Sage Cohen's Blog, page 12

Prize Winner

There is half a pecan pie in a white paper box in my fridge. Around its cellophane window in permanent marker are the words: prize winner.

I had just dropped my son off at preschool and stopped at Trader Joe's on the way home to get cream cheese–the delivery system for my dog's medicines. The bell rang, a voice came on the loudspeaker and invited us to find a turkey with a number on the floor and stand on it. Some dormant competitor in me leapt toward the painted turkey #1 — which turned out to be the winning turkey. An awkward employee who had clearly never played the turkey game followed me to the pie section where she supervised my selection and, unsure of what to do next to help me redeem my prize, wrote my status on the box to guarantee my celebrity at the cash register.

I wanted cream cheese. And also, evidently, I wanted to win. But I didn't actually want a pie.

I brought it home where the dense and lovely sticky thing sat in my fridge and expired. Several days after its "good before" date had passed, I started eating it out of some strange duty that I should appreciate my good fortune.

Today, the box sat out on the counter, the uneaten half-a-pie uncertain of its destiny. As I was cleaning up from breakfast, those words prize winner reminded me that I actually had received two literary honors in the previous weeks–placing as a finalist in both the 2011 Wabash Poetry Prize, judged by Louise Gluck, and the Santa Fe Writer's Project Poetry Award. It had been many years since I'd sent poems out, and it was pleasing to get the news that a few were well received. I posted the news on Facebook and had a second wave of delight as my community got excited about the news. And then I completely forgot about it, such that it took an expired pie to remind me of my status and a jaunt through my old Facebook posts just now to reacquaint myself with the details so I could share them with you.

This trinity of prize winning reminded me of an important life lesson: Always have a bottle of whipped cream on hand, because you never know when you'll leap on a turkey and come home with an unplanned pie. The other thing it reminded me of is that in a world where prize winning is so highly valued, it is the experience that seems to bring the least pleasure in my own personal hierarchy of what feels right and true in the writing life.

Writing, for me, has the potential to achieve a deep and disembodied bliss. Sending work out for publication, this far more pedestrian process, appeals to the taking-care-of-business side of me. I like doing the research, honoring the submission guidelines, tracking my progress and results. (I think of all of this as weight-lifting, due diligence, the practice of publication.) But even more importantly, I feel good about taking the risk to be visible, to be rejected, to put that darn envelope in the mail, sealed with the hope that my words will reach and connect with someone. For me, that is the pinnacle: that crossroads where completed work meets my ache to enter the conversation.

While I am incredibly grateful when my work is published or recognized in some way, the feeling is something akin to: I'm supposed to eat that pie and be happy about it. But really I just want to leap on another turkey.

[Sorry; formatting is refusing to release me from italics here!] What does invariably thrill me is when I hear from a real person who my words have reached through this divine transportation of publication.

What it all boils down to for me, I am understanding as I write this, is connection. I write to inhabit myself, and I send my words out into the world in the hope that I will reach you. Publishing (and by this I mean everything we do to make our writing public) is one very viable medium for merging self and non-self.

What does it all boil down to for you? What words would you scribble on the food in your refrigerator, and what does this say about who you are as a person and a writer?

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The Practice of Gratitude

My son approached me with his small red car, plopped himself in my lap, and proclaimed as he zoomed the car up and down my thigh, "Mommy, I'm so happy that you're so happy that I'm so happy with my Lightning McQueen." Three days after initiating a simple bedtime gratitude practice (where we each name three things that made us happy that day), my son is seeing things to be happy about everywhere. He's even projecting and naming for me all the things I might be happy about — and has astutely observed that his happiness is guaranteed to source my own.

My concentric circles of happiness for my son and his new car followed me to the shower — one of the few places I stand still long enough for my ideas and inspiration to reliably land. Suddenly I was overcome with gratitude for everything: that I have been paid to do work I love in a context that has suited my temperament for 15 years. For the clients who have over the years become respected collaborators and cherished friends. For the hot water I was standing under, for the mostly blind and deaf and immobilized dog who has dedicated his life to standing guard by every doorway I have passed through, for the words that unveil my world and my life for me endlessly and surprisingly.

