Christy Potter's Blog, page 6

Christy with a Camera: That First Breath of Springtime

“April is full of promise. The world emerges from winter with a big ta-da, as though it had secretly been changing into its dogwoods and daffodils behind a curtain of snow, preparing to dazzle everyone. All that came before was rendered unimportant – the bottomless hollow mood of winter, disappointment, lost chances and wasted time, even death momentarily held no sway in the face of that first breath of springtime.”

From my upcoming novel “The Bacchae”

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Christy Writes: On Mini Skirts, Mean Girls, and Being Weird

Someone handed me, the other day, that oft-posited question “What would you tell your younger self if you could?” I find the question largely rhetorical, mostly because I know that kid and there’s not a chance in the world she’s going to listen to me.

But there is one incident that comes to mind, and it makes me wish I could reach back in time and pull my 13-year-old self aside and give her a shot of confidence. It was after school on a Monday in the spring. I remember those details because it was the day after Easter. I had loved my new Easter outfit so much that I’d worn it to school the next day. There was a knee-length pleated plaid skirt in dark pastel colors, an off-white sweater, off-white knee socks, and a pair of clogs I was obsessed with. I’d worn the outfit all day at school, feeling awesome. I had no idea a group of the “popular” (whatever that means) girls had been discussing my outfit among themselves and deeming it unacceptable to the point of being ridiculous. But when school let out and I was standing on the curb outside with my best friend, waiting for our ride home, these girls decided to let me in on their decision.

I can still hear them, calling out “There’s that mini skirt!” (Mini skirt?! Yeah, my parents would have let me get away with a mini skirt. In church. On Easter.) And “Hey Christy, nice outfit!” and “I looooove your clogs!” I can still see their laughing faces, standing up on the steps outside the gym doors. I remember looking up at them, then turning away. Yes, it stung – any rejection by one’s peer group is difficult – but I wasn’t so much hurt as puzzled. I didn’t understand gang mentality or bullying because neither has ever had a place in my consciousness. But I do remember drawing a mental line in the sand and thinking “Those girls are not, and never will be, my friends.” And they never were, even through high school by which point I’m sure they’d all long forgotten the whole incident.

What I’d like to go back and tell my 13-year-old self that day is what a giant favor those girls were doing me. Not only did they show me what they were made of so I knew not to waste my friendship on them, they let me know that I was different. And now, 32 years later, holy crap on a pancake am I glad I’m different.

My birthday is coming up soon, and you know that never fails to make me to go all reflective, so I suppose it’s appropriate that this question of what I would tell my younger self landed on me when it did. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how, somewhere along the way, being different became not only acceptable, but celebrated. There are still mean girls, laughing on the gym steps, and there always will be, but I’ve gotta tell you, these days there are more and more people standing on the curb with me in our plaid mini skirts (mini skirts?!) and clunky brown clogs. These days, those of us standing on the curb far outnumber the bullies on the steps.

What I’d like us to do as a society – let’s call it your early birthday gift to me – is to stop making such a big deal out of how different we are. We like to pound our chests and shout from the fire escapes that we’re DIFFERENT and we’re WEIRD and you can’t put a LABEL on us and we will NOT change to suit your ideals so SCREW YOU!

Who are we even talking to?

By this point, the curb is crowded, people. A sluggish economy has made thrift-store shopping hip, The Big Bang Theory has made intelligence sexy, and TV and the web have shown us that we are Legion. We’re not the outsiders anymore. And I don’t think it’s my imagination that the small group of mean girls on the gym steps are the ones who look ridiculous now.

Rock on, my fellow weirdos.

Sea lion, just stone cold being himself, in San Francisco.

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Christy Writes: Erasing the Boundaries of the Comfort Zone

Lately I’ve been contemplating, to the point of near-mania because that’s what I do, the idea of the comfort zone. In the first place, zones are something we created and impose on ourselves, and if I were the Happy Hippie in Charge, there would be no zones. But that’s a different mind wandering for a different day.

Right now my focus is on the comfort zone. People like to admonish themselves and each other to “get out of your comfort zone.” I’m not even sure that’s really a thing. And if it is, I’m erasing it from my life. I’ve spent too many years pushing myself out of my comfort zone and trying something new, something big, something huge, only to stomp back to my comfort zone if it didn’t work, and skip giddily back if it did. See that? I always went back to my comfort zone because I left it there, available and comforting.

