In One Writer’s Beginnings, Eudora Welty wrote: "Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole."
One time over a matter of a week, a couple of mice got into my house. For months and even years after, my cat, Luke, would sit by the place where the hole was stuffed, waiting for another one to come in. He never gave up.
As a kid, I was the cat watching for a mouse, the kid listening for a story. I remember sitting on my great aunt's lawn in McHenry, Kentucky. My younger siblings were playing elsewhere. But I was in one of those colorful metal chairs that's back looked like a tulip, my legs dangling. I was with the adults, waiting, listening. And those adults delivered with stories and reactions and a side helping of humor. The only thing that slowed them from telling stories was the whistle of a passing freight train, which they'd have to wait to pass in order to hear. Maybe that's why today I turn down the volume of the television when I hear a train in the distance. I've always thought it was about a restlessness, a desire to travel and be elsewhere. It might be in part. But perhaps I also connect the train's whistle to storytelling. Next time I hear a train, I'll pay better attention to what comes next. A story might jump off one of the cars.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
2nd and Church--It's a Literary Location
Attention Writing Friends, Nashville and Tennessee Friends, Spalding Friends, WKU Friends, Reading Friends! The inaugural issue of a new literary journal was launched this week. Meet 2nd and Church. Publisher Roy Burkhead is a Spalding M...FA grad, a WKU grad, and a fabulous writer. Obviously a lot of work and sweat goes into a new literary journal--and perhaps some pain. From Roy's blog: "It was around the end of May of this year when I was near the intersection of 2nd Avenue and Church Street, and I was remembering my desire to create a literary journal that would focus on Nashville and Middle Tennessee. It was also on this day in May when I was hit by a car in the crosswalk." Click the link below to learn more about 2nd and Church.
http://2ndandchurch.com/
http://2ndandchurch.com/
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Back to the blog...
I last posted a blog entry here in August 2009, a few months short of two years. About three months after that blog entry, my dear Luke passed away and I posted his picture. Since then, nada. Yes, sometimes I've thought about blogging and sometimes I've felt bad about not blogging. I'd say guilty, but I was too out of time and energy to blog and I knew somewhere deep inside that one of the things that had to go was the blog. I had a long commute, 70 miles each way, to work from Bowling Green to Nashville. I'd had an apartment in the city, but being gone from home three to four nights a week proved to be too much--especially after Luke died. I wanted to be with Jordan (Luke's sister) and knew she needed me near her. Plus I desired to use the rent and utility money for tuition. So, the apartment went bye-bye.
A year ago, I started my first residency in a brief-residency MFA in writing program. Near the end of that first residency, we heard a fabulous lecture about social media, especially as it pertained to writers. I wanted to get back to my blog then--but alas, I was soon buried by short critical essays, original writing, reading for a literary journal--things I loved--and one thing I grew to dislike: the ongoing commute. The only redeeming qualities for the time I spent on the road were that I had a good job that I enjoyed (once I arrived at my office) and audio books that melted the miles under my wheels, at least on most days. In the end, even the written word couldn't save the situation. My last day in that job was nearly a month ago.
My second residency with the MFA program started two days after the last day at the former job. It was a time of great blessing, a chance to immerse myself in my craft in the few days I had between the end of one job and the beginning of another, which started the day after I came home. Five days later I flew to NYC for four days of soaking up the city's energy. A week after that, I sit at a Mac in Nashville, editing this blog I started during my second MFA residency. I'm in a blogging class at Watkins, a class that I signed up for weeks ago, just before my last day at my old job. I knew if I didn't, I would be worn out and would not come to the class, but here I am and I'm glad to be back to my blog.
Though this blog entry may be unspectacular, it nevertheless has a certain shine: it's a new beginning and a promise to blog fulfilled--albeit late. Since I started writing this entry, there have been lectures and workshops and readings attended, reports written, assignments and evaluations completed. There were friends to see, both at the residency and at home. There were miles on planes and on the road.
Tomorrow, I begin my new life, focusing on writing and reading photography, health and family and friends, travel and cooking, all the things I love. Actually today I begin, with this blog entry. Wonder and wander with me.
