Thankfulness

It's been awhile since I've written, so I thought it time to at least throw something down on virtual paper. I've had a decent month, mostly working, although nothing like full time. But work is always good, and I remain indebted to my main client who is most patient and helpful as I negotiate the other side of the editorial world. Still so much to learn--to my great surprise! Hey, this writing stuff isn't so easy.

I suppose given the holidays, it's appropriate to consider what I am thankful for. I used to spend Thanksgivings with a dear friend and her family in Burlington, VT. They are a vegetarian family, but they love T-Day and turkey so much that they cook a bird (free range of course) with all the fixings once a year. They have a lovely ritual--after the big meal is done, they bring out colored pencils, markers, and crayons and long sheets of paper and then write down all the things they are thankful for in beautiful colors. So in honor of the Brotz family from Burlington, VT, here are the things I am thankful for in no particular order:

The good health of my parents
My good health
Snow
Craft beer
Snoe
My family
My wonderful friends
My renewed friends via Facebook
The opportunities that await
The relative freedom to pursue those opportunities
My beautiful and cozy condo
Time to think and ponder
The upcoming wintery season

Yes, it's all about me. I suppose it's because I've been feeling wrapped in coziness this week and haven't looked too far outside my little world. Frankly, I am thankful that after months of hyper vigilance, I can finally allow myself the pleasure of letting it in.

Pick Yourself Up, Dust Yourself Off

I don't feel like writing today. I've started a health blog on my Web site, mainly as a way to keep myself up on health news and explore areas of interest. But I just don't feel like adding to it today. For one thing, I read the science Times, and it was a bit of a snore. Oh look, another article in H1N1! Oh--and one about childhood vaccinations and a different one on the effectiveness of garlic on colds. Do I detect a theme here? zzzz

I also just wrote a couple of recommendations for people as well as requesting a few and feel oddly exhausted by the effort. I suppose that looking back and inevitably revisiting some of the various slights and stings from 15 years working at the same company leaves me feeling a bit less than.

Putting yourself out there, sharing your work, talking up your skills is hard work--and sometimes the exposure gets to me. (This is why I don't rock climb!) Of course people are complimentary, but who would really tell you that something sucks--or almost worse, that it's OK but nothing special? How do you really know what people think? This is an internal conflict that I have never completely resolved--and there is no question that it has hurt me professionally. Trust is such a tricky issue, and unfortunately I don't do it easily.

These are mental paths I should avoid treading, but it's not easy to stay off them. I remind myself that no matter how good you are, there is always somebody out there who is better. The problem in this economy is that ONLY the best are getting hired. Those of us who have achieved a measure of success, but not real greatness, have our work cut out for us. It's been awhile since I've felt I was at my best--for a variety of reasons, some within my control, some not. And while I knew it wasn't personal, getting laid off didn't help. The best solution I've come up with is to ignore these thoughts and distract myself. Maybe writing in my blog, where I can give voice to my doubts, will help too.

A Sitting Meditation

My ass is happy. Fat, sassy, and happy. I have a new home office chair--gray in affect, adjustable in all kinds of ways, and supportive just where I need it. Recently, while writing an article on office ergonomics, I quickly realized that my home office was poorly lacking in a setup that would benefit my body's "natural alignment." Not surprising, given that I was spending hours sitting on a wooden, straight-back chair with a pillow. It was one of my two "boyfriend chairs" I had held onto after finally getting my own place. Years ago I found solace in painting chairs with interesting shapes after major breakups. "George" was actually a wonderful man, just not for me, and I had kept his chair around, frankly because it was well-made. After years of finding it perfectly adequate for nightly bouts at the computer, I was now spending hours sitting in this chair, working on creating a new livelihood for myself. It was sure to cause problems--and it did. After a long stretch of writing in early summer, I finished up with a sore back and the first major flare of IC (interstitial cystitis--a chronic bladder condition) I'd had in years.