This ache of abundance accompanied us to school, where my son tucked his small car into my purse to "nap" until the end of the day and then danced off into the tide of small children eddying around a craft table. Still raw with appreciation, I drove to the Safeway Foundation Breast Center where I now await my first preventative mammogram in a gorgeous, vast, immaculate structure that has been built as a temple to cancer. My broken open heart is swollen with the sadness and agonies so many people live with and are consumed by. I sit in the beautiful brown chair waiting my turn to hear what the angel of death has in mind for me. I am reminded what an incredible gift it is that my belly holds onto fat, that my legs propel me forward, that my graying, uncooperative hair still populates my head.

It occurs to me that I have appreciations to voice to my business community, my literary community, you. I start imagining all of the endorsements I intend to write on LinkedIn to celebrate my clients and colleagues who have impressed me recently. And I begin composing the Thanksgiving greeting I realize I would like to send to my entire work community to thank them for their business, their trust. The primary revelation of these past, four years where sleep has been nominal, time for myself slivered, exhaustion (and its related confusions) profound, exercise embarrassing to admit, self-care nil, is that I have learned to tap into an energy source that is free, instantly available, and fills my cup to overflowing every time: gratitude. I have proven to myself that no matter what else life serves up, no matter how resource-rich or resource-poor we might be, we can choose gratitude. It is not what we have, but how we hold it, that counts.

How do you intend to enjoy your Thanksgiving holiday, who do you intend to thank, and how will you turn your attention to the everyday abundance that is your most reliable and limitless energy source?

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Thinking about monsters and goats

As I was tucking my three-year-old son into bed tonight, he mentioned that he was concerned that he might have a hard time falling asleep because he was thinking about monsters and ghosts. I set out to explain to him that the wonderful thing about thinking is that we have the option to change our thoughts if we don't like them. Earnestly, and with great seriousness, I suggested, "If you don't want to think about monsters and goats–Wait, did I just say GOATS?" At which point, we both erupted in convulsive laughter and literally fell on top of each other, red in the face with hilarity.

I am a person who once dedicated a large portion of my life to the elusive concept of perfection–attempting to train my life to its trellis. And, it's at moments like these — of absurd mistakes despite my great effort — that I remember the grace of human connection that awaits us in our flub-ups. With one single tongue-twist, a lecture leapt to laughter  and actually accomplished the same thing I was trying to teach (a shift in consciousness) far more effectively and quickly.

I have had similar discoveries almost every time I speak to an audience. The terror of being discovered to be a fraud that would overcome me for many years made me stiff, unnatural, tight-voiced, awkward until I actually messed something up–revealing my fraud-ness for all to see–and found, to my shock, no matter how many times it happened, that it was paradoxically the mistakes that built a bridge between listeners and me in ways that a purely polished presentation never could.

It is my hope that my son and I will establish a lifelong practice of treasuring our mistakes for the windows that they are into all that we magnificently and hilariously can not control. It is my intention that when we start taking ourselves too seriously, we can have a reference as simple as GOATS! to bring us back to silly center.

And, I want the same for you.

What would it take for you to treasure every mistake (from high-stakes to inconsequential) you have made and are going to make? Because, chances are good that if you're messing up, it's because you're reaching higher or deeper or more uncertainly than you ever have before, and that is a risk worth celebrating. Or, maybe you've made a mistake because you're exhausted, or simply not very good at something you've decided to try. Still: the mistake is the badge of honor that commemorates your effort. It will serve as a growth marker the next time you try, and the next.

I'm quite certain that the monsters and ghosts will be hard pressed to make trouble for us when we've turned our attention to goats.