A year ago, I started my first residency in a brief-residency MFA in writing program. Near the end of that first residency, we heard a fabulous lecture about social media, especially as it pertained to writers. I wanted to get back to my blog then--but alas, I was soon buried by short critical essays, original writing, reading for a literary journal--things I loved--and one thing I grew to dislike: the ongoing commute. The only redeeming qualities for the time I spent on the road were that I had a good job that I enjoyed (once I arrived at my office) and audio books that melted the miles under my wheels, at least on most days. In the end, even the written word couldn't save the situation. My last day in that job was nearly a month ago.
My second residency with the MFA program started two days after the last day at the former job. It was a time of great blessing, a chance to immerse myself in my craft in the few days I had between the end of one job and the beginning of another, which started the day after I came home. Five days later I flew to NYC for four days of soaking up the city's energy. A week after that, I sit at a Mac in Nashville, editing this blog I started during my second MFA residency. I'm in a blogging class at Watkins, a class that I signed up for weeks ago, just before my last day at my old job. I knew if I didn't, I would be worn out and would not come to the class, but here I am and I'm glad to be back to my blog.
Though this blog entry may be unspectacular, it nevertheless has a certain shine: it's a new beginning and a promise to blog fulfilled--albeit late. Since I started writing this entry, there have been lectures and workshops and readings attended, reports written, assignments and evaluations completed. There were friends to see, both at the residency and at home. There were miles on planes and on the road.
Tomorrow, I begin my new life, focusing on writing and reading photography, health and family and friends, travel and cooking, all the things I love. Actually today I begin, with this blog entry. Wonder and wander with me.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
A weekend day for every week day
Today I'm wondering, what if we had a weekend day for every week day? I always come in on Mondays hyped up, ready to go. Then by Friday I'm exhausted and ready to just go away. I'd take a three-day weekend to a four-day (32-hour) week even. It wouldn't be equal, but it would be great.
I'm just off a fabulous weekend, as you probably guessed, and I'm trying to hold onto the good vibes.
I had the thrill of accomplishment when working on two essays that I need to finish and submit for possible publication. That filled a need as deep as the need for rest, which I also did.
On Saturday, I cried a lot. This was a good and cleansing cry. And a grieving cry. The Kennedy family has been instrumental in my development as the person I am today. I know about their shadow side, and I suppose with great achievements and talents comes great flaws. But it's those achievements and talents I admire, especially in their public service to the poor and underprivileged and those without voices. They could empathize and sympathize and have compassion for the people on the fringe of society. And their faith, especially that of Rose, helped me to find a faith of my own, one that deepened during the hard times, one that was grounded in something real. I watched the funeral mass for Senator Kennedy and later in the day the services in front of the Capitol and at the grave site, and I cried and sometimes sobbed. Not only has the last of Joe and Rose's four sons been laid to rest and the next to last of all their children, but something else died with Ted, something I can't quite put my finger on yet. I cried for that something as much as the loss of the man. Thank you, Teddy, for your
On Sunday, I listened to an audio book titled, A WEEKEND TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE. I'd listened to Joan Anderson's other book last week, A YEAR BY THE SEA, and was left with questions and a gnawing disappointment more than anything. That's why I didn't expect much from the Weekend book. At first, it did seem pretty basic. But something caught and now I need to listen to it again--or maybe I need to read it. The book gave me a theme for my day.
COURAGE.
In order to live the life I want to live, I may need to summon the courage to do some things that society frowns upon (nothing illegal or immoral, of course). I may need to do that which practical people, those who live comfortably in the way the world says things should be and who never question that way, won't understand. But what if that's the only way to the path I'm supposed to be on?
And this isn't easy for me. I spent years being the person who comformed to society's norms. Being radical, making choices outside the rules, that wasn't me. But America's founding father's broke the rules and stepped outside the norm of society and their government; to those in charge of the norm, they were traitors, their every act illegal. Hitler's actions, though obviously horrendous, were mostly legal, at least at first and then later when he created the laws. They were sanctioned by the people in his country, sometimes by their silence. It's hard to tell which direction to go sometimes, except freedom and love and kindness seem to be good guides.
