Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

Times to Try the Soul

This summer has been a grind. Due to unpleasant family upheaval, I have been looking  more deeply into what I believe, what I’m interested in and how I’m going to make things happen.

One thing I’ve felt a growing interest in is learning how to design knitting patterns. My friend, Ashley, is a fearless designer, creating darling patterns in her pattern book and then whipping them out on the needles. It’s magical watching her do it. It’s a sort of magic I’d like to try my hand at as well. I feel pretty tentative about the whole thing but I must give it a try instead of wishfully thinking I was doing it. What I’d like to start out with is a bad-ass lace shawl pattern. Shawls are my thing. I love to knit them and I love to wear them. I’ve been working on Ysolda Teague’s Orchid Thief for a little while now and it’s a beauty. Something like that would be nice to start with but maybe I should work my way up!

Another goal is to finally finish a story, edit it to where I’m finally satisfied (lower standards if needed. Such a wrestle for this perfectionist) and send the thing out. Send it out before next year. Deep breath. I think I can do this…

One of the things I struggle with is to find the motivation. There’s a deep tired place in me that makes me too exhausted and hence afraid to go forth. It’s like my bones melt and I just want to lie down and close my eyes. Anybody else out there struggle with inward fatigue about sallying forth into the wonderful world of doing? Becoming gluten-free has helped with this feeling a great deal but the inward canker of deep tiredness still lingers. I’d love to hear anyone else’s experience with this. I struggle valiantly on but it would lovely to hear others.

Comments (6):

  1. Pamela

    August 7, 2011 at 6:08 pm

    The key may be the first line of your post – this summer has been a grind.
    Of course I can’t know what you’re going thru, I can only talk about my own experiences. I think it’s almost impossible to find motivation when you’re going thru or have just been thru upheaval and massive life changes. I’ve learned, during similar situations, to listen to my body and to take care of that deep, tired place by giving it the rest it needs when it demands it. By nurturing that need, by seeing it not as a deep canker but as a natural response to what’s happened in my life and an inner re-stitching of the fabric of my being, I find that it mends itself more quickly than if I fight against it or try to tell myself to snap out of it or try to motivate myself out of it and into something for which I’m not ready. I don’t know if this helps at all, Catherine, but it’s what worked for me.. honoring that tiredness, giving myself what I need and when I was ready to move on and do things that energized me again, I found that I didn’t need any outside stimulus..the motivation was there, automatically. Wishing you much support on your journey.

  2. Dan Slanger

    August 7, 2011 at 7:49 pm

    Catherine,

    I think I feel the weight of indolence more than any other vice.

    Maybe pick a person to update everyday with what you did re your needlework—both pin and pen—and what you plan to do the next day. Or you might put the update in a public place like this blog or Facebook. There are websites built on this premise but I’ve never reviewed them closely. I suppose the ideal update buddy would also have a daily met goal they could update you with.

    And just do it. A bit of it. Everyday. Same time.

    Best,

    Dan

  3. Liza

    August 7, 2011 at 9:47 pm

    Cat, I’d really like to be designing more than I have been, too. Of course I’m in the midst of finishing up my thesis so I have to keep most of my focus in that direction. But, I’ve been finding that I’m peevish when not designing or at least creating something with fiber. If you ever need someone to share goals/achievements/hold accountable I’d be happy to set up some sort of system with you. Let me know if you’re interested.

  4. Catherine

    August 7, 2011 at 11:50 pm

    Pamela,

    Thank you so much for your kind and thoughtful reply. There is much wisdom in what you say. It’s very hard to be patient while going through change that can completely reassess the direction we want to go in life. While it’s scary, it’s revitalizing as well. I have bursts of motivation but the tiredness seethes back in at times. Taking a deep breath and being okay where one currently is…well, it takes grace. Thank you.

  5. Catherine

    August 7, 2011 at 11:53 pm

    Dan,

    Great idea. I have a few friends that I meet up with and discuss yarn and pen with but it’s very loose and on a week or bi-weekly way. Tightening up on that could be an important key. I believe I’ll give it a try. Thanks! I was glad to hear from you. I hope you’re doing well and finding your way.

  6. Catherine

    August 8, 2011 at 12:00 am

    Liza,

    I’d be very much interested! The first key is for me to design something and see if I like doing it. I imagined grand things for a yarn spinning career but realized after taking a great spinning class that while I like spinning, it’s incredibly monotonous and my mind needs variation to stay happy. I’m thinking design would work well in that way. I’d love to chat with you on how you started designing and how you go about it. There’s a book I can pick up on knitting design at the library and I get it about grabbing a book of lace patterns but I’d love to hear how you go about doing it. Thank you much for your interest about creating a buddy system together. It really touched me.

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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