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Think like a dog

If you have ever lived with a dog, loved a dog, or even read about a dog, chances are good that you have an entire toolkit of strategies for your writing life woven into your nervous system — imprinted by your canine companion. My dog Henry thinks my company is so exquisite that he literally can't bear to let a bathroom door come between us. My dog Hamachi, who was driven to the same park every morning for the first five years of her life, started shrieking and yowling with joyful anticipation when we were within a mile of that park each and every day.

What if we were  to hold our writing in such high regard–a companion whose every appearance is celebrated–and who must be escorted like a dance partner through every room of our lives? What if we were to approach that same, old desk or notebook or laptop with a newborn thrill each and every time, and then leap from mind to page with the entire wriggling mass of our forward motion: committed to the investigation, sniffing out every image and metaphor for signs?

And when we have covered every inch of our working document with our scent to our satisfaction, what if we were to leave the ball in the back of the car/the laptop on its shelf, flop ourselves down, fling our off-duty limbs every which way and sink into a deep and restorative nap that will provide the next energy boost necessary for house-defending, human-food-begging, cat provoking, and belly-rub receiving (translated: editing, pitching, social media collaborating and conversing).

Then, there is the single-mindedness of the dog. As far as I can tell, the thought process seems to be: I want it. How will I get it? Period. In my lifetime of co-habitating with dogs, I have yet to see evidence to suggest that any dog is asking him/herself: Am I worthy? or I might not get it, so why should I try? Or, Will I embarrass myself? or What if that other dog is better at getting it than I am? This seems to clear up a lot of space for simply going for it. And, this increases the odds of succeeding.

When the dog doesn't get what is wanted? It experiments with strategies (begging, looking cute, being sneaky, getting the cat involved, bullying, pulling harder, etc.) until it finds one that works. Because I, for one, tend to need reminding that there are always alternatives to consider if a particular approach or attitude isn't serving me, the ever-optimistic making-it-happen consciousness of my canine companions serves as a lovely reminder.

What does your inner canine want from your writing life? How does s/he intend to revel in the anticipation of getting there? How will s/he love the work of moving toward this goal? And when, oh when, is nap time?

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Claim your superpower. Cherish your kryptonite.

I am not a natural driver. This literal art and discipline did not come easily to my figurative mind. When I first had my permit and was doing a small, instructive loop around the neighborhood with my father, we plunged–with me at the wheel–directly into a busy, four-way intersection without me registering the stop sign or oncoming traffic. My father, who had every reason to believe that his intelligent, physically coordinated and perceptive daughter would be a fine driving student, became very concerned when I explained what had sent me into that intersection: simply knowing that Matt Knoff lived in the development to my left was an overwhelmingly distracting magnetic pull. I could "see" nothing actual in that moment beyond my own, teenage ache.

Maps, road signs: completely incomprehensible to me. Because being late made me extremely anxious and I had no idea if I'd ever get anywhere on the first or second or third attempt, I learned to build getting-lost time into every excursion. A daydreamer by nature, I had absolutely no idea how to propel myself in a vehicle toward destinations I had been driven to by my parents for seventeen years. I had been busy doing Mad Libs, reading, trying to comprehend and sing along with Elton John or Billy Joel's harmonies, occupying turf that I refused to share with my brother and other such imperative tasks; it had never occurred to me to take an interest in getting from A to B when that was being handled so competently by the people who were in charge of such uninteresting things.

Once behind the wheel, I found the life-saving and car-saving and others-saving imperative to pay vivid and single-minded attention to my surroundings and my actions at all times to be so contrary to my dream-state nature that I'd have to work myself into a state of anxiety to hold this kind of focus. Driving became a white-knuckled feat of absolute concentration that involved zero natural talent and 100% effort. A perfectionist by nature (or perhaps, in retrospect, by habit), this disability was a source of shame and embarrassment for me. My own family had a hard time comprehending how a daughter and sister who could learn anything she'd set her mind to was at her developmental limit when driving.

