After almost two years of nudging and agonizing, my draft manuscript of "the memoir" is now out of my hands, sent off to be scrutinized by one of my writing teachers. I finally found a title I loved for this book, and I scoured back and forth through its pages for the last couple of weeks to make it look as tidy as I could. The theory was: if you work hard on the exterior cleaning, then cleaner, more ordered, more honest writing will emerge! Hope so. It was an interesting exercise, all that close focus ... good for the brain. The book's name is: Bowing to Elephants; Discovering Myself in the Landscape of Memory. Paying homage to elephants makes a lot of sense to me, as they conjure two important themes for me: memory and maternal character. And I happen to wholeheartedly love those beasts, and appreciate them being front and center in my book. It's an unorthodox little work, but I have to admit I am rather fond of it, and proud of myself too that I came up with 215 pages that really look like a book! We'll see........
As I look around my house I find reminders everywhere of my passion for the hallowed past, the soft textured landscape that came before. There are old paintings and drawings, old books, antique Buddhas, a beautiful old baby grand piano, an ancient dining room table, and the list goes on. On the wall by my desk a pastel drawing of when I was about six, a black and white photograph of my dad as a very young boy, and a couple of contemporary images (print-outs) of the man I first loved when I was all of 14. I seem to be addicted to stumbling around in my memory and ruminating about things that happened long ago; an astrologer long ago cautioned me not to get stuck in the past, and did I listen? Guess not. As I said yesterday to my chiropractor, I find many aspects of the past a lot more interesting and comforting to reflect on than what surrounds me today in 2015. People's manners were better, culture was revered in many ways, books were more important than television, people dressed up to go to fine restaurants or a concert, and human beings treated each other with more respect and gentleness ... and so on ... As I consider a second book to take up, I think of the life of my grandmother Dimond who was born at the turn of the 20th century and lived for 89 years, and was the person most responsible for my current wisdom and sanity. If I took up her life, I would AGAIN journey back in time (where I have been journeying these last two years!) to consider the culture she lived in and the conditions that shaped her personality, which was, by the way, a remarkable personality, a larger than life character. So, do I look back some more? And if I do, will it pull me away from what is going on around me now?
When I took a leave of absence from my hospice job, and thought about the opportunity to gain some perspective on my life journey going forward, I think I imagined I might write another book, make jewelry again, take some more trips of course, and take up the piano again ... all of these opportunities to engage in my present, not my past. I want, I need to be involved in creative work, but not rush forward with a manic "must do" attitude. I want to see my path as a full and rich one, filled with inspiration, energy, lovingkindness, and beauty. Maybe just pausing briefly now and looking at the whole picture would be helpful. There is no rush, after all. That is one of the beautiful pieces that I learned when I was a volunteer caregiver -- it was one of our core precepts. When someone is on the brink of dying, there is no need for rushing, sounding alarms, and moving quickly to fix something, because there is nothing to fix really. Only comfort and love to be given.
So, I perhaps will treat my own "future" like that, do a little contemplating, and then move forward with clarity and interest. There's comfort in that. I like the idea of picking up things you have temporarily discarded, picking them up and seeing how they feel NOW. How different is it really? Do you still love it the way you did? A very interesting exploration. When I kept returning to the pages of my book to revise and polish, I kept seeing new and different things show up, and so I tweaked and fiddled. And then set it down. And then returned to do that all over again... We keep changing, and what we scratch out on the page one day may not be what we will love and be excited about a week down the road! This all requires terrific patience, this being with the process, and trusting yourself. I think I'll give it a try ... no big decisions now, just reflecting and appreciating and gently inclining my mind to stay in the present.
My Elephant Friends
Amboseli elephants
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Navigating My Hungry Mind
Now that I have officially become seventy, I am going to stop thinking about it. Or so I claim! One thing that occurred to me that made me feel all warm inside was that I have officially outlived my mother who died at 69. For some reason this feels momentous. She lived a life very different from mine and sadly never found the liberation in old age that I am now looking at. She never knew the phrase: "60 is the new 40 ... 70 is the new 50 ...." Just as well, I guess. She wouldn't have believed it anyway. She was a desperate and forever hungry soul, and I have had the memory of this living in my own body all my life... So, I had to go down the path differently, I knew this.
I have returned from a weeklong retreat of my very own making, as I hibernated at my beach house and worked on my memoir project for the entire period, every day sitting down and attending to it, and listening to the ocean at the same time, and laughing as my cats chased each other hither and yon when the wind started to howl. When I was outside and looking at the plants and hearing the Canadian geese fly overhead, I felt an immense gratitude for all the peace and the beauty, the likes of which I haven't felt in a long time. The timing was perfect, as this all followed a difficult week of confusion and self doubt, and a wish for a lot more love in my life. When I was sleeping in my bed at the beach and hearing the ocean roar in the black night, I felt comfort and love. How was this? Was it simply finding my place in the larger scheme of things? Belonging in my world for a change? I slept better and more deeply than I had in a long time. I kept my life simple, and I worked each day without much conversation with anyone. Very therapeutic. I was conversing with myself enough anyway!
