Naked

I write at my little desk in the attic. Amongst a mess of papers in the home-office. Sprawled in a white peeling Adirondack chair on the farmer’s porch.

Occasionally, when I need background noise to quiet my mind, I write at a restaurant bar. I’m almost always approached by strangers when I write in public places. There is a curiosity or wonder about what I’m journaling and recording.

Sometimes these interruptions are annoying. Other times they lead to wonderful conversations and opportunities to learn.

I’m about a quarter of the way into four books; I read them concurrently. Some as reference tools, a few others as self-help techniques. In Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones she imparts the advice: Trust in love and it will take you where you want to go.

Maybe, in exploring what it is you love to do it’s more along the lines of: Trust in yourself and you will get there.

I watch my daughter as she prances around the kitchen in her blue underwear. She’s round and tan and smooth. Her three year old pot belly juts over her legs. She’s got a criss-cross of tan lines on her shoulder blades. A scraped knee. Bug bites. A tangled nest of black curls bouncing across her forehead.

She sways and sings and dances.

Often, she will choose not to wear underwear as she boogies. She’s naked and free-spirited.

As we age, a stigma is attached to the naked body. There is a vulnerability to it. A shame, even.

In writing, we allow ourselves to get naked. But still, like showing your body for the first time, there is a fear of judgment. And yet to be a truly great writer, you need to overcome fear of what someone will think of your thoughts in the same way that, to be secure with your physicality, you need to abandon the fear of being evaluated on your flaws.

If, as I write or process, I stumble upon something flawed, raw or frightening, I embrace it.

There’s great value in chasing what it is about you that frightens you most. It’s a hub of buzzing vibrating energy.

And when you figure it out?

Take pleasure in the cool waters of calm that follow.

Recently, I sat down with a friend in the publishing business. He had just finished writing a book. I asked him how he went about setting a center to his creation.

He advised me to focus on the skeleton and later fill in the flesh.

Those words wrap around my head like a toy train on a restaurant wall: Write the skeleton. Fill the flesh.

Another friend sat down with me to discuss my need, my ache, to make writing my craft.

He smacked me with the explanation that it already is. Told me to slow down and look both ways. To take time and breathe.

Write the skeleton; fill the flesh. Take time; take breath.

When I write, one of my biggest goals is to take in the sentiment that what I produce is not all going to be good. Singers warm their voices. Runners stretch their legs. A writer limbers the mind with writing exercise.

I don’t always want to practice. I don’t always want to run. But, I force myself to. And sometimes the practice is difficult. The words don’t come smoothly. I run my hand across the page and write whatever comes to mind. I force my sneakers to push the ground even if I don’t much feel like doing it.

In the repetition and the practice though, comes a sweet sizzle.

A plume of smoke that starts small and curls upward.

A signal.

An idea in a breath.

The crackle of a first thought.

In repetition there is freedom because the stake is not just on one time. I am not lacing up my shoes to run the fastest 5K. I am not sitting at my notebook to write the next great poem.

But then, the road disappears.

The paper falls away.

And there is just me:

Open.

Truthful.

Breathing.

The energy captures me and my hand starts flying across the page. I don’t think about  handwriting, punctuation or spelling errors. I’ll get to those later, in the editing phase. My mind blanks and I am taken over. I just let the thoughts come out.

The etymology of the word inspiration is: “the immediate influence of G-d.”

From Old French the history is: “Inhaling; breathing in”.

The ability to breathe in and write down the moment pulls a honking old transfer switch attached directly to a rainbow.

Bam!

The world is in color.

Embrace it.

Heartwoven

One day at lunch, about 4 years ago, I am sitting with a friend.

He and I are laughing and discussing our lives. He is telling me about his family and his girlfriend. He is explaining to me how and why he became an English teacher. He is sharing his favorite books.

I am completely ensconced in balancing the teaching of five classes and caring for a two year old. If the topic doesn’t center around poop, milk consumption, or height/weight percentile, I don’t feel qualified to partake. I am overwhelmed with running a house and running a classroom. I have no room in my brain for contemplation of politics, philosophy or comedy.

And then he asks me: “What are your dreams?”

I answer him half-jokingly: “8 hours of sleep. In a row. By myself. In a bed. On a tropical island.”

He stares at me and responds, slowly: “No, like, really. What do you strive for? What are your goals? What are your dreams? “

I can’t believe he is serious. Has he seen me? I’m haggard. I take a look at his face. See him waiting patiently for my answer.

I think.

I realize that I have no idea.

And I start to cry.

I explain to him that I haven’t given a thought to my dreams for as long as I can remember. He responds with a gentle explanation of motivation and sense of self.

His words resonate. Deeply. He tells me that I am funny and that I need to laugh. He invites me to audition for his Improv group. He hands me a chance.

He offers a gift.