I was so busy exerting such tremendous effort that I failed to appreciate that I had what could only be described as a savant's knack for parellel parking. Whereas moving through interactive space eluded me, negotiating a small confine between two immobile automobiles was somehow second nature to me. This "hardest" skill to learn for a new driver was my sweet spot. With a few, opposing hard cuts in reverse, I'd be solidly into any space with inches to spare. Without thinking or trying, my body and my automobile just knew how to do this dance intuitively somehow.

My early driving history flashed back last week as I was driving my brother somewhere–he 39, me 41. When we arrived at our destination, I zipped us right into the first curbside parking space I saw. He, the naturally skilled driver with a profoundly accurate inner GPS who had known me all of my driving days, was astounded. I had parallel parked with confidence and competence in a space he said he never would have attempted. It struck me as funny: parallel parking was my secret superpower. Even my own family couldn't imagine I'd be any good at it; and yet, I was very good at it.

Superpowers can be quite valuable; it's handy to have that magic bullet for its very specific and occasional purpose. I decided to pay more attention to my parking ease so that I could enjoy and appreciate this small and secret talent. But even as I was setting this intention, I understood why it just took me a paragraph to tell you about my secret superpower and an entire essay to describe my kryptonite. My profound driving disorientation–this inelegant, clunky, lifelong quest–has shaped me as a person and gifted me far more than ease ever could.

Being indebted to a task that I am profoundly unequipped to do for more than 20 years has instilled in me a discipline of intent, a foundation of practice, and a far clearer understanding of and appreciation for my nature. I will never be a gifted driver, but I have worked hard to become an attentive and competent one. And as I struggle even today to make sense of my step-by-step google maps directions, I can appreciate and accept how my brain is simply wired to experience the figurative as nectar and the literal as a swarm of uninterpretable signs.

When I was a teenager, I was ashamed to not be good at everything, and this clouded my ability to understand and appreciate that those Billy Joel harmonies and Mad Libs were shaping my soul. Sure, stop signs are a necessary evil, and so are cars–and I mastered these non-native languages in time. As my son and I decide together what songs we will shout along to as we hurtle through space; as I scribble on paper scraps pressed over the steering wheel at stop lights, the literal and the figurative settle in together. The superpower and the kryptonite, each depending on each other for context and value. The paradox is that our greatest vulnerability is actually the portal through which we learn, over time, to access our greatest strengths. My ability to park is a happy coincidence. My ability to drive has become a taproot sourcing the character of the woman I have become.

What is your superpower? How have you held your kryptonite? And how do you find the two weaving together in practice as you live and write with intention?

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It is better to have reached and missed than never to have reached at all

Early in high school, I became infatuated with Ronnie McCord. He was in my gym class, a 40-minute reprieve from the caste divides of who is smart and who is popular and who is a stoner and who is a goodie-two-shoes. Ronnie was kind in an enigmatic sort of way, and he had those sad, looking-beyond-me eyes that would become my holy grail of fumbled romance for many years to come. Everyone knew that the people you talked to in gym class weren't the people you talked to in the halls–when you had your real clothes on and your real friends in reach.

For a week or two, I biked past Ronnie's house in Woodcrest every day after school, back and forth, back and forth as the leaves papered the streets with their departure. I don't know what I thought would happen if he actually came out and found me out there; but there was really no other choice. I'd been sucked into this boy's orbit. I needed something from him that I couldn't understand.

Finally, even the bike was not enough to impress my yearning for Ronnie in the pavement around his house. I became shy and strange in gym class. And then I decided. I must tell Ronnie the truth–I must unburden myself of its weight. I wrote this boy a letter. The words knew what they wanted to say; I wrote and carefully folded the notebook paper and shoved the wad at him, overcome with hope and shame, as we  headed out into the halls our respective identities.

Ronnie never mentioned the letter.

Though I was fairly certain my feelings would not be reciprocated, being entirely ignored felt pretty awful. But that was only part of the story. Underneath the burning embarrassment was a more settled feeling of what in retrospect could only be called triumph. I had been brave. I had something to share and I shared it. And in doing so, I was released from my compulsive need for reciprocation. Just owning what was true for myself–and reaching for it–was enough.