Let me put all this into context. I finished my new novel just before Christmas, and spent the first few weeks of the new year getting it all polished and shiny and ready to go. My first three books I self-published, learning the system as I went, from editing and layout to cover design and book promotion. By the third book, while I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a self-publishing expert, it had definitely become more comfortable for me.

So I took a leap and sent this one out to one of the big boys of traditional publishing. I’m not going to go into any more detail about that right now, but I already know what I can do in the self-publishing world. It was time to try something else. Maybe I’ll get a book deal. Maybe I won’t. But if I’d stayed where I was comfortable, I’d never find out.

I know there is another school of thought on this, one that says if you succeed where you are, why try going someplace else and possibly fail? It’s a valid argument but it doesn’t allow for growth. And as an artist, if I don’t grow, I’ll wither. That’s just how it is. Even Philip Roth, the literary world’s high priest of grump, has been known to write books with a voice so different from his other work that I’ve had to check the cover several times to make sure there wasn’t some mistake. Susan Sontag wrote in-depth essays about her work in war-torn countries in addition to her novels. Jonathan Franzen is known for his fiction, but he is also an amazing narrative journalist. Some of John Updike’s best work was his poetry. Growth isn’t inevitable. It’s very much evitable, but only if you want it to be.

Now that my book is out there, awaiting a verdict, it’s time to start something else. For me, the first two signs of spring are the arrival of my new running shoes and the itch to crawl into a new writing project. So in keeping with my recent practice of erasing the borders of the comfort zone I’ve just left, I’m writing a play. I have this intense superstition about not revealing anything about a new writing project until it’s much further along, but this is the first full-length play I’ve ever attempted. Two of my greatest loves have always been writing and the theater arts, so I figured yeah. I’m ready. Let’s leap. And if I fall, don’t try to catch me. I’ll already be leaping again.

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Christy Writes: What if this moment is enough?

For most of my life I have suffered from bouts of anxiety, which I know many others do as well. What causes me anxiety varies, as well as how any one situation might affect me, but the result is a big pot of worry stew that just sits on the back burner of my brain all the time, and the amount that’s in my bowl on any given day is anyone’s guess, including mine.

The particularly odd thing about it to me is that the more I have in my life that’s designed to make things easier on me, the more anxiety-ridden I am. Yes, email is great, but not when I’m freaking out because I can’t find my smartphone, which I can’t even call to make it ring because I had it on silent to stop it making so much email notification noise during my third endless meeting of the day. Yep, that’s convenient all right. It’s not just email or even technology that scoops so much anxiety into my bowl on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. It’s a lot of things, and I’m told it’s all just part and parcel of being an adult in 2015.

I now, officially, call bullshit.

A few days ago, I was watching a friend’s toddler while she and I chatted on the sofa. He had some kind of toy in his hands and he was completely absorbed with it. It was all about that toy for a surprisingly long stretch of time – way more than I’ve spent on any one thing in awhile. And I noticed that in that moment, he didn’t need anything else, he didn’t want anything else, as far as he was concerned there was nothing else. In that moment, he had everything he needed.

I walked away that day thinking what a great lesson that little one had taught me. What would happen if I spent every minute, every hour, every day, believing that whatever I had in that given moment of space and time, was exactly what I needed?

Growth spurt.

Worry and anxiety have done exactly diddly squat for me over the years, yet I hang onto them like they’re old friends. When I’m doing something, I find myself rushing to finish it because I should be doing something else. I get impatient for tomorrow and lose today. I worry that I won’t have time to exercise (or, okay, that I just don’t want to) or to cook real food, but that if I don’t, I’ll never lose these last stubborn 20 pounds that I have earmarked in my mind as 20 individual failures in the form of belly fat and back bulges. I worry that I don’t have enough work and won’t be able to pay the bills, then I worry that I have too much and will never get it all done.

This is insanity.

What happens if let go of the goals I am constantly setting for myself? You know the ones, that perpetual “To Become” list that ultimately slips into one of two categories: Stuff to Celebrate Finally Achieving and Stuff to Beat Myself Up Over. I’m not saying I want give up goals altogether, I think goals are important. But what if I stop seeing goals as a finish line and instead focus on how good it feels to run?