Between my knee issue from a ski fall (thankfully needing just a bit of rest--duh), IC flare, and constant rain, June proved to be a fairly sedentary month, leaving me fatter and a bit glum. Unemployed, fat, out of shape, and floundering in a variety of personal ways, I needed to do something. So far, I've managed to raise my level of fitness from "middle-aged broad" to "moderately in-shape middle-aged broad." But the chair remained, and so did my back issues. So I went to Ikea (Ikea, Ikea, Ikea!) The name always sounds like the shreik of some Cretaceous bird to me.

How does one explain the draw of this place? As you approach, it's a BIG BLUE BOX with yellow lettering. Why is this reassuring? There is something about the blue. Blue like the navy, blue like the sky on a perfect day, let's face it, it's the perfect blue PMS number 294. Oddly, I always that find my pulse quickens as I get nearer, to the point that I feel anxious about whether I will find parking. Has anyone ever NOT found parking at an Ikea? Especially on a Wednesday at noon? They make sure you will get in, just as they make sure that you will find something you want to buy. And I did--find parking and something to buy. But first, lunch. Yes, instead of my usual virtuous salad I got the damn meatballs with lingonberry jam and mashed potatoes and gravy. And I really enjoyed it with a Diet Pepsi. Diet be damned. Then it was on to the Rilly Big Shew.

The arrows, the smell of pine, the yellow bags, the rooms advertising how easily you can live in 192 sq. ft, 420 sg. ft. 570 sg. ft. (my place looks MUCH larger than what they show!) and so on. The numerous combinations of just the right wall color, wood design, cabinetry, throw pillow, lighting, rug, or printed screening make you feel so sure you can find new inspiration, new style, new LIFE just by shopping there. And it's all so god-damned smart--from the design, to the marketing, to the price, to the way you put it together when you get home. I know editors and designers who could take lessons in how to write and illustrate simple instructions from Ikea! You feel like you are most virtuous and smart by shopping there. But you are also exhausted from traveling three floors and every take on home needs ever invented. Because you have to look at EVERYTHING. Just in case you missed the really cool XXX or X on floor XX.

What pleased me no end however is that I found my chair! I sat in the red chair, the leather chair, the flowered chair (which I greatly preferred, but which was not so comfortable and that was the point, right?). After sitting for about 30 minutes I finally settled on the gray flannel chair. Relief flooded my body. I had found what I came for, now I just needed to get out without further damage. One hour later, I loaded my car and headed home. Escape is never easy, but I had done it. To the tune of about $200. Ikea Ikea Ikea!

My Editor

There lives inside my head an editor, trapped and howling. She shouts loudly that I am a hack, that I have been fooling everyone for years, that I am fooling myself to think I can write, that I should give up. She is damned powerful, and she pisses me off.

I imagine her with dark tangled hair, a bloated face, red thin lips, cigarette-stained teeth. She is ugly and wants me to be ugly too. She is sad and lonely and wants to keep me near her. When I am weary of fighting her off, tuning out her constant whine, sometimes I listen and believe.

And I stop writing.

What I know is this: I am not the best writer. But I am also not the worst. I know I need to improve my writing. And I know that to get better at this craft, I need to write. Often. So I need to figure out what to do with her.

Maybe, just maybe, all she needs is for me to listen. I don't have to believe. But if I hear her voice rising in pitch, sounding more urgent, I should stop, face her, and listen. And then very kindly, ask if she will take a seat off to the side and let me do my work.

Every writer has an editor. Some of us have learned long ago how to live with it. Some likely continue to struggle--have good days/weeks/months/years where their editor is quiet and docile. And then there are the bad days/weeks/months.

Here's hoping for a good stretch.