This is the first memory I have of coming to awareness of the pleasure of "going for it", as distinct and independent from "getting it." I told myself that now I didn't have to wonder what could be possible with Ronnie. I had done my part and gotten my answer in his non-answer. Now I could move on.

A decade later in a city across the country from our south Jersey high school, Ronnie (now Ron) was dating a friend of mine–someone else from high school who had not been in my social caste at the time–and we were all friends. One day out of the blue, Ron thanked me for my letter. He told me that its honesty and straightforwardness had terrified him at the time, that he had been far too immature to know how to respond, and that he had always been ashamed of his lack of courage when I had taken such a risk. I was surprised and moved to hear that my letter had affected him at all. And was reminded that even when you don't get what you want, you can never presume to know why other people do what they do (or don't do.)

I think of Ronnie when I need to remember that it's ok to be clear about what I want, even if I'm not likely to get it. In fact, I have come to believe that it is not just ok, but in fact essential to my happiness. It's a rather efficient process, if you think about it. Had I not written Ronnie that letter, I might still be circling his house on my 10-speed. Instead, I got my answer and moved on to my next crush–Mark Holder, who pulled arrows out of my chest in a dream shortly thereafter.

I have come to appreciate reaching-and-missing as the best possible kind of psycho-social yoga there is. And, there are not many people who agree with me on this. Seth Godin suggests that we let go of expectation. Pema Chodron advises that we give up hope. But I think not-expecting and not-hoping makes things pretty darn confusing. If you don't know where you're headed, how can you know if you have arrived? In my experience, the most pleasurable part of moving towards a goal is the moving towards part. The sticky part for us humans is how bad we can feel if and when we don't arrive.

What if we were to consider reaching for what we want the triumph, and anything that comes after that gravy? What if we were to be grateful to know certain things are out of reach, so we can hone in on what may be better suited for us in this moment? When we feel satisfied with how we hold our choices, the outcomes of those choices matter far less.

I didn't get Ronnie the boyfriend, but I got Ron the friend — it just took us a decade to get there. But really what I got when I wrote that letter was my very first glimpse of myself as a woman of clarity, a woman of truth, a woman who could live with no for an answer — and even be satisfied with no answer at all.

How do you walk the line of expectation and hope, and what has it taught you?

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If everyone else was jumping off a bridge…

One of the universal childhood debates goes something like this:

You: "But Mom, all the other kids are doing it!"

Your mother: "If all the other kids were jumping off a bridge, would you jump too?"

Of course, this is not a question meant to invite an answer–it is intended to interrupt an unreasonable request with a kind of logic that evades most children. Because, what Mom is missing in her grown-up rationale is this: YES, we would most likely jump off a bridge if everyone else was doing it. That's just how human nature is. Whether it's a good idea or not matters far less than the community around us and the choices they are making. And adults are equally likely to jump when they see their peers jumping.

A friend told me recently her "no you may not" comeback which seems a bit more to the point and leaves no loopholes: "Because I'm the mother and this isn't a democracy." But I digress.

In 1999, when a handful of young aspiring novelists decided to commit the month of November to a novel-writing marathon, they translated this age-old adage of jump-when-others-are-jumping to: write-when-others-are-writing so effectively that it has snowballed into a well known movement: National Novel Writing Month. November is around the corner, and if you write or think about writing, chances are good you've been considering participating in NaNoWriMo or NaPoWriMo. I've been considering both this year and appreciating the energetic boost I get just imagining writers and poets all over the world committing to their craft and their practice on this shared adventure.

As I read some tips for preparing for NaNoWriMo from Brian A. Klems over at Writer's Digest and some interesting insights from writing coach Marla Beck about three reasons NOT to NaNoWriMo, I started to wonder if there could be some third option for writers who want to ride the energy wave of November but will set themselves up for failure to expect a novel draft or a poetry chapbook on the other side. Maybe this would be the equivalent to skipping over the bridge, or standing next to the bridge and studying jumping techniques, or, jumping on a trampoline instead.