Next week I will send my manuscript off to have it read and responded to by one of my young wise teachers. I look forward to the act of slipping it into a manila envelope and sending it off without a lot of fanfare, getting it out of my sight for a while. Letting it travel out there in the world feels hard. I want to see this as the very natural step that it is, like letting your own child fly away. Of course it's not easy, but it is necessary. It is what is required, after all, for things to move forward in the righteous and normal way. Someone said to me a while back, "remember your book is not you, it is just something you made..." OK ... BUT, I still feel it carries a lot of me as I imagine giving it flight. Even though it does carry much of who I am, it needs to continue somehow beyond me. That's the whole point. You don't write a book just for yourself - you write it for the world to read. And in order for that to happen, you must let it go.
Ah ... there seems to be a lot of ruminating about letting go in my mental universe these days! Must be significant. Let go of everything and you will avoid suffering, the Buddhist teacher said once. I doubt if I will ever get to that point in my life, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
One way of allowing this thing to fly more comfortably is to take my good mind and focus it on something it likes to do and something that might make me happy. There are any number of ideas here: start a new writing project, begin making jewelry with amazing beads again, get rid of 60% of my unnecessary "stuff" and feel that freedom, or return to JS Bach on the piano (I have been taking a little sabbatical from piano playing lately, thinking it was going to distract me needlessly from the writing project). And then there's my returning craving for another dog. That could take up a lot of my mental energy for sure! I have to look at this carefully, mind you, since it is likely that my wanting a dog has a lot to do with being lonely. And I also know that you can't really cure or fix loneliness. You need to weather it, and continue moving on in the present moment... It is like a lot of difficulties in our lives, which always become more painful as we butt our heads against them and try to fix them. These days I find myself staring at people walking the streets with sweet fluffy small dogs in tow, and I think, yes, this is what I want. Oh yeah? And then I remember the walking and the training and all the adjustments required in my very entrenched routine when another four legged enters my home. It is complicated. I had one remarkable dog in my life for 15 years, and she was my best friend... But as is true with all our human relationships, we are bound to lose the loving company of our four legged friends because nothing we love, crave, and long for, will endure forever. Many people will tell me I'm bonkers to take this on, have too complex a life ... my daughter's against it, and I'm sure my cats are too, but, hey, I AM the one in charge of this experience, right?
I have returned from a weeklong retreat of my very own making, as I hibernated at my beach house and worked on my memoir project for the entire period, every day sitting down and attending to it, and listening to the ocean at the same time, and laughing as my cats chased each other hither and yon when the wind started to howl. When I was outside and looking at the plants and hearing the Canadian geese fly overhead, I felt an immense gratitude for all the peace and the beauty, the likes of which I haven't felt in a long time. The timing was perfect, as this all followed a difficult week of confusion and self doubt, and a wish for a lot more love in my life. When I was sleeping in my bed at the beach and hearing the ocean roar in the black night, I felt comfort and love. How was this? Was it simply finding my place in the larger scheme of things? Belonging in my world for a change? I slept better and more deeply than I had in a long time. I kept my life simple, and I worked each day without much conversation with anyone. Very therapeutic. I was conversing with myself enough anyway!
Next week I will send my manuscript off to have it read and responded to by one of my young wise teachers. I look forward to the act of slipping it into a manila envelope and sending it off without a lot of fanfare, getting it out of my sight for a while. Letting it travel out there in the world feels hard. I want to see this as the very natural step that it is, like letting your own child fly away. Of course it's not easy, but it is necessary. It is what is required, after all, for things to move forward in the righteous and normal way. Someone said to me a while back, "remember your book is not you, it is just something you made..." OK ... BUT, I still feel it carries a lot of me as I imagine giving it flight. Even though it does carry much of who I am, it needs to continue somehow beyond me. That's the whole point. You don't write a book just for yourself - you write it for the world to read. And in order for that to happen, you must let it go.
Ah ... there seems to be a lot of ruminating about letting go in my mental universe these days! Must be significant. Let go of everything and you will avoid suffering, the Buddhist teacher said once. I doubt if I will ever get to that point in my life, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
One way of allowing this thing to fly more comfortably is to take my good mind and focus it on something it likes to do and something that might make me happy. There are any number of ideas here: start a new writing project, begin making jewelry with amazing beads again, get rid of 60% of my unnecessary "stuff" and feel that freedom, or return to JS Bach on the piano (I have been taking a little sabbatical from piano playing lately, thinking it was going to distract me needlessly from the writing project). And then there's my returning craving for another dog. That could take up a lot of my mental energy for sure! I have to look at this carefully, mind you, since it is likely that my wanting a dog has a lot to do with being lonely. And I also know that you can't really cure or fix loneliness. You need to weather it, and continue moving on in the present moment... It is like a lot of difficulties in our lives, which always become more painful as we butt our heads against them and try to fix them. These days I find myself staring at people walking the streets with sweet fluffy small dogs in tow, and I think, yes, this is what I want. Oh yeah? And then I remember the walking and the training and all the adjustments required in my very entrenched routine when another four legged enters my home. It is complicated. I had one remarkable dog in my life for 15 years, and she was my best friend... But as is true with all our human relationships, we are bound to lose the loving company of our four legged friends because nothing we love, crave, and long for, will endure forever. Many people will tell me I'm bonkers to take this on, have too complex a life ... my daughter's against it, and I'm sure my cats are too, but, hey, I AM the one in charge of this experience, right?