Two Months Later

OK, I'm doing it. I'm leaping into frigid waters of the blog pool. I've written earlier posts, which I didn't publish, but with this post I will open 'er up to the general public. I've felt weird about publishing a blog, "who cares?" being the main theme. If no one cares, no one will read it and I don't have to worry about what I write, or how well I write it, or if my commas are in the right place. But if no one reads it, then what's the point? Round and round. Anyway, I've settled on it being a place for me to write, which I need to do more of anyway, and a place to wrestle with my thoughts and feelings about life in middle age. So this blog is first and foremost for me.

While I've come to care less about how people perceive me than I did even four months ago (I blame Facebook), the idea of any random person who I might have worked with, played with, loved, pissed off, or been raised by reading my deepest (OK, not that deep) thoughts definitely gives me pause. I spent my entire work career keeping a pretty solid wall separating my work and social life. Yet I'm not sure it did me any favors--I had to admit to myself that I missed out deepening my connection to some really cool people.

So one of my goals as I make my way through this life is to stop giving a damn. I don't mean that in terms of caring about people and their feelings and needs and so on. I do mean that I want to work toward acceptance--of myself and of the fact that not everyone will like me or what I do all, or maybe even most, of the time. I want to stop wanting so much to be liked. I want to stop wanting to be SAFE.

So I will have to bear with myself as I figure out what this blog will be, how much I share and in what way. And if anyone else ever reads this, they will have to bear with me too as I work to shrug off my self-consciousness and find my voice.

Attempting to Find the Wild Mind

I have know the inexorable sadness of pencils. Unused, unsharpened, erasers hardened, stuck in ceramic cylinders, just one in the crowd, waiting to be picked up, held tight, tip pressed to the broad, endless, white expanse, feeling the push of small fingers as they roll, turn, and release, as thoughts drip through veins, surge in electric currents to nerves, making sense of the dance of graphite on page.

There are wolves in the next room, waiting. Grey beasts, silent, brooding. One licks his face, sighs, and eases his body down to the floor. These wolves lie at the foot of my bed at night, seemingly bored, disinterested, but there, nonetheless. I can feel their clear blue eyes on me as they steal small looks, checking to make sure that I know that they know.

Piece by piece I seem to reenter the world. A hand, an elbow, knee, and toe. A jumble of parts, unfocused, and fuzzy. A Picasso paining, nose askew, eyes on one side of my head, like a flounder fish caught flat on my back, yet sideways. Pressed beneath the weight of the world, breathing shallow and focused. Just enough oxygen to sustain life--but not enough too nurture it.

How long did I live the life of a flounder, unmoving, deadened? It was warm there, comfortable, half buried in the soft silky sand of life.

Now it's all been stirred up, my safe little world, and me with it. I float over to catch an ear, paddle toward my right breast, kick off of the bottom to reach a thigh. Who am I? What shall I become?




With thanks to Theodore Roethke, Allan Tate, and Adrienne Rich.

Who Am I? And What Did I Do With Me?

Job councilor Alfred Neil asks, "Do you keep a journal?" "Yes," I lie. How strange that someone who is there to help is so get-in-your face and confrontational right off the bat. But he was good. He got me thinking. I do need to write--to clear the cobwebs, smooth out the rough lines and awkwardness. Mostly I just need to get better at it--use that part of my brain I've let lie fallow. Monkey brain--weird to let things flow with a keyboard. The last time I did this was on a typewritter!

OK, my focus today is to come up with words to describe me and my strengths. Stuff to use on the Web site I'm building and in resumes. So here goes:

Skills:
Experienced editorial professional
Supportive and effective manager
Exceptional editor
Engaging writer
Meticulous researcher
Out-of-the-box thinker
Client focused
Problem solver
Creative
Resourceful
Flexible
Team player
Results-focused project manager


Me words:
Passionate
Compassionate
Truthful
Honest
Curious
Energetic
Prickly
Mercurial
Inquisitive
Smart
Quick
Intuitive
Sharp
Tenacious
Competent
Playful
Vivacious
Sensitive
Concerned
Loyal

More on this later...