In many things, rules are meant to be broken, but only, after you first understand them. And society's norms change with the times. Skirts used to be long and covered the woman's form; now women wear pants. Slavery was legal here, now it's unfathomable that it existed. No one thinks much now about mixing peanut butter and chocolate, but at one time a commercial about that enthralled us. Nothing is written in stone. Things change and then a new normal begins. And when it comes to writing history, it's the ones who live outside the norms who are remembered. Does that tell us anything? Oh, man, I need another weekend to think about this.
I'm just off a fabulous weekend, as you probably guessed, and I'm trying to hold onto the good vibes.
I had the thrill of accomplishment when working on two essays that I need to finish and submit for possible publication. That filled a need as deep as the need for rest, which I also did.
On Saturday, I cried a lot. This was a good and cleansing cry. And a grieving cry. The Kennedy family has been instrumental in my development as the person I am today. I know about their shadow side, and I suppose with great achievements and talents comes great flaws. But it's those achievements and talents I admire, especially in their public service to the poor and underprivileged and those without voices. They could empathize and sympathize and have compassion for the people on the fringe of society. And their faith, especially that of Rose, helped me to find a faith of my own, one that deepened during the hard times, one that was grounded in something real. I watched the funeral mass for Senator Kennedy and later in the day the services in front of the Capitol and at the grave site, and I cried and sometimes sobbed. Not only has the last of Joe and Rose's four sons been laid to rest and the next to last of all their children, but something else died with Ted, something I can't quite put my finger on yet. I cried for that something as much as the loss of the man. Thank you, Teddy, for your
On Sunday, I listened to an audio book titled, A WEEKEND TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE. I'd listened to Joan Anderson's other book last week, A YEAR BY THE SEA, and was left with questions and a gnawing disappointment more than anything. That's why I didn't expect much from the Weekend book. At first, it did seem pretty basic. But something caught and now I need to listen to it again--or maybe I need to read it. The book gave me a theme for my day.
COURAGE.
In order to live the life I want to live, I may need to summon the courage to do some things that society frowns upon (nothing illegal or immoral, of course). I may need to do that which practical people, those who live comfortably in the way the world says things should be and who never question that way, won't understand. But what if that's the only way to the path I'm supposed to be on?
And this isn't easy for me. I spent years being the person who comformed to society's norms. Being radical, making choices outside the rules, that wasn't me. But America's founding father's broke the rules and stepped outside the norm of society and their government; to those in charge of the norm, they were traitors, their every act illegal. Hitler's actions, though obviously horrendous, were mostly legal, at least at first and then later when he created the laws. They were sanctioned by the people in his country, sometimes by their silence. It's hard to tell which direction to go sometimes, except freedom and love and kindness seem to be good guides.
In many things, rules are meant to be broken, but only, after you first understand them. And society's norms change with the times. Skirts used to be long and covered the woman's form; now women wear pants. Slavery was legal here, now it's unfathomable that it existed. No one thinks much now about mixing peanut butter and chocolate, but at one time a commercial about that enthralled us. Nothing is written in stone. Things change and then a new normal begins. And when it comes to writing history, it's the ones who live outside the norms who are remembered. Does that tell us anything? Oh, man, I need another weekend to think about this.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Where's the fun?
This isn't working for me right now. And I can't help but wondering, where did the fun go?
Over the past couple of weeks, I've had projects to do at work that took quite a bit of time. No problem, I'm a person who likes to dig in and do something that has a reward at the end, even the process can be reward enough. One of these projects in particular was kind of a puzzle, taking a bunch of numbers from various reports--reports I'd helped create back in February--and then massaging those numbers and putting them into one upload file. I know only a geek can get this, but it should have been fun.
Instead it was hell.
Not the report itself. That wasn't so bad. But interruptions and other obligations kept popping up, and a report I should have been able to work on for a few hours, became the bane of my existence for days, hovering over my shoulder, tapping it, whispering my name. Instead of a glorious birth, it had a slow death.
And that's what I mean by this not being fun.