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Holding Things Close & Letting Them Go ...
Tomorrow I will face another birthday, and I must admit that I've been been repeatedly announcing to any who will listen lately that I'm going to be 70 so that I will actually believe it! These decade birthdays are tricky. As soon as you land on one, you begin to look back at the others: reminiscing with yourself about what it felt like to be 50, 60, or god knows, even 40. I swear that I can't go back beyond 40. That seems too far... It becomes pretty dim, like the swirl of chaotic memories I have been navigating lately in my book.
Yesterday I had a surprising conversation with a young woman in her late thirties, I'm guessing, who was actually reflecting on how cool she thought older people were. They in fact didn't seem old to her. And I started to think about the delights that come with the increased freedom as you get older. Freedom to think your own weird thoughts without apology, freedom to just up and go to the movies at the last moment, spend a lot of your day in your pajamas, eat left-over chicken for the third time, or better yet, splurge on an expensive sushi dinner! Yes, freedom comes, and slowing down comes, and reflections galore. You spend a lot of time in your head; you settle in there and begin the process of getting to know your elder self. You don't worry -- and this I told the young woman with great pleasure -- about the things you're NOT going to do in your life. There is nothing to prove to yourself anymore, except perhaps that you have the desire and capacity to take good care of yourself, and open your heart to others. You worry less about going out there and changing the wrongs of the world. You stay close to home.
Speaking of staying close to home, I am acutely aware of the things I hold close, as I remain close to home. They are, for starters: those I love, and my cats. And finding truth. My Zen calendar had a great message for me today -- it said: "Love of the truth puts you on the spot." Yes sirree, it does! I recently experienced one of the great noble truths when I forged ahead to uncover a truth that was not going to be forthcoming, and I experienced suffering. Yes, there was hurt in my heart because for some reason I assumed that everyone in the world held the same conviction as I that telling the truth is an inherently good and necessary thing to do as long as we watch our intentions, of course, and not speak "truths" with destructive or harmful wishes. What I discovered in this last experience was that I was not in control (yet again!), and that there would be things inside the heads of others that I would never know, no matter how much I persevered in the cause of truth. What do you do then? Well, of course you let it all go, and breathe, and put one foot in front of the other to engage in the array of opportunities that present themselves to you. Everything IS uncertain, and some of what comes can be unpleasant, BUT also some of what shows up is pure magic, a tiny fragment of time that sets your heart stirring, like a little house finch gobbling up seeds on your roof, or listening to the words of Alice Walker. Small moments, big expanded feelings...
We must let go and show up, or show up and let go, whether we're 70 or 40, really. I do think that as we age we have an easier time with this letting go stuff. Is it that we just have less energy to wage all our battles? Or ... that we are in fact wiser? I like to think the wisdom plays a part because that just sounds better to me! I've always loved the idea of being wise. And it is wise to see that all the varied and uncertain phenomena we meet make for a great adventure.
Tonight I will share a dinner with a number of people I hold very dear, and have gratitude for this array of good friends and family. If you don't have love and closeness in your life, you miss the point of this human journey, I am positive. And the more you see the ephemeral nature of loving relationships, the more extraordinary and beautiful they become. As I get older I promise to pause so I can really see what is in front of me, to be held with care, and to express my own true nature. I cannot do this if I stay entangled in struggle, unable to let go... I'm going to remember the words of the wise Thai forest monk Ajhan Cha who said in so many words that the more you let go the more happiness will be yours.
And tomorrow I will get in my car and drive north to the ocean to be in my little beach house and work for a week on revisions of my manuscript, and I will bring with me my beloved cats and the affection of those I have had the fortune to call loved ones. That sounds like a most lovely prospect, and I'm sure all of this will dull whatever angst I have been carrying about becoming old. Simple as that........
Yesterday I had a surprising conversation with a young woman in her late thirties, I'm guessing, who was actually reflecting on how cool she thought older people were. They in fact didn't seem old to her. And I started to think about the delights that come with the increased freedom as you get older. Freedom to think your own weird thoughts without apology, freedom to just up and go to the movies at the last moment, spend a lot of your day in your pajamas, eat left-over chicken for the third time, or better yet, splurge on an expensive sushi dinner! Yes, freedom comes, and slowing down comes, and reflections galore. You spend a lot of time in your head; you settle in there and begin the process of getting to know your elder self. You don't worry -- and this I told the young woman with great pleasure -- about the things you're NOT going to do in your life. There is nothing to prove to yourself anymore, except perhaps that you have the desire and capacity to take good care of yourself, and open your heart to others. You worry less about going out there and changing the wrongs of the world. You stay close to home.
