Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

taking a siesta

I've been using all my brain cells for the fiction I've been writing. Now's the time to sit down and write here. It's an off day for me today. I have no scheduled writing program for myself.
I'm starting to learn the habits of writing. It's funny how hard it is for me to do the things I most desire. But that's how it is. I'll easily give up my writing time and process by saying I'll go to lunch with a friend, or I'll go and do a chore- get clothes or food. I haven't yet figured how to balance all this out. With a normal job, you'd say, I have stay here, I can't go out and spend a few hours in the middle of the day with a friend. No, you work. And you wouldn't say…hmmm…we really need milk and this and that and I'll just go out and do this and then come back and do my job. Nah-uh. Because no matter how many times I promise myself that I'll get back to my writing after I do all these things, I can't. I mean, I can but it's like dragging ten dead oxen to their burial ground ten miles away in the burning heat (like that metaphor, huh?). Writing is hard enough. Why add ten dead oxen in the burning heat that you have to drag single handedly? Right. So.
This is my process without the oxen. I get up (the earlier is always better) and I go downstairs, get myself some breakfast and proceed to read something. I always have novels and biographies and somebody's letters going on so I read one of those. Then I take my shower, dressed, etc. So okay, I've eaten, I've read, I've cleaned myself. Sometimes, after I clean myself, I have to clean my house just a little! So I sweep or vacuum or wash the dishes. Then I leave. I take my keys, shut the door behind me and go out on my walk. Sometimes, I just meander through the neighborhood. And it's a pretty nice neighborhood. It's old and well cared for and I haven't even walked to the end of it. Everyone has flowers out and lawns trimmed and trees trimmed. The neighborhood is old enough (before 1900) that every house is different. Different architectual styles, different renovations, different landscapes. So I meander all through this. I meander past the fascinating houses that tell all sorts of curious possibilies about their owners and I go past the ship-shape ones and the ones where people live so intensely in them that there's barely time to do yard work.
And that's where my mind chatters to itself. I try to get myself to think about what I'll write next but lately I've stopped doing that and just let my mind think about whatever it needs to. I just tell my sub-conscious to simmer on things. “You, think about what to write next about so-and-so,” I tell it. And since it's my sub-conscious, I don't get a response. But it's there because everyone has one, simmering on whatever…sub-consciouses simmer on. I walk for about an hour, or I go down to Fabyan park, next to the Fox River, take some knitting and take a walk that ends up on me sitting at the base of a very large sculpture. Sculpture? It's some conconction of Fayban's. He lived around the turn of the century and was a whacky millionaire. He left scatterings of sculpture all through his property and the one I sit on is one of the few that still stands. It's a tall pillar with an eagle on top. Very ugly, very huh? But it makes a perfect seat. And I sit on that and it sits on an island. So I look out at the river and knit and people jog and bicycle past. There are moments that I spazz out thinking, “OH MY GOD, I NEED TO RUN/BICYCLE/JOG/WORKOUT TOO!” but that simmers down and I just think about my characters in the shade and knit row after row.
Then it's home and time to write (minus the ten dead oxen).
Obviously, this process takes time but it's really the process that works. If I don't take a walk before I work, I find myself getting all twitchy in the middle, with the attention span of a gnat. So I just gotta walk. And if I don't eat before I do anything else, I get to feeling pretty strange and dizzy (don't worry kids, I know why I get dizzy if I don't eat) so I just gotta eat. as for the reading…well, it's a way to get a jump start about all sorts of interesting thoughts!
So there you have it. Catherine's writing process. A day of. It's so damn easy to split the process up and to go and do other things. And that happens more than I would like it to. But I'm getting to know what works, what doesn't. And the morning really does work. The morning is a fabulous free time and I'm growing to love it more and more. The panic I used to wake up with every morning is receeding and I'm finding if I get up in the morning and go to bed at night, then I don't need naps. Novel, right? Hah. It's sad to give up the night-life but I do so love the mornings.

