am so grateful to have full use of both of them. If I move slowly and with attention, there is very little danger of cutting myself.

I shift my awareness to my posture. I am in a crouch, knees bent. Because I am right-handed, I have a good placement with my right leg. My foot is directly under my knee and I can lean, reach, or swivel. But when I notice my left leg, it is not so happy. My knee is well ahead of my foot and it feels cramped and overworked. I would never adopt this pose in Yoga. Why should I do it here as I work?

I plant my feet firmly and straighten my legs into a hanging forward bend. This is much better. Now my body is symmetrical and I have good range of motion for my hands to work.

It takes some time, but I gather three handfuls of broken glass. When I am done, the damaged bottles are gone.

Later, someone will come back here and drink again. And they will smash their bottles. I know this.

That’s not the point. The point is that for this little while, I paid attention. The point is that I made a positive difference in the external world and myself.

The point is that I said Thank You to the park that I love, and I got gifts in return.

Prayer of Light

I’m currently enjoying Brick Lane, Monica Ali’s excellent book about Bangladeshi immigrants to London. My Bengali cultural link T. informs me that there’s a great movie version as well.

On p. 116, I find this Prayer of Light:

O God, place light in my heart,

light in my tongue, light in my hearing,

light on my right hand and on my left,

light before me, light behind me,

light above me and light below me.

O God, who knows the secrets of our hearts,

lead me out of the darkness and give me light.

Is There an X in Here?

The steamy swirl of my morning shower bathes me in self-reflection. As I luxuriate in the soft, fragrant lather of botanical soap and shampoo, I check in with myself. It’s a wonderful rejuvenating time when I process through emotions or set intentions for the day.

This morning, I reflected on ways my life has changed and ways it’s stayed the same. So what? I thought. It is what it is. Before it was something else. And before that it was some other thing else. And before that… And so forth.

But now it is here. I am here, in these roles and daily routines. I loved those other times and roles in my life. Now I can love these. I can simply let now be where my attention is. And thus my happiness.

In class yesterday, P. wanted us stretch our arms and legs off the corners of our mats while lying on our stomachs. She had a bit of difficulty describing that. Oh, I thought, she means make yourself into an X.

X marks the spot. X shows the spot where I am. Here.

Then I was there. Now I am here.

The Truth Is...

When I first realized that I wanted to be a writer, completely lacking any self-confidence, I learned quite a bit about how to approach writing from Natalie Goldberg’s excellent books – three about writing – Writing Down the Bones, Wild Mind: Living the Writer’s Life, and Thunder and Lightning- and one book – Long, Quiet Highway – about her spiritual work in the Zen Buddhist Tradition.

I learned a lot about writing. What I didn’t realize is that I also learned a lot about Zen Buddhism. Later, when suffering poured upon me, it was this foundation that helped me to accept it without submerging. I had gleaned a sense of how to sit in the emptiness, and how to hold the silence. I still fight, of course, but I continue learning.

Anyway, from time to time, I’ll post an excerpt from Goldberg’s books. I think you’ll like them:

“Loneliness

My great teacher, Katagiri Roshi, is sick now and I am very sad. I think about the six years I was with him in Minnesota. I want him to be well again for himself. I realize he has already given me everything. I do not need to be greedy and think I can get more from him. My job is to penetrate what I already know so that I live it day by day. So I am not separate from it.
When I finished writing Writing Down the Bones in Santa Fe in 1984, I went to visit Roshi in Minneapolis. I showed him the book. I said, ‘Roshi, I need a teacher again. The people in Santa Fe are crazy. They drift from one thing to another.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be so greedy. Writing is taking you very deep. Continue to write.’
‘But, Roshi,’ I said to him, ‘it is so lonely.’
He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Is there anything wrong with loneliness?’ he asked.
‘No, I guess not,’ I said.
Then we talked of other things. Suddenly, I interrupted him. ‘But, Roshi, you have sentenced me to such loneliness. Writing is very lonely,’ I stressed again.
‘Anything you do deeply is very lonely. There are many Zen students here, but the ones that are going deep are very lonely.’
‘Are you lonely?’ I asked him.
‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘But I do not let it toss me away. It is just loneliness.’
So there you have it. There are days I think, how did I get into this writing? But here I am. And the truth is I wanted it.”