Speaking of staying close to home, I am acutely aware of the things I hold close, as I remain close to home. They are, for starters: those I love, and my cats. And finding truth. My Zen calendar had a great message for me today -- it said: "Love of the truth puts you on the spot." Yes sirree, it does! I recently experienced one of the great noble truths when I forged ahead to uncover a truth that was not going to be forthcoming, and I experienced suffering. Yes, there was hurt in my heart because for some reason I assumed that everyone in the world held the same conviction as I that telling the truth is an inherently good and necessary thing to do as long as we watch our intentions, of course, and not speak "truths" with destructive or harmful wishes. What I discovered in this last experience was that I was not in control (yet again!), and that there would be things inside the heads of others that I would never know, no matter how much I persevered in the cause of truth. What do you do then? Well, of course you let it all go, and breathe, and put one foot in front of the other to engage in the array of opportunities that present themselves to you. Everything IS uncertain, and some of what comes can be unpleasant, BUT also some of what shows up is pure magic, a tiny fragment of time that sets your heart stirring, like a little house finch gobbling up seeds on your roof, or listening to the words of Alice Walker. Small moments, big expanded feelings...
We must let go and show up, or show up and let go, whether we're 70 or 40, really. I do think that as we age we have an easier time with this letting go stuff. Is it that we just have less energy to wage all our battles? Or ... that we are in fact wiser? I like to think the wisdom plays a part because that just sounds better to me! I've always loved the idea of being wise. And it is wise to see that all the varied and uncertain phenomena we meet make for a great adventure.
Tonight I will share a dinner with a number of people I hold very dear, and have gratitude for this array of good friends and family. If you don't have love and closeness in your life, you miss the point of this human journey, I am positive. And the more you see the ephemeral nature of loving relationships, the more extraordinary and beautiful they become. As I get older I promise to pause so I can really see what is in front of me, to be held with care, and to express my own true nature. I cannot do this if I stay entangled in struggle, unable to let go... I'm going to remember the words of the wise Thai forest monk Ajhan Cha who said in so many words that the more you let go the more happiness will be yours.
And tomorrow I will get in my car and drive north to the ocean to be in my little beach house and work for a week on revisions of my manuscript, and I will bring with me my beloved cats and the affection of those I have had the fortune to call loved ones. That sounds like a most lovely prospect, and I'm sure all of this will dull whatever angst I have been carrying about becoming old. Simple as that........
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Drops of Rain
Was it something that was said yesterday or just listening to the rain falling on my roof on this grey Sunday morning that makes me want to talk about impermanence? About the truth of everything mutating moment by moment in our lives and continually becoming ... something different. Rain, the food I eat, and the cat who perches on my desk one day looking right at me and today with his back to me ... It is clear that nothing is solid. The earth is different this morning than it was yesterday, my body has changed because I ate salmon and potatoes and beet salad at a party last night, and the cat ... well, cats are enormous mysteries, aren't they? Yesterday he was interested in staring me down as I wrote, and today not so much. Beautifully different.
When you admit to the not knowing, to the mystery, it makes the world a fascinating place, one in which you can be always curious. There is a lightness and a freedom in that. And in being curious you will have realizations, you will gain wisdom and understanding.
I sat yesterday at the Green Dragon Monastery - aka Green Gulch Farm - north of San Francisco on a deeply misty morning along with a handful of my fellow Zen Hospice volunteers in order to consider the value of sangha, or community. We sat on dark pillows and heard the rain on the roof of our yurt and our teacher said with a sly smile, "it's all about impermanence." He was repeating something Suzuki Roshi told a student, I think, which pointed to the blurring of boundaries between inner and outer, the fluid character of existence, and the interdependence of all beings. And on this peaceful day yesterday we were urged to carry this understanding of impermanence into our work with the dying, not just because we are dealing with death (certainly a symbol of impermanence), but because we as witnesses to death become part of the landscape of arising and falling away, coming and going, as we show up without our agendas and plans. Agendas actually don't work here. Remember: we are not in control, and everything changes. We are now free to be shown the mystery of the end of life. The dying will actually teach us how to do it...
Last night I attended the 80th birthday party of a very dear friend, a woman I have known for forty years or so. I watched as she accepted with grace the speeches of her loving daughters, and all the raised champagne glasses toasting her wonderfulness, and I marveled at her snow white hair and the bright light that shone in her face. Though her fine snow white hair has shown up recently, the bright light from her spirit and heart has always been there, or perhaps it is coming through more clearly now that she manifests a certain transparency. As we become older, I believe we're consciously and unconsciously shedding our skins, our stuff, our thoughts, and the surface of our bodies and our lives becomes less hard and tough, and more translucent. We become more who we really are.
And for that I am very grateful.
Proud.
And more myself.
From Peter Matthiessen's Snow Leopard:
"... there is no real edge to anything, that in the endless interpretation of the universe, a molecular flow, a cosmic energy shimmers in all stone and steel as well as flesh."
When you admit to the not knowing, to the mystery, it makes the world a fascinating place, one in which you can be always curious. There is a lightness and a freedom in that. And in being curious you will have realizations, you will gain wisdom and understanding.
I sat yesterday at the Green Dragon Monastery - aka Green Gulch Farm - north of San Francisco on a deeply misty morning along with a handful of my fellow Zen Hospice volunteers in order to consider the value of sangha, or community. We sat on dark pillows and heard the rain on the roof of our yurt and our teacher said with a sly smile, "it's all about impermanence." He was repeating something Suzuki Roshi told a student, I think, which pointed to the blurring of boundaries between inner and outer, the fluid character of existence, and the interdependence of all beings. And on this peaceful day yesterday we were urged to carry this understanding of impermanence into our work with the dying, not just because we are dealing with death (certainly a symbol of impermanence), but because we as witnesses to death become part of the landscape of arising and falling away, coming and going, as we show up without our agendas and plans. Agendas actually don't work here. Remember: we are not in control, and everything changes. We are now free to be shown the mystery of the end of life. The dying will actually teach us how to do it...