What if I live every moment with just what’s presented to me? What if I exercise because I like that it makes my body strong, and not because I see it as some kind of physical penance? What if I eat healthy food because it actually does make me feel great, and when I cram a Big Mac, I feel like crap later? What if I sit down and actually enjoy what I’m writing because I am lucky enough to make my living doing what I love, instead of continually glancing up at the looming deadline? What if I enjoy today because tomorrow is going to get here even without me freaking out about it? And if it doesn’t, well, still no point in stressing.

This is a new way to live for me, and I’ll admit I’m still learning it. I find myself reaching for anxiety the way people reach for a cigarette when they’re trying to stop smoking. But I am getting better at reminding myself to stop, put the worry down, go back to what I was doing and just enjoy it. What I’ve got in this moment, what I’ve got in every moment, is exactly what I need. It’s enough. In fact, it’s more than enough. It’s perfect.

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Christy Writes: I Thought About Strawberries

It has been, to understate it a bit, a long and difficult winter. Of course, as I’m past the age of rocketing down snowy hills on my big round metal sled and I cannot ice skate to save my life, all winters seem long now. But this year’s cold months have been fraught with lingering illness, wrenching loss, small problems, big setbacks, and one aggravation after another. I want to throw my hands up and shout “What else you got?” but I’m afraid of what the answer might be. I’m Job in a hippie skirt.

On the autumn equinox last year, I began my daily meditation by setting the intention to spend the winter ridding myself of all my old emotional baggage, of bad habits and negative beliefs, of anything that’s holding back my growth. Mind you, I was thinking along the lines of forgiving old hurts and letting go of negative self-talk, but the amount of stuff the universe pulled out and added to my pile was more than I’d bargained for. Grow through this.

I tried the “others have it worse than I do” routine, and while that is certainly and thankfully true, it’s cold comfort when the pile of problems that seems insurmountable is mine. I usually remind myself to be in the moment, every moment, to stay with the fallow times and learn what they’re trying to teach me, but this time I was the sulky student in the back row. I didn’t want to learn whatever this winter was trying to teach me, I just wanted to get away from it. I tried exercise. I tried getting a little more sleep. I tried guided meditations about walking through peaceful meadows complete with birdsong and water sounds. I tried listening to upbeat music. I even tried to dance while vacuuming, which did not end well. I did everything I knew how to do to keep myself from slipping into depression, or at best, going back to bed until May.

I suppose those things worked, to some degree, since as I write this I’m not in fact in bed but sitting at a table in the public library, fully dressed and not embarrassing myself in any but my usual ways. But one thing, one small and unintentional thing, is what truly turned this winter around for me.

I thought about strawberries.

The Guy and I are moving to a new home at the end of the month (our old one was one of the winter problems), and it has a beautiful backyard. And as I was thinking idly this week about our new backyard, I suddenly realized that more than anything, I want to plant strawberries.

That was all it took. The thought of a little strawberry patch – with tiny white flowers first, then those beautiful fat little sweethearts warm in the sun – gave me a glimmer of what’s to come, a vision of summer, of sunshine and new life and the belief that everything is going to be fine.

I already knew that everything is going to be fine, of course. Everything always works out in the end. As John Updike put it, “We do survive every moment, after all, except the last one.” And while my winter may not have been the best I ever had, none of the moments were my last one, so there’s that. But it was the idea of planting strawberries that suddenly made all my winter woes seem unimportant and remote.

I guess that’s what it’s all about, really. Knowing that even under the deepest freeze, there’s life. It’s about belief in the warmth to come. It’s about hope. It’s about strawberries.

 

 

 

 

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Christy with a Camera: Endless Winter

“By January it had always been winter.”

E. Annie Proulx, The Shipping News

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Christy Writes: Hiding Under the Covers

As of right now, I’ve decided it’s going to be pretty hard to top a day that started at 6 a.m. with cops swarming my apartment building in a drug raid.

I was half awake anyway and had been contemplating getting up when our building was suddenly awash in flashing lights and the sounds of police on a bullhorn outside shouting that they were coming in. They also, considerately, shouted the apartment number, so I knew where they were headed and just how close it was to our apartment. A million thoughts flashed through my head, and while I was pretty sure it was a drug bust (you hear stuff), I knew there was a chance the bustees would not go quietly. There could be trouble. There could be gunfire. So what did I do? I’ll tell you what I did … I hid under the covers.