If you're feeling totally in sync with what all the other poets or writers are doing in November, fabulous! And if you're not, I invite you to set your own expectations for what would make November a writing month to remember by your standards. What if you were to make your own NaProWriMo (National Promise to Write Month) commitment to yourself? One that is aspirational and yet also within reach.

I've been writing so much for clients and sleeping so little as it is that my hands and arms are arthritic, painful and slow. My son is in a growth spurt and waking most nights for a 3 a.m. meal, my dying dog needs help outside during the night. I know that at most, right now, I have an hour that is just for me every day. With this in mind, I've made my NaProWriMo declaration to myself:

I will write my own writing (not a blog post, not client work, nothing but what I am moved to write, for my own pleasure) for at least one hour every day in the month of November, even if I have to wake up in the middle of the night to do it. Period.

Yes, Mom, I'm jumping off the bridge because everyone else is doing it. And, because moving forward in good company is one of the most efficient and enjoyable ways I know to meet my own goals. Plus, I'm the mom now, and this is not a democracy.

How will you align yourself with all the great forward writing motion that this month has to offer in ways that are authentic to who you are, what you want to accomplish, and the margins you can realistically afford to create for your writing? I'd love to hear about your plans here; feel free to leave a comment to share what you're expecting this November.

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The secret to freedom

In the bath last night, it became clear to me that my marriage and divorce had finally and completely reshuffled in my mental-emotional deck to: past tense.  As I steeped, I marveled that another human being could change symbolically so quickly and so significantly — from filling me with joy to filling me with despair to not filling me at all–or even coming anywhere near my cup–in just a few, short years. What, I thought, is it that seized and then released me such that I was first overtaken and am now free?

When the words came, it seemed so obvious, and yet it's taken me a lifetime to understand: Freedom is possible when you are able to disentangle what you want(ed) from the person / publication / institution that didn't give it to you.

Meaning this: For reasons I could not perceive at the time, I chose to marry a person unable to give me what I want and need. The more I tried to get my needs met in that relationship, the more devastated I became. And even after the relationship ended, it took me about a year to unplug from the idea that this man I loved is the only person on the planet who is meant to meet this very specific set of romantic relationship needs.

Until today, when it was simply clear that I have needs, and if I wanted them met, I'd better take another look for someone better suited to meet them. Just like that, the switch flipped. When the cartoon light bulb flashed over my head, I understood for the first time that I've made a practice of this very principle in my writing life.

Sage The Writer focuses on two things: 1. Figuring out what I want. 2. Enjoying, without attachment, the adventure of going after it.

I have never linked outcome to these delights. Not only is getting what I want not the point, it is never as much fun as the journey towards a particular goal or desire. Such that if I submit something to a publication and it is rejected, I investigate my many, many other options and try again. No big deal. Nothing personal. What I want (to be published) is still completely in tact, despite the fact that Coveted Literary Journal did not give it to me.

Of course, I'm comparing apples to penguins here. Most of us have one romantic partner at a time, but we don't expect a single literary journal to fulfill our every publishing need. But rejection on both fronts can touch us in our most tender and vulnerable places where we want more than anything to be visible, appreciated, celebrated.

On my dog walk this morning, I asked myself how I came to this freedom in my writing life. And the answer was this: My relationship with writing is so primary to my being, so primary to the way I live and love and sleep, that I experience absolutely no external threat. Sure, it's nice when publications want to print my writing and even better when readers enjoy it. But, neither are necessary or even preferable in my writing process. I write because I am called to write. I write because it is my only way forward. Nothing and nobody can take that from me. And, this takes the sting out of rejection. Because I am so fundamentally sold on the worth of my writing that there is no receptor for the "lacking in worth" story to penetrate.