It's been good to chronicle this. Thanks for reading.

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Out for a Walk with the Wind and Water

I love being alone in the park along the river. As soon as I step out of my car, I tell that I’m alone by the unusual silence stretching out in all directions. It’s a special sort of hush because instead of human voices dominating the space, it’s the gentle call of birds, animals, wind, and water that fill the air. These are much more gentle and quiet for they represent a continuation of a certain life on this planet, a life much older than humans.

I glow inwardly as I walk the park alone and for the first time in days, I smile to myself. Some Buddha statues wear slight smiles, the internal smile to the eternal world and as the memory of the statues comes back to me, the pleasure of connection causes me to relax even more.

When alone outdoors, I can relate to myself most fully and watch and listen with more mindfulness. I hear the birds first—the chickadees scolding one another and sounding like sweet, soft toy horns and then the cardinals, chirruping and checking up on one another. The sparrows hop and cheep in barren branches, never to be overlooked and always numerous.

Then comes the sound of water, lapping along the riverbank, rolling itself under the bridge.

The wind follows, shifting a blanket of leaves across my path and swaying tree branches overhead. The evergreens branches issue a soft shirrrrr-ing sound as the wind passes through. They retain a green elegance while everything else is brown, stripped down bare.

After I have heard the squirrels cracking walnuts and rustling through the dried weeds, and after I have seen the wind ruffling the river’s top, then finally, I can hear myself. That sound is very low and deep and it takes me a little while to hear it, after the delight of hearing everything else. But it is there and it inevitably opens up what I need to know that day whether it be comfort, direction, an answer, a question, or all of it. It has taken my whole life to hear myself and I have paid a great price for it but I would do it again in a heartbeat. For when a woman has herself, the nightmares slip away back into the inky, black darkness and living life is hers.

And so the wind moves through the evergreens, it plays along the water, and dives between the feathers of the birds. It touches my face and we walk together, two entities atop this impossible blue planet.

Ouroboros in the Park

Japanese anemone flowers open blush pink petals in the park.  Their tall, delicate stems hold up the tender flowers, and in the centers glow tiny pistil-laden suns. Furry carpenter bees buzz in a frenzy, adoring the tiny suns. Like all true worshipers, they circle round and round the yellow centers, smearing themselves in joy and pollen.

I also circle a center, but the object of my adoration is the park itself. As the path guides me around and around, my body, full of the usual tensions and distresses, takes the cue, finds the beat and the measure and walks to it.

The English Romantic Poets of the early 19th century were great walkers and believed that walking was essential to writing to poetry. With the body busy, the mind can walk freely, investing in its visions and tunneling down into what were previously subterranean thoughts.

This small park is my open field, my verdure, my ramble through hill and dale. My feet move on, sometimes slowing to a near pause, other times hurrying, suddenly propelled by a new and vivid notion.

About the fifth time around, a sort of mesmerism occurs and I fall under the trance of the day. The circle becomes a mantra uttered by my feet—knees, hips, shoulders, and arms follow along and we head down the path. I must walk, I must keep walking, I must continue to walk and the resolution becomes a reassurance as a cool breeze fills my lungs; I am alive and refreshed.

I pass under the oaks and dodge their falling acorns. Sometimes I entertain the notion that squirrels are hurling them, but when I catch sight of their small triangular faces they look as startled as me. It is the oaks themselves that are throwing the acorns down. I momentarily consider bringing an umbrella, opening it when I walk under the oaks, but this an old consideration that I’ve been contemplating for years of autumns and I’ve never acted on it. Instead, I dodge and the squirrels stare hard.

Finally I have to go but the revolutions and bees in the park stay with me even after I leave, continuing  with their wheeling. They pass through the days and nights, rapturous and serene, monotonous some days and a miracle on others, and on most days both. They exist in the circle that is sometimes opened, sometimes closed. Within the circle, everything changes and nothing changes each time we pass through.

 

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracle at Each Moment