I hid under the covers. What am I, eight? Is the floor also lava?

But there was no gunfire and the arrests were made and everything settled back down again within about an hour, and now I can’t help but wonder what primitive force caused me to dive under the covers for protection. I have no idea what switch flipped in my brain and made me think “Hey, wait… the comforter! The comforter is secure! It has flowers and everything! Bad guys hate flowers!”

It’s funny how we regress to childhood in moments like that. Whatever the force is, it’s the same one that makes us call our moms when something bad happens, or reach for macaroni and cheese after a crappy day.

After the Kevlar settled this morning, The Guy and I went to Taco Bell for breakfast, as we do every Friday (just… don’t ask) and there was this little boy there, probably about five or so. And this kid was happier to be at Taco Bell than I’ve been on every single payday and first day of vacation combined. He was hanging out with his dad and he was at Taco Bell. Life was good. Life was really good.

I think the answer is actually right there. When you’re a kid, anything bad that happens can be cured pretty easily. Hide under the covers, tell your mom, put a Band-Aid on it. And as long as there’s still good stuff out there, like going to Taco Bell with your dad, how bad can the bad stuff really be?

It’s about hope, I think, but it’s about more than just hoping. It’s about believing in the good stuff, the happy moments, the guys with the white hats. It’s about believing that love will always win.

I have a friend who follows the news to such an extent that he literally has anxiety attacks about all the bad in the world. I’m not exaggerating either – if I shared with him my hide-under-the-covers theory of safety, no one would ever see him again. And while I agree with him that ignoring the bad isn’t the answer, I did tell him he needs to take a step back sometimes and look for the good, to remind himself that bad is temporary and good is forever. He thinks I’m a crazy delusional Pollyanna who watched too much Mister Rogers in the 70s. Maybe I am. But at some point, you have to come out from under the covers, and when that time comes, I will always believe that the good stuff will be waiting.

City Snow

 

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Christy Writes: That Stuff Ain’t Funny Anymore

I lost my glasses on Friday.

It’s aggravating enough to become Mrs. Magoo in the blink of a 20 / 50 eye, but the worst part is that I know they’re here somewhere. I had them on Friday night, as I was reading the back of a DVD case and there’s no way I could have read it without my glasses. By Saturday morning, they were nowhere to be found.

I remember my parents looking for things they’d misplaced, and I would roll my youthful eyes and think “Man, I am never getting old. Look at them, losing stuff.”

It ain’t funny anymore.

The very idea of reading glasses used to amuse me, and the fact that my mother would hold things at arm’s length so she could read them before she finally gave in and got readers. Look at her, holding stuff a mile away to try and read it! Hahahaha! Reading glasses! Hahahahahaha! And bifocals! BWA HAHAHAHAHAHA!

It ain’t funny anymore.

I remember my sister and I teasing our stepdad about turning 40, telling him he was now officially “over the hill” despite the fact that we had no concept of what hill this actually was, and how quickly 40 would stop seeming ancient.

It ain’t funny anymore.

I remember my grandpa complaining about his bad back, putting hot and cold compresses on it and making appointments with the chiropractor, and I’d think “Man, I am never getting old. Look at him, he’s falling apart.”

It ain’t funny anymore.

Somewhere along the way, I became the one holding something I’m trying to read eight feet away from me, the one calling my chiropractor, the one looking at 40-year-olds and thinking “Kids today…” Even worse, I’ve switched places with my parents, who used to shake their heads at my obsessive crush on Ralph Macchio, and now I find myself peering at my niece’s One Direction posters and thinking, “When did they take this picture? At recess?”

Maybe I’d understand if I could see it better. Which I can’t. Because I can’t find my reading glasses. Which are bifocals. I might have left them at the chiropractor’s.

Okay, maybe it’s still a little funny.

Under the Bridge

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Christy Writes: Nodding at the People I Used to Be

The new year, as is its wont, has me feeling introspective. Last year, in fact the past few years, have been full of learning and growth and self-discovery for me. So that means, of course, that I tend to look back over my shoulder at all the mes I used to be, hoping they won’t catch up.

