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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The Light Changes: Books for the Autumn Equinox

Summer is coming to a close, as usual marked by heavy rain and fitful sunshine. I woke up to a downpour a few mornings ago. It took me awhile to fully wake due to the gloom-heavy atmosphere in the bedroom. When I finally got up and opened the bedroom door, the cats were waiting in the hallway, small triangle faces tilted and full of questions; they were unsure if it was breakfast time or not due to the strange murky light. It was so dim that even the street lamps were still on.

I padded with the cats out to the living room. Water was pouring down the western windows, giving the room a half-submerged effect as if it was about to give up and dissolve with the rain. The kitchen was a little better: I opened the eastern-facing window and a heavy, damp breeze rushed into the room, lifting napkins and papers and then setting them down again.

I set the kettle going and brewed a cup of green tea, sitting down at the kitchen table with the cat. She had gathered herself into the windowsill and we drank in the oxygen heavy air together. As the wind struck my face, the sensation of being sealed up alive in the house relented and I was able to breathe easier and drink the tea slowly, savoring the light, toasted flavor. The cat looked at me a few times as I drank but she inevitably returned to staring out the window, sniffing at smells I couldn’t detected but were utterly engrossing.

The loss of morning light in autumn makes the shortening days more noticeable. I love the night but hate early evenings and as sunrises comes later and the sunsets earlier, my fingers curl a little in my pockets. The long endless nights are coming. I’m not ready for summer to end but I attempt to reconcile myself by pulling out a few books.

As the light eases towards the darkness, I pull out the books that were once the spoken word, told during the long dark evenings to family members, friends, and the community; they’re usually called fairy tales or folk tales but “wonder tales” work just as well. I make a small pile: Franz Xaver von Schönwerth’s The Turnip Princess and Other Newly Discovered Tales, Zitkála-Šá’s American Indian Stories, Legends, and Other Writings, and Zora Neale Hurston’s Mules and Men.

Schönwerth collected fairy tales in the 1850’s when he traveled around his beloved Bavarian homeland, listening to fairy tales and writing them down. The Grimm Brothers were recording fairy tales at this time too, racing to preserve stories that were disappearing as print culture was erasing the need for verbal storytelling. In the centuries that followed, much of Schönwerth’s recordings was preserved but many stories were lost. In 2009, Erika Eichenseer found 500 previously lost fairytales of Schönwerth’s in the municipal building of Regensburg, Bavaria. She found a fairy tale treasure. The stories were recently translated from English to German and stand alongside The Brothers Grimm and Charles Perrault’s fairy tales.

Next to my copy of Schönwerth’s The Turnip Princess is Zitkála-Šá’s American Indian Stories, Legends, and Other Writings. Zitkála-Šá was born during the Battle of Big Horn and was educated at a boarding school that enforced assimilation of First Nations’ peoples. Despite the school’s attempts to flatten her mind, body and spirit, Zitkala-Ša (Lakota for the cardinal bird) went on to be a political activist, writer, editor, translator, educator, and musician. She recorded Dakota Sioux legends, saving them for posterity. Many of them center on the trickster Iktomi, a spider fairy. I’ve included the beginning of a legend below.

Next to Zitkála-Šá’s folk tales is Zora Neal Hurston’s Mules and Men. Around the same time Zitkála-Šá was writing, Hurston was recording African-American folk stories that were fast disappearing. She recorded the stories she heard in her home of Eatonville, Florida and other nearby communities and logging camps. These stories often center on John Henry cleverly outwitting everyone, sometimes even the devil. Alongside the folk tales, Hurston recorded her experience learning hoodoo in New Orleans. It is not for the faint of heart.

These three books and the deep histories they invoke make the evenings richer, more bearable and in closing, I leave you with this opening of Zitkála-Šá’s retelling of “Iktomi and the Muskrat”:

Beside a white lake, beneath a large grown willow tree, sat Iktomi on the bare ground. The heap of smoldering ashes told of a recent open fire.  With ankles crossed together around a pot of soup, Iktomi bent over some delicious boiled fish.

Fast he dipped his black horn spoon into the soup,, for he was ravenous. Iktomi had no regular meal times.  Often when he was hungry he went without food.

Well hid between the lake and the wild rice, he looked nowhere save into the pot of fish.  Not knowing when the next meal would be, me meant to eat to enough now to last some time.

“How, how, my friend!” said a voice out of the wild rice. Iktomi started.  He almost choked with his soup.  He peered through the long reeds from where he sat with his long horn spoon in mid-air.

“How my friend!” said the voice again, this time close at his side. Iktomi turned and there stood a dripping muskrat who had just come out of the lake.

“Oh, it is my friend who startled me.  I wondered if among the wild rice some spirit voice was talking.  How, how, my friend!” said Iktomi.  The muskrat stood smiling.  On his lips hung a ready “Yes, my friend,” when Iktomi would ask, “My friend, will you sit down beside me and share my food?”

That was the custom of the plains people.  Yet Iktomi sat silent. He hummed an old dance-song and beat gently on the edge of the pot with his buffalo-horn spoon.  The muskrat began to feel awkward before such lack of hospitality and wished himself under the water.

The rest can be read in Zitkála-Šá’s American Indian Stories, Legends and Other Writings.

Please feel free to share your favorite fairy tale or folk tales in the comments section.

The Delicate Balance of a Crescent Moon

Spring is turning towards summer now. It began so delicately with a soft green — the hue of a tender rumor murmured only in off moments — but then the green rumor became bold, became the truth, and over the course of seemingly a night the grass is long, the trees are full, and the peonies are about to bloom. Every night I smell smoke and charcoal, my neighbors busy with their grills. They mow their lawns, weed their flower beds, dump their mulch, and then go to their backyards to cook up dinner.

I do none of these things. The rhythms of suburbia are pleasing to watch with their precise, ticking movements but they are less pleasing to indulge in. There’s a deep pressure to conform, and so I recede to the sanctuary of my old deck, watching the birds and bumblebees pass through my yard.

I’ve been toying with the idea of sinking a spade into the ground, ridding one area of hideous orange daylilies and planting a few tiny bits of bleeding heart and bluebell, gifts from a friend. It’s been years since I’ve played in the dirt, dug around, sorted things out, grimaced at the grubs and bugs that emerge from the dirt. Intolerable joint pain cut off many activities, and gardening was the first to go. But this year, after so many years of pursuing healing and wellness, I am feeling better and I think it might be time to poke and prod at the earth again. To see what I can do about weeds and debris.

But then again, this might not happen. The doctor told me yesterday that my body was “currently struggling with inflammation due to increased activity,” that I need to take it slower, that I needed to continue working on a low-inflammation diet.

Dreams of gardening haze in and out. It might happen this weekend, but it might not until later. Depression surges forward and I struggle with it. Life is hard with fibromyalgia and chronic pain, and there are always so many small, difficult choices to make. I chose to increase my exercises by a small amount last week; my body responded with intense shoulder pain and a flare up of inflammation throughout my system — primarily in my hands, shoulders, back, feet. It is just this way and I walk slowly through it, sometimes crying but mostly not, because life has been like this for years now and slowly, as time passes, the tears dry up.

Pain makes us discard some goals and pick others up.

There is a waning crescent moon in the sky, a thin sliver that sets in midafternoon and rises in early morning. It will soon be a new moon and then we will pass into summer.