If only this were the case in my romantic life!

What my divorce, in effect, reminded me I already knew is that freedom is possible when we are deeply rooted in what we love–and when we move from that place. In this context, rejection is akin to dropping a pen. You pick it up and keep moving toward what you want. In fact, rejection may even clarify alternatives that are better suited for you. (Keep the pen where the cats can't knock it off the desk and the preschooler can't run off with it, for example.)

You may be tempted to get yourself all tangled up in grief, blame, anger, self-deprecation, or resentment when things don't go the way you intended. But keep in mind that you are free to simply try something else. You are free to love and respect your work even more deeply. Nothing and no one is stopping you. You are responsible for the stories you tell yourself. The person best equipped to keep your sails turned into the winds of possibility is you. If you didn't get what you wanted just yet, go find someone, something, or someplace else that would love nothing more than to give it to you.

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Take the envy and run

For three years, my son has been having a glorious love affair with the lovely grandma next door. They play marbles and dinosaurs, This-Little-Piggy, wrestling, and we all have dance jams to "All The Single Ladies." This summer, a particularly romantic ritual developed: Jean would leave a bouquet of flowers from her yard woven into the chain link fence by Theo's window so he would wake up to beauty. First thing in the morning, my son would push up his window to shout good morning to Jean in her yard, and the two would have a visit over the fence that often led to a cup of coffee for the ladies in my living room while my son romped, pranced and basked in the spotlight.

In late August, Jean put up a For Sale sign, two days later the house sold, and she and her husband spent September packing up for their new life in the country. A young family bought the house, I was told, with a daughter six months younger than my son and a baby on the way in November. I was excited about the possibility of my son having a different kind of friend — a peer.

This family has spent the past few weeks getting the house ready before moving in, and I've found myself getting increasingly upset. I decided, for no reason that I could back up, that the husband who is clearly accomplished at project managing a major house transformation effort, was a jerk. When the beautiful wife came by with her daughter, a friend and the friend's daughter to have a picnic in the side yard that my office overlooks, I drew the shade.

This weekend, a fleet of cars and a UHaul arrived en masse. Men poured out and in a synchronized swarm spent the day unloading the new family's stuff into the house. By the end of the weekend, a pair of Subarus was parked in the driveway side-by-side. The family was in. I had been strangely angry that the backing-up UHaul combined with the simultaneous street-parking cars blocked my dogs and me as we were headed out for our morning walk. We stood waiting for a few minutes, dogs confused and edgy, before there was a safe passage. I was angry, too, that a car parked directly across my driveway, though my car was parked on street and unimpeded by this choice.

I was underslept, over-stressed and a grump; that much I knew. But why was I so aggravated, in particular, about this family moving into their new home? As I asked myself this, I stood alone in my office window. My son was with his father for the weekend. I sat down to do a little investigative writing about why I was so uncomfortable with a happy family of three starting their new life together in the home next to mine, and I came up with this:

They took Jean away from my son. (Completely absurd and untrue, of course.)

It is unfair that this woman is being well cared for by her husband so she has space to have a sweet picnic with her child and a friend. Why isn't she (nine months pregnant) doing more in this move? (Equally absurd.)

And, finally, the answer: I didn't get to have the family I wanted, the relationship I thought I was creating, the love or the home that would or could hold me–hold us.

All that envy and anger was the path to this little fountain of grief. When my words arrived there, I let the tears come. We sat together, my tears, my dashed dreams, my words and I. And as they flowed, the family next door became just a lovely family again, who I might even get to know and like. I felt my vulnerability, my ache. I asked myself: What do you want now? The clarity took shape word-by-word on the page. I named my desire to share my life with someone who loved my son and me––someone who had the capacity to care for us exceptionally well.

Seeing something that looked like a refraction of my own desire happening close by got me uncomfortable enough to clearly articulate for myself what was missing and wanted. Clearly, I had made it through the grief and relief about ending the relationship that was not a fit. And, now it was time to hold myself accountable to what I would invite and create next. Envy + inquiry gave me this gift.