Last night I attended the 80th birthday party of a very dear friend, a woman I have known for forty years or so. I watched as she accepted with grace the speeches of her loving daughters, and all the raised champagne glasses toasting her wonderfulness, and I marveled at her snow white hair and the bright light that shone in her face. Though her fine snow white hair has shown up recently, the bright light from her spirit and heart has always been there, or perhaps it is coming through more clearly now that she manifests a certain transparency. As we become older, I believe we're consciously and unconsciously shedding our skins, our stuff, our thoughts, and the surface of our bodies and our lives becomes less hard and tough, and more translucent. We become more who we really are.
And for that I am very grateful.
Proud.
And more myself.
From Peter Matthiessen's Snow Leopard:
"... there is no real edge to anything, that in the endless interpretation of the universe, a molecular flow, a cosmic energy shimmers in all stone and steel as well as flesh."
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
"As We Get Older...." Looking at a New Decade
It seems that every year the month of January, that sometimes dreary period following the holidays, goes by more quickly. And this year is no exception. Of course for part of it, I was marching about in New Zealand, trying to keep up with daughter of longer legs and more speed. Following my landing back in San Francisco I continued to battle a respiratory illness that I had carried with me for much of the trip (do I hear a "no fair" in response?), and thus many more days just blurred on by. And now we're staring right at the end of the month, which brings me to my granddaughters birthday (she'll be 15 I think - eek!), and the long uncelebrated anniversary of my marriage to my children's father. And THEN, February arrives and delivers my birthday. This year I will be 70 years old, which is a daunting sounding, daunting looking number, I must say! There's no kidding ourselves now that we're not old. Seventy is NOT the "new 50" or anything like that. Yes, we are living longer, but the old body still ages with inexorable regularity. Old is what we're becoming.
So I decided that before I gather friends and family about me to be celebratory about being 70, I would reflect on pieces of my journey, and on what I see are graceful consequences of becoming older, less powerful and more vulnerable. A doctor told me today that "as we get older, our systems don't respond to trouble (e.g. infection) as quickly..." and to top that off, they apparently continue to respond to infection even after the insult has actually ended! That sounds a tad deranged to me, but sadly it makes some sense. Things are wearing out. But not my brain, I swear it! Much of my life I fed myself knowledge in a voracious manner -- I read books a lot, big important books, I studied Shakespeare and Homer and James Joyce and even William Faulkner...... I became an ongoing student of literature. And happily it has stayed with me. I see it showing up in my writing all the time. The other workout my brain got as I grew was traveling to far away places, and doing it a lot. It all started when I was taken by my quixotic and crazy mother to live in Italy at age 11. I was hooked from then on and have traveled with both the important men in my life and also traveled solo. I think I have been looking for the understanding that we humans are all essentially connected and of the same heart, whether we live in India or Burma or Paris, France. There were love affairs with both music and food, and these too had early roots, as I learned to cook in Italy, and to shop in markets where the most beautiful vegetables could be found, and I discovered the beautiful world of classical music because my grandmother pointed the way as she played her baby grand piano. My heart still softens and melts at the sight of a perfect roast chicken or the sound of a Bach Invention. I have been beautifully educated, and even though the body tires of performing, my mind (and heart) are still beating wildly because of how long I've trained them.
Speaking of training, I thought I could train myself to walk 100 miles in Africa amongst the elephants this summer, but I have discovered that this was more problematic than I had thought. I have bad knees, bad ankles, and I am not an exercise freak who's going to spend every day of the week at the gym to condition myself to walk those 100 miles. So I admit I cannot. So what. I can still journey to Africa and see the grand beasts in another kind of experience. What we need to "get" as we march onward into our last phase is that while we have strong wills and great imaginations, they are no match for the impermanence of the body. Humility and letting go are necessary. What else do I have to relinquish, I wonder? Perhaps the notion that I will re-read William Shakespeare in a definitive way, take down from the bookcase my grandmother's little leather bound books, and sink into deep study. Lovely idea, isn't it? But... I want to read new things, like Matthiessen's The Snow Leopard, and Gawande's On Being Mortal, and any number of recent memoirs by sharp and interesting women. And though I am attempting to re-read Anna Karenina, one of my most beloved novels, I may not make it. As yummy as the idea is of losing myself in this glorious book, I somehow don't feel I have the time. There are too many things pulling at me. Like finishing the memoir I've spent the last two years working on and trying to market it (ugh to this last part!). Like planning a trip to the Galapagos with some of my family. Like going to Florence this spring to stay in an apartment alone - a luscious birthday gift to myself to make up for not going to Africa. I used to think I would learn all of Bach's Goldberg Variations, but my wise teacher reminded me that I was in this business of learning Bach in order to have fun, be happy -- NOT to prove something. He was right. Learn the pieces you love and let go of ambition to be accomplished.