Lately, I'm trying to remember the reasons I work. To pay a few bills like utilities, to buy groceries, and for health insurance, basic needs. To buy some additional stuff that's fun or keeps things running and to travel a little throughout the year are two more reasons. I could get by on a lot less, and would be glad to work part time, if I could get enough hours and hourly pay to do so, and if I could have health insurance. I know of several people who work full time for health insurance. I'm kind of one of those people. And I find that sad. For the people having to work full time who would like to work part time and for the people who would love to have the full time jobs filled by someone working mostly for insurance.
But another reason to work, and this is crucial for me, I need to feel what I'm doing is contributing in some way to a greater good, a greater good that has meaning. Right now, I'm too bogged down in the muck to see that. Maybe it does. But maybe there's something else I should be doing. Part of the problem is that the things important to me are being shafted during this crazy time, and when something important to me isn't being given the attention I feel it deserves, watch out!
And while all of this is coming to mind, I can't help but wonder if we've got things all screwed up. So many people are working in jobs that aren't a good fit, stuck there while the economy improves, maybe stuck by their past financial decisions. I try to imagine a world where people are doing what they love to do, something that fits well with the talents they were born with. The world might have a lot less miserable people, projecting their misery on the unsuspecting bystander. I'd like a glimpse of that world. It sounds a lot more fun.
I had one of those jobs for a few years, when I had some money saved and could buy COBRA insurance and even some catastrophic-only insurance for a few months. I worked part-time doing something I loved--and spending the rest of the time on what mattered to me. I got enough rest and enough time to reflect and be me, plus the me I was becoming. And I had time for family and friends. Life was grand.
This post doesn't have a lightbulb moment, just a lot of questions coming from the confusion. And if no one raises the questions, if we continue along on the same path day after day without even asking if this is the way things have to be, then the confusion continues. When nothing changes, nothing changes. And like Ghandi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world." Let's start. Today is the right time.
Over the past couple of weeks, I've had projects to do at work that took quite a bit of time. No problem, I'm a person who likes to dig in and do something that has a reward at the end, even the process can be reward enough. One of these projects in particular was kind of a puzzle, taking a bunch of numbers from various reports--reports I'd helped create back in February--and then massaging those numbers and putting them into one upload file. I know only a geek can get this, but it should have been fun.
Instead it was hell.
Not the report itself. That wasn't so bad. But interruptions and other obligations kept popping up, and a report I should have been able to work on for a few hours, became the bane of my existence for days, hovering over my shoulder, tapping it, whispering my name. Instead of a glorious birth, it had a slow death.
And that's what I mean by this not being fun.
Lately, I'm trying to remember the reasons I work. To pay a few bills like utilities, to buy groceries, and for health insurance, basic needs. To buy some additional stuff that's fun or keeps things running and to travel a little throughout the year are two more reasons. I could get by on a lot less, and would be glad to work part time, if I could get enough hours and hourly pay to do so, and if I could have health insurance. I know of several people who work full time for health insurance. I'm kind of one of those people. And I find that sad. For the people having to work full time who would like to work part time and for the people who would love to have the full time jobs filled by someone working mostly for insurance.
But another reason to work, and this is crucial for me, I need to feel what I'm doing is contributing in some way to a greater good, a greater good that has meaning. Right now, I'm too bogged down in the muck to see that. Maybe it does. But maybe there's something else I should be doing. Part of the problem is that the things important to me are being shafted during this crazy time, and when something important to me isn't being given the attention I feel it deserves, watch out!
And while all of this is coming to mind, I can't help but wonder if we've got things all screwed up. So many people are working in jobs that aren't a good fit, stuck there while the economy improves, maybe stuck by their past financial decisions. I try to imagine a world where people are doing what they love to do, something that fits well with the talents they were born with. The world might have a lot less miserable people, projecting their misery on the unsuspecting bystander. I'd like a glimpse of that world. It sounds a lot more fun.