I take it.

Weeks later, I attend the audition. I am accepted. Suddenly, I have comedy and friendship and Portsmouth and Sunday afternoon rehearsals. I have Strawberry Banke and Tuesday evening performances. I feel there is some light and balance again.

7 years prior to that lunchtime revelation, I am living in an apartment in Brookline with my best friend. We are both working. I commute to Boston daily. We come home and order chinese food. We go out and drink too much and dance too hard. We watch Friends. Sex and The City.

I am dating the man who is to become my husband. I am spending less and less time at home. More and more time at his apartment across town.

One evening, when I call my girlfriend to tell her not to expect me, I sense hurt in her voice. We have a candid conversation about being alone. She explains to me what it means to be a good friend. She shares knowledge with me that her mother shared with her about the importance of girlfriends.

At the time I feel guilty. I try to comprehend

Now, 12 years later, I understand. Our friendship is something we have cultivated. I can drop right into her arms. I have held her in mine. We have walked each other through incredibly difficult paths and confided our deepest fears.

She takes my hand and looks in my eyes and sees me. She speaks truth to me.

And, in return, I see her.

I offer her truth when she needs it.

Laughter when it’s right.

Just a few days ago, I am meeting one of my oldest friends for coffee. We have plans to network and catch up. Instead, after trading stories of our children, he mentions some observations he has. He speaks candidly. I am able to listen.

He offers advice.

I am able to hear.

Now, on a warm summer night, I calmly sit next to an open window and contemplate relationship. I think about the different roles we play in the lives of others. I consider why those we love are sent our way.

I think that the individuals who are meant to play critical roles in our lives do not arrive in error. I am positive there is a fate to it.   

My lunch-buddy asked a question of dreams and educated me about honoring self.

My roommate walked me through the topic of loneliness and showed me how to be a best friend.

My coffee-partner made an observation and opened my mind to patience.

My friendships have taught me about gifts of words and trust; those relationships have demonstrated the importance of giving those words to one in whom you can bestow that trust.

I have been helped to understand that the greatest reward is in the act of giving a gift without the expectation of anything in return.

It’s up to us to accept it.

Wonder

A small me opened my eyeball—

like a round door—

exited down the bridge of my nose,

and onto the ground below.

Covered in soft shadows,

I walked about 8 steps, give or take.

To see what needed to be seen,

I looked up and into my own face.

With a hand and a string

I was scooped. Lifted.

Flashing:

A blinking yellow light.

Zachary starts first grade this fall.

My throat closes when I think of him taking those first steps onto the bus. I feel proud of him. Terrified, too, that I won’t be around to wrap him in the jacket of my safety.

Zoe will be in Nursery School three days a week. She is out of diapers, sleeps in a bed and puts on her own shoes.

As we steam steady towards these milestones, I take care to impart survival lessons.

I teach them how to reach out and make friends.

To ask for help.

To have fun.

To work hard.

I continue to sing songs of love at home.

Although my work with my babies is far from over, I look towards the start of the school year and see that I have time to start reacquainting myself with some work of my own.

I have spent much of the last few months exploring what that means to me. Do I want to work full time or part time? How can I construct that job around my love of writing? Is there a best platform for a portfolio?

I’ve taken my time thinking it through so that when I make my choice, I will know it is right.

When I was 25 I went through a bit of an identity crisis. I was no longer a free-spirited college girl. I was recently married, in fact. I had a fledgling career and owned a condominium outside of Boston. I had a dog. I was starting to think about thinking about children.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t given myself the space and time to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be.

Now, 9 years later, I know who I am.

But, just maybe, I am struggling still with who I would like to be.

What I would like to be.

Additionally, I spend a great deal of time thinking about the me that I want my children to know.

I want them to know me as strong; to channel some of that strength into drive of their own.

I want them to see me as a body of warmth and kindness; to both recognize and value intellect.

I want them to hold me in a place of respect.

I want them to know that the key to their home is carried safely in my heart.

That that key will always be there.

I hope that they will look back on memories of their childhood and see smiles.

I pray that they will laugh and strive to possess wit, integrity and forgiveness; open minds with willingness to explore other possibilities.

Because, when I think of the me that I want my children to know, I think of the children that I want them to be.

I have been a mother for 6 years.

I have been a working mother for half of that time; a stay at home mother for the other half.

What I’m looking to achieve now is a blend.

A healthy balance and mix.

I swear to you that I believe it is possible.

I believe it is possible because this time I’m not assigning myself a role.

I’ll just be a mother who loves my children.

And that love is visceral, constant and steady.

This fall Zachary will board a bus and Zoe will learn her letters.

I will pay attention to what comes next. I will quiet myself with the knowledge that my children take with them what I give.

I will place a calming hand on my chest as a reminder that passage of time is a wonder.

And that wonder, is worth it.