What I've been playing with here is the importance of relinquishing expectation, and keeping your vision clear and your intention honest. How do you want your last decades to look? Probably not engaged in a struggle to become something different. You are what you are. And it's good one you are (sounding a bit Irish here!). And the threads of your very fortunate life are still wonderfully present -- the books, the food, the music, and of course your children and grandchildren of whom you're very proud. And on top of that you have summoned the courage to tell a story of your life that peels away many layers, struggles with imperfect memory, and presents a pretty interesting character. Not bad, eh?
So I decided that before I gather friends and family about me to be celebratory about being 70, I would reflect on pieces of my journey, and on what I see are graceful consequences of becoming older, less powerful and more vulnerable. A doctor told me today that "as we get older, our systems don't respond to trouble (e.g. infection) as quickly..." and to top that off, they apparently continue to respond to infection even after the insult has actually ended! That sounds a tad deranged to me, but sadly it makes some sense. Things are wearing out. But not my brain, I swear it! Much of my life I fed myself knowledge in a voracious manner -- I read books a lot, big important books, I studied Shakespeare and Homer and James Joyce and even William Faulkner...... I became an ongoing student of literature. And happily it has stayed with me. I see it showing up in my writing all the time. The other workout my brain got as I grew was traveling to far away places, and doing it a lot. It all started when I was taken by my quixotic and crazy mother to live in Italy at age 11. I was hooked from then on and have traveled with both the important men in my life and also traveled solo. I think I have been looking for the understanding that we humans are all essentially connected and of the same heart, whether we live in India or Burma or Paris, France. There were love affairs with both music and food, and these too had early roots, as I learned to cook in Italy, and to shop in markets where the most beautiful vegetables could be found, and I discovered the beautiful world of classical music because my grandmother pointed the way as she played her baby grand piano. My heart still softens and melts at the sight of a perfect roast chicken or the sound of a Bach Invention. I have been beautifully educated, and even though the body tires of performing, my mind (and heart) are still beating wildly because of how long I've trained them.
Speaking of training, I thought I could train myself to walk 100 miles in Africa amongst the elephants this summer, but I have discovered that this was more problematic than I had thought. I have bad knees, bad ankles, and I am not an exercise freak who's going to spend every day of the week at the gym to condition myself to walk those 100 miles. So I admit I cannot. So what. I can still journey to Africa and see the grand beasts in another kind of experience. What we need to "get" as we march onward into our last phase is that while we have strong wills and great imaginations, they are no match for the impermanence of the body. Humility and letting go are necessary. What else do I have to relinquish, I wonder? Perhaps the notion that I will re-read William Shakespeare in a definitive way, take down from the bookcase my grandmother's little leather bound books, and sink into deep study. Lovely idea, isn't it? But... I want to read new things, like Matthiessen's The Snow Leopard, and Gawande's On Being Mortal, and any number of recent memoirs by sharp and interesting women. And though I am attempting to re-read Anna Karenina, one of my most beloved novels, I may not make it. As yummy as the idea is of losing myself in this glorious book, I somehow don't feel I have the time. There are too many things pulling at me. Like finishing the memoir I've spent the last two years working on and trying to market it (ugh to this last part!). Like planning a trip to the Galapagos with some of my family. Like going to Florence this spring to stay in an apartment alone - a luscious birthday gift to myself to make up for not going to Africa. I used to think I would learn all of Bach's Goldberg Variations, but my wise teacher reminded me that I was in this business of learning Bach in order to have fun, be happy -- NOT to prove something. He was right. Learn the pieces you love and let go of ambition to be accomplished.
What I've been playing with here is the importance of relinquishing expectation, and keeping your vision clear and your intention honest. How do you want your last decades to look? Probably not engaged in a struggle to become something different. You are what you are. And it's good one you are (sounding a bit Irish here!). And the threads of your very fortunate life are still wonderfully present -- the books, the food, the music, and of course your children and grandchildren of whom you're very proud. And on top of that you have summoned the courage to tell a story of your life that peels away many layers, struggles with imperfect memory, and presents a pretty interesting character. Not bad, eh?
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Returning to my Work
It has been a week since I flew back to San Francisco from "down under," that pristine little country of New Zealand where they seem infinitely sensible, and I've spent the time trying to recover from a nasty respiratory illness and deep fatigue. Happy to say that I'm finally back.
Though I toted parts of my manuscript with me on the trip, I got little done. And that's o.k. It was "vacation" after all! This book I've been working on has been inhabiting my brain for a year a half now, and is not likely to dissipate with a few weeks of disregard. I think I took the pages of writing with me because, like Joan Didion, there was a certain comfort to be derived from having my words on the page VERY close to me physically ... as though they would continually seep into my brain just because I had them close to the bed where I slept. And because the words from the pages moved through time and space toward me, my brain could mysteriously and quietly work on them. When I was in high school I remember putting the notes I'd written for a test under my pillow at night! And I was always convinced that it worked in the end...