Who do you see out there in the world whose writing or lifestyle or books or accomplishments irritate you? It's unfair that they have this, you may tell yourself, because that should rightfully be mine. Bingo. When you hear a story like this rising up in you, listen very carefully. Because this is your soul breaking ground with the tender secrets its deepest desires. Sometimes, you have to step in your own shit pile of judgement, anger and resentment to get to know more truly who you are — and find that this is actually the place from which new dreams are seeded.

So when envy comes up in your writing life, I suggest that you don't stuff it in the name of propriety and good citizenry. I hope you will do the opposite: investigate it until you get to that place in you that says: I want, I need, I DESIRE. Stay with the tears as long as you need to. Then, buckle your seatbelt and get your pens and keyboards ready, because life takes such clarity seriously.

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It's never too late to stop smooshing bananas

My three year old son has learned that reasons get you excused from things–or at the very least buy you time. Though his rationale has yet to be cause-and-effect for his own sake, he understands that this is the kind of logic adults value. So, he does his best to play along. The other day, for example, he came up with: "But, I'm too sad to stop smooshing banana on your arm."

See what I mean?

I caught myself today in what I will now call a too-sad-to-stop-smooshing-bananas loop. In short, I had a good story for why I was stuck, miserable, floundering — and it had as much correlation with my capacity to get things done as happiness has with banana smooshing.

That Mommy voice inside of me stepped in with the voice of reason. "You can be sad and stop smooshing banana at the same time," it said. "And that's what I am asking you to do now."

Thanks, Mommy voice, for reminding me that any moment, we can stop telling ourselves we can't, and instead, simply do what can be done.

I had the kind of week that put this principle to the test. My son's preschool transition issues + growth spurt added up to a few weeks solid of around-the-clock tantruming and eating. We had little rest or peace. Client work, in parallel was 12-hours-a-day kind of intense, and it occurred to me for the first time that juggling a variety of client projects as a consultant is very much like having five or so children at a time who are all, in effect, only children, with overlapping emergencies, needs, demands and interpersonal challenges.

"You can be exhausted, hopeless, overwhelmed and stop smooshing banana at the same time," said the voice.

I decided to focus on what felt within reach.

I fed and bathed and played with my child, drove him back and forth to school, got my client work done well and on time. I walked my dogs and took one to the veterinarian. This much, this week, was triumph. (I didn't sleep, I ate badly, the dishes and pet hair drifts sat unattended for a while–ok). How did the writing life hold up within this single-parenting-supporting-a-family life? By a spider's thread: invisible, but strong and deeply connected to the margins of everything. I updated my writing to-do list so that I'd know what was of highest priority when I could actually sit at my desk with the luxury of time to write something. Made my piles of unsorted stuff tidy so they wouldn't distract me when I entered my office. I also wrote down every administrative to-do — several pages worth — for the coming months so those logistics could stop jangling around inside my head, making space for creative rumination. And, I asked my subconscious to do some of the heavy creative lifting for me as I slept. Several dreams, as a result, have informed my sense of direction for my writing in the works as well as my life. (And, I had to take a step back to remind myself that: successful client work = mortgage + food + clothing. These are all necessities in the writing life.) Creative writing accomplished? No. Creative foundation reinforced? Yes. It's what I could do this week.

I was reminded that when you can't act, planning can be both a satisfying and productive substitute. Can't write for 2 hours? Spend 2 minutes imagining and outlining what the next 2-hour session will accomplish — this gets the session in motion long before you get butt in chair. Dream about it, hold it in a designated place in your mind while you are committed to thinking about other things. Be curious, be sloppy, be exhausted and defeated if you need to be, but understand that even in this moment you have options.

Smoosh or don't smoosh bananas as you like, but don't let it stop you from appreciating and spinning that invisible web that is strung one intention, one action, at a time, deeper and deeper into the impossible.

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