I had one of those jobs for a few years, when I had some money saved and could buy COBRA insurance and even some catastrophic-only insurance for a few months. I worked part-time doing something I loved--and spending the rest of the time on what mattered to me. I got enough rest and enough time to reflect and be me, plus the me I was becoming. And I had time for family and friends. Life was grand.
This post doesn't have a lightbulb moment, just a lot of questions coming from the confusion. And if no one raises the questions, if we continue along on the same path day after day without even asking if this is the way things have to be, then the confusion continues. When nothing changes, nothing changes. And like Ghandi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world." Let's start. Today is the right time.
Monday, August 24, 2009
What A Difference A Weekend Makes
Last week was, by far, the worst week I've experienced at my current job. I wrote that sentence and then thought that it sounded like someone saying something about her "current" marriage, implying it would someday end. The relationship of work has been, for me, like a marriage in many ways, except in 'til death do us part. This isn't one of those situations. Yet I'm committed, for the time being, to this experience. And last week tested that commitment. Without going into detail about the bad stuff and giving it too much power in my life, I'll just say that it was the first week without the person who was my friend at work and that many other things happened that made it even more difficult. Also, there were too many things out of my control. With the bad came the good, and I'll also speak of the shining moments. One was the temp who I liked and who did an excellent job--competence, fathom that! The other came at the end of the day on Friday: a very good interview with a candidate for the position vacated by my friend (who can now work at home--yeah for him!).
By Friday afternoon, I was frazzled. To top it off, I'd left my laptop at my sometimes home-away-from-home and had to retrieve it before I could get on the road. I'd left early, though, and seemed to be ahead of the curve, when I hit traffic and the street became a slow-moving parking lot. Most of my found "extra" time disappeared then. Once I was able to move, I rushed home, unloaded the car, and prepared for the weekend.
And what a weekend it was! I spent time on Saturday morning with my writing group, two lovely women who are friends as well as writing colleagues. We had one of our best meetings ever, with all of us bringing something we'd written and with plenty of time to socialize. After that, lunch with another dear friend, who I sensed needed to talk--as did I, though not about work. I don't like to do that, nor do I journal about it much, I've recently realized. On Sunday morning, my book group, known as the Merton Group, met...another two lovely women who are great friends and companions on this sometimes crazy road of life. We didn't discuss a book, though I believe we will again soon, but rather we chatted about the all-too-real drama that has been unfolding in one of the member's life and the insanity of our lives.
The afternoons and evenings last weekend were about my home and me. On Saturday, after lunch, I picked up a new merlot-color coverlet and pillow shams for my bedroom--and could barely stand the two-mile drive home before I could put them on the bed. I added a fluffy plum throw I'd bought the weekend before. Suddenly, my bedroom has a new look. It was time. And it reminded me of fresh starts. A new workweek, I'm hoping, provides that.
By Friday afternoon, I was frazzled. To top it off, I'd left my laptop at my sometimes home-away-from-home and had to retrieve it before I could get on the road. I'd left early, though, and seemed to be ahead of the curve, when I hit traffic and the street became a slow-moving parking lot. Most of my found "extra" time disappeared then. Once I was able to move, I rushed home, unloaded the car, and prepared for the weekend.
And what a weekend it was! I spent time on Saturday morning with my writing group, two lovely women who are friends as well as writing colleagues. We had one of our best meetings ever, with all of us bringing something we'd written and with plenty of time to socialize. After that, lunch with another dear friend, who I sensed needed to talk--as did I, though not about work. I don't like to do that, nor do I journal about it much, I've recently realized. On Sunday morning, my book group, known as the Merton Group, met...another two lovely women who are great friends and companions on this sometimes crazy road of life. We didn't discuss a book, though I believe we will again soon, but rather we chatted about the all-too-real drama that has been unfolding in one of the member's life and the insanity of our lives.
The afternoons and evenings last weekend were about my home and me. On Saturday, after lunch, I picked up a new merlot-color coverlet and pillow shams for my bedroom--and could barely stand the two-mile drive home before I could put them on the bed. I added a fluffy plum throw I'd bought the weekend before. Suddenly, my bedroom has a new look. It was time. And it reminded me of fresh starts. A new workweek, I'm hoping, provides that.
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