So I am returning to work on the revision of the chapters of this book - ten of them in all - and I am discovering what most writers already know: the primary challenge is in the revision. And revision is the hardest thing of all! It seems that every time I return to a sentence or paragraph, I can think of yet a different way to write the same thing. And I ask myself : how long does all this go on? The answer: until it stops happening. Cardinal rules I'm trying to keep in mind: tell unadulterated truth (even though you embellish here and there), keep it clean and honest, write the way you would tell the story, show as much as you can ... keep remembering that someone is sitting there about to read all these words, and try not to bore them.
One of my struggles is that I'm afraid I am too preoccupied with myself. The subjects of my writing are so familiar and so interesting to me (Burma, Paris, India, and African elephants, for instance), that I forget that I may be circling endlessly and monotonously around the workings of my mind. I guess part of this is true -- it is my own mind that I'm using to investigate and speak. And, to give myself some pats on the back here, I think my patterns of thought are actually kind of interesting -- e.g. looking into the hero's journey, seeing the parallels between literature and real life experience, finding a spiritual path in looking at art, letting go of pain and suffering, and investigating the Buddhist perception of non-duality... I guess I figure these are thoughts that a number of readers out there might share. Am I right? I am looking too at the interconnection between the far past and the present day. I ended up in India to examine duality and non-duality because I lived a life with a woman who forever set herself apart from the mundaneness of real life. I went to Burma because I was seeking a deeper understanding of the Buddha's way. I lingered in art museums in Paris because I was raised by a quixotic, selfish, but gifted painter who was driven to create beauty. I walked slowly through the Killing Fields in Cambodia because I have been haunted by death.
Am currently struggling with a title for my book, my collection of pieces about travel and self-revelation. Every single title I come up with is too long and convoluted. I started out with: Bowing Camels and Bloody Red Roses. Then I added to that: The Journey Out and Back. Too bland, I realized. And much later I thought about something like this: Finding Myself in the Landscape of Memory. Oh well ... it's still a work in progress. I love the first part, because the image of the camels is poignant for me, pulled from a time in India where I entered a palatial hotel from the dirty chaotic streets of Rajasthan and colorfully dressed camels bowed to me The roses are the ones at the grave of Frederic Chopin in Paris, and they conjure my tragic mother and her love of beauty and the color red. Images are important here, but so are over-arching ideas...
Am reading a book about memoir writing called Handling the Truth, and the writer quotes Patricia Hampl who says, "True memoir is written, like all literature, in an attempt to find not only a self but a world." I love this. And as I go back to revise and tune all these pages of memory, I am trying to make sure that there is as much of the world in there as there is myself. And I am also noticing that my theme of discovery of self through travel is coming through pretty clearly. And so, as long as I can stand to review my thoughts and purpose, I will be revisiting this work so I can bring it all forth as clearly and honestly as possible.
Happy New Year to all you who arrive here to read and think about this!
Though I toted parts of my manuscript with me on the trip, I got little done. And that's o.k. It was "vacation" after all! This book I've been working on has been inhabiting my brain for a year a half now, and is not likely to dissipate with a few weeks of disregard. I think I took the pages of writing with me because, like Joan Didion, there was a certain comfort to be derived from having my words on the page VERY close to me physically ... as though they would continually seep into my brain just because I had them close to the bed where I slept. And because the words from the pages moved through time and space toward me, my brain could mysteriously and quietly work on them. When I was in high school I remember putting the notes I'd written for a test under my pillow at night! And I was always convinced that it worked in the end...
So I am returning to work on the revision of the chapters of this book - ten of them in all - and I am discovering what most writers already know: the primary challenge is in the revision. And revision is the hardest thing of all! It seems that every time I return to a sentence or paragraph, I can think of yet a different way to write the same thing. And I ask myself : how long does all this go on? The answer: until it stops happening. Cardinal rules I'm trying to keep in mind: tell unadulterated truth (even though you embellish here and there), keep it clean and honest, write the way you would tell the story, show as much as you can ... keep remembering that someone is sitting there about to read all these words, and try not to bore them.
One of my struggles is that I'm afraid I am too preoccupied with myself. The subjects of my writing are so familiar and so interesting to me (Burma, Paris, India, and African elephants, for instance), that I forget that I may be circling endlessly and monotonously around the workings of my mind. I guess part of this is true -- it is my own mind that I'm using to investigate and speak. And, to give myself some pats on the back here, I think my patterns of thought are actually kind of interesting -- e.g. looking into the hero's journey, seeing the parallels between literature and real life experience, finding a spiritual path in looking at art, letting go of pain and suffering, and investigating the Buddhist perception of non-duality... I guess I figure these are thoughts that a number of readers out there might share. Am I right? I am looking too at the interconnection between the far past and the present day. I ended up in India to examine duality and non-duality because I lived a life with a woman who forever set herself apart from the mundaneness of real life. I went to Burma because I was seeking a deeper understanding of the Buddha's way. I lingered in art museums in Paris because I was raised by a quixotic, selfish, but gifted painter who was driven to create beauty. I walked slowly through the Killing Fields in Cambodia because I have been haunted by death.