It’s hard to, as Joan Didion says we should, keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we like them or not. At least I find it hard. There are mes I would be just as happy to never see again, much less acknowledge with even a nod. It’s not that I don’t see them coming – they’re hard to miss, especially as mine either tend to have big 80s hair and be dressed in neon, or be visibly drunk. Or, on an occasional very bad day, both.

But the implication of avoiding who we used to be is that there’s something fundamentally or entirely wrong with those people. Particularly when you’ve come through a period of growth, it’s easy to want to view who we used to be as the “before” photo in a hideous advertisement, someone to be avoided, or even quietly mocked.

Lately I’ve begun to feel the wisdom in Joan Didion’s advice, and have stopped ducking the people I used to be. There were things about them I liked, things they did that were so awesome, and things they learned that I carry with me still. I may not be the same person now en toto, but to turn my back on the old mes now would be to negate everything that brought me to this moment in time. I’m not always proud of who I used to be, but if I’m being honest, I’m not always proud of who I am now either. It’s all part of being a work in progress.

For the last few years, my focus has changed from being someone who wants to belong (the fervent prayer of every teenager) to someone who doesn’t care if I don’t belong, because if I look around and realize I don’t fit in, all that means is there’s a void out there somewhere waiting for me to fill it. Finding that spot is half the fun. Who wants to stay where they don’t fit? I don’t need that kind of blister on my spirit. But if I can’t look back at the people I used to be and acknowledge what they’ve taught me along the way, I’ll never really know who I am now, and where I fit.

All the versions of me I used to be are only embarrassing if I’m embarrassed by them. I know people who get absolutely furious if someone mentions some bad habit or blush-inducing moment they once had. I don’t see the point in that. Pretending you never grew out of anything will only keep you from future growth. Every day, every moment, is a new launching pad. A fresh start. So happy new year, from all the old mes, and all the mes still to come.

 

Christ Church, Oxford University

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Christy Writes: On the death of my father and what really matters

The unexpected death of my father on Christmas night left a whirl of emotions in its wake, further complicated by the practical concerns of funeral planning and cleaning out his apartment, and the usual family-flavored holiday stress sprinkled over everything like powdered sugar.

As Sophia Petrillo so memorably put it, death sucks. At least for those of us who are left behind. There’s a strange stillness that descends the moment you hear the news and it hovers there, holding you in a suspended animation of disbelief until your brain nudges you forward again. The concepts of life and death are hard enough for me to get my head around at any given moment; don’t even get me started on trying to comprehend how I can have a routine conversation with someone and just hours later, be told I might as well put the phone down because this time they won’t be picking up.

I’ve lost all my grandparents and other assorted relatives and friends over the years, and my stepdad died in 2013, but all of those times, someone else handled everything. This was the first time I’ve had the label ‘next of kin’ slapped on me. My sister and I just looked at each other. Dad? Dead? What? Buh?

We got through it, of course, because what else could we do? We pulled together a nice little service, we cleaned out his apartment, and as I write this I’m back in my own home, contemplating the box of ashes on the desk in front of me and wondering how many life lessons the universe can throw at me at one time.

For me, the biggest takeaway from all this is how few things in life actually matter. Cleaning out my father’s apartment, I found notes he had written to himself about bills and chores, an angry letter to a friend over some disagreement between them, lists, reminders, all the ephemera of daily life that I’m sure had seemed to him, even momentarily, to be very important. And where is all of that now? In the garbage. It doesn’t matter.

As I sat at the memorial service, listening to friends and family members talk about my father, I found the things that do matter. Memories he made with people, his sense of humor, his love of singing, one friend even mentioned how much my father loved rainbow trout. Does it matter that he loved rainbow trout? Not really. But the fact that this friend, whenever he sees rainbow trout on a menu, will smile and think of my father… yeah. It actually does matter. All of that stuff matters, and it matters a lot more than silly arguments or when the electric bill was due.

One of the most poignant parts of losing a parent is realizing that you’re now at the front of the line. Someday it will be my turn to go. Someday someone else will have to sift through my belongings. Someday someone else will be looking at a box of my ashes and thinking about me. Now might be a good time to start telling people that I love rainbow trout too.

Rest in peace, Dad.

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