Am currently struggling with a title for my book, my collection of pieces about travel and self-revelation. Every single title I come up with is too long and convoluted. I started out with: Bowing Camels and Bloody Red Roses. Then I added to that: The Journey Out and Back. Too bland, I realized. And much later I thought about something like this: Finding Myself in the Landscape of Memory. Oh well ... it's still a work in progress. I love the first part, because the image of the camels is poignant for me, pulled from a time in India where I entered a palatial hotel from the dirty chaotic streets of Rajasthan and colorfully dressed camels bowed to me The roses are the ones at the grave of Frederic Chopin in Paris, and they conjure my tragic mother and her love of beauty and the color red. Images are important here, but so are over-arching ideas...
Am reading a book about memoir writing called Handling the Truth, and the writer quotes Patricia Hampl who says, "True memoir is written, like all literature, in an attempt to find not only a self but a world." I love this. And as I go back to revise and tune all these pages of memory, I am trying to make sure that there is as much of the world in there as there is myself. And I am also noticing that my theme of discovery of self through travel is coming through pretty clearly. And so, as long as I can stand to review my thoughts and purpose, I will be revisiting this work so I can bring it all forth as clearly and honestly as possible.
Happy New Year to all you who arrive here to read and think about this!
Monday, January 5, 2015
A Wise Young Place Far Away
I am sitting under an awning outside my villa at the Vintner's Retreat in Marlborough, New Zealand, gazing at a magnificent expanse of vineyards stretching out before me, and thinking, why this looks a lot like the Napa Valley : a lush valley surrounded by hills and beautiful vines everywhere, but no, this is a sometimes tropical, very green landscape where they drive on the wrong side of the road, where they speak in often unfathomable accents with the flat a's and e's, eat sausage rolls, and say, "jolly good," and "brilliant" for positive emphasis. Very hospitable, very safe they are here. Reminds me of traveling in Ireland where the goodwill and hospitality of the Irish washed over me and in no time caused me to become more cheery, genteel, and kind myself!
After staying in a house near Auckland for some days, and making numerous drives into the countryside around, we headed to the South Island for the next chapter of our visit. Though plagued for days by a head cold that won't quit, I soldier on because I must, and have been responding right and left to the kindness that surrounds me. My terribly clogged head has made understanding the Kiwis just a little harder than normal, but I don't mind asking people politely to repeat themselves. I guess it comes with age.
The landscape here defies description.... I have been meaning to chronicle the visual experience and each time I was about to sit down with it, I paused, and hesitated, and in fact didn't move forward. I think when it comes to capturing physical beauty I am (we are) daunted. Language can be painfully inadequate when it comes to looking at the sublime. But oh well, here I go:
The oceans and bays here have water that is various blues and greens and turquoises, and crystal clear. Like the tropical waters I've floated on in the Caribbean... The forests are dark and lush, almost jungle like, with trees I've never seen before. The mountains are significant and covered in green. Lakes abound and again with a pristine beauty that surpasses most bodies of water I've laid eyes on. Yet, here I sit at the edge of a vineyard and there are big pink rose bushes growing (not so foreign), and yesterday we saw eucalyptus and beautiful crops of silvery grey olives trees at the edge of one of the vineyards -- again something familiar. We took a wine tour yesterday with a beautiful warm woman called Faye who drove a cushy black BMW 700 with perfect air conditioning and took us from one end of the valley to the other as she narrated the inspiring details about the NZ wine culture. They have been at it for only forty years and seem to be flawlessly at the top of their game, many of them producing organic wines. She had worked herself in the vineyards when she was younger, and she knew her stuff. The temperature hit the high 80's and we motored on through the intense heat, sipping way too much Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Noir, but it felt glorious and perfect somehow!
This land is lovingly cared for, diligently protected and nurtured by the people here. This is a young country with a lot of earnest wisdom about conserving resources, and loving the environment. They are a younger people than we are in America but they seem on some levels wiser and more present when it comes to the land, sea, and animals. We took a boat trip on Queen Charlotte Sound the other day looking for dolphins, and viewing rare seabirds. The island of Motuara is a bird sanctuary, one of many where birds close to extinction are helped to live without predators. They are monitored and protected, the most incredible of which was the small (and rare!) blue penguin. We were able to see them nesting in little especially constructed boxes as they molted and protected their eggs -- a matched pair -- husband and wife. The ethereal grayish blue of their feathers that made you want to reach out and stroke it. We stood in silence and just loved them instead... We learned about Project Jonah which trains anyone to assist in the tending of stranded seals and small whales, and I bought a kooky reusable tea/coffee cup to remind me of their valiant mission.
I thought that I would miss my usual cultural fixes when I came here, so conditioned am I to museums and art and heady learning, but I have found this refreshing and inspiring. Yes, there is art, and yes, people do write and read books here, but it is the culture of stewardship of the land and all that comes from the land that is so interesting and moving. From that come all the extraordinary wines, the quite sophisticated cuisine with bountiful seafood, the exotic carved green jade, and hard woods which are products of the enduring Maori culture, and most importantly: the good will.
People drive fast here on that wrong side of the road - we've discovered that - but they are kind and generous and content in their lives from what I've seen. A non fiction writer I've been reading lately described the state of contentment as "being in the right life (living in a place where you connect to a community, doing meaningful work, surrounding yourself with people you enjoy, respect, and love)." Yes. When you are doing earnest and righteous work and living in awareness of the present moment, this sort of happiness comes. I believe this is going on here, and it is a very good thing indeed.
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