LINDA C. WISNIEWSKI

Category: mindfulness

• Carol Ann and the Lumberyard

  Posted at 11:25 am by lindawis, on October 19, 2021

  

  Today I started to write a post about my love of the smell of fresh lumber, but the words felt familiar. I looked up previous blogs and saw that I wrote about this same exact thing in May! Of this year! Covid brain? Maybe. But what about this:

  Coming out of the shower at my sister’s house, the shower rod came crashing down to the floor. In the restroom of a museum later that day, I locked myself in the stall and could only get out by crawling under the door. And after my book talk, I walked out of the building into a downpour, having left my rain jacket and umbrella in the car.

  Now, I know some of these things are not my fault. One is mine, one is the museum’s and one is my sister’s. (Just kidding, Judy!)

  But as I approach a big birthday this month, I can’t help but notice things changing. Like getting aggravated over minor setbacks. Like middle-aged people calling me “sweetheart,” and holding out a hand for me on the stairs.

  Some are funny, most are just little glitches in my otherwise charmed life. Charmed because I know how privileged I am to have a car, rain jacket and umbrella. And money to put gas in it. To have written and published books people like, to have hot water and indoor toilets. I could go on and so could you.

  So when Carol Ann came up to me at my book talk, and I saw her big brown eyes above her Covid mask, and heard her voice, I flashed back to the lumberyard on the corner of her street. We met there to walk to school together, and that memory of joy and friendship and the promise of our young lives got all mixed up with the smell of fresh two by fours in my mind.

  And today I wanted to write about it again. To revisit that memory and savor it. Rick Hanson has studied how we can actually rewire our nervous systems so that we don’t cling to negative news, as we evolved to do in the early days on earth, and to take in the good instead, savoring it with all our senses. Smell is an especially evocative one, I find. But so are sight, touch and taste. Perhaps this is another way to be mindful in this world of distractions.

  So as I flash back to high school, forget my umbrella, or lock myself in a bathroom stall, I plan to not dwell on these experiences, and instead savor good things like surprise meetings with old friends. And the smell of two by fours.

  I also plan to get some good writing out of it. And laugh at myself, too. I really am a sweetheart.

  What memory can you savor? I’d love to know in the comments!

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  Posted in Amsterdam, balance, book, children, compassion, elderly, hope, life stories, memoir, mindfulness, NY, writing | 9 Comments | Tagged aging, lifestyle, memoir, writing

• Blue Chicory and Queen Anne’s Lace

  Posted at 2:13 pm by lindawis, on August 11, 2021

  

  Last week, I joined a free write session on Zoom (where else, these days, right?). With a couple of dozen others, scattered around the country, I took time on a Sunday afternoon to meditate (easier than doing it alone, I find) and to read a poem, then write a reaction to it. It’s amazing to me how much deep writing comes from these sessions. We shared with each other in small groups and created short poems merging a few lines from each of us into one piece of work. It was a fun exercise that I’d recommend, whether or not you consider yourself ‘a writer.’

  The poem was “section eight” by George T. Wilkerson. It begins:

  I come from the broken

  playground littered with dented Coke cans….

  ———————————————————————————————————————————–

  Here’s what I came up with:

  I come from blue chicory and Queen Anne’s lace by the roadside

  in the cracks of broken sidewalks

  I come from Kelly’s Lumberyard and the smell of fresh cut two by fours

  I come from Red Light and Giant Steps, jacks and hopscotch

  I do not come from parks

  but rather quiet sunny streets and slow-moving cars.

  I come from potato chips and Coke, from kielbasa and beer and ketchup.

  I come from margarine colored yellow by pounding the red dot on the cellophane bag on the kitchen table.

  What struck me most about this exercise is how I stayed with summer memories. If I wrote this in winter, I might have “come from” other things. Any of these lines could be the start of a story. What about you? What do you come from? Jot a few lines in the comments, I can’t wait to read them!

  And enjoy the rest of this fleeting season we wait for all year long.

  l

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  Posted in home, memoirs, mindfulness, nature writing, poetry, simplicity, summer, writing | 0 Comments | Tagged home, memoir, wildflowers, writing

• WRITING, DRAWING, LOOKING, SEEING

  Posted at 10:43 am by lindawis, on June 3, 2020

  

  A few years ago, while hiking with a group along the cliffs of Cornwall, England, one woman in our party sat down at the end of every day with her sketchpad to draw the scene before her, a slight smile on her lips. I envied her. I never mastered anything beyond a simple flower, a sun, a little house. I admired her but didn’t take the time to observe her process.

  Our local art museum offers drawing classes, and at the beginning of this year, I decided to sign up. The pandemic ended that before it began but I found an online class at another museum. Every week, I follow a different lesson – landscape, perspective, portrait, still life. Guess what else I learned? I can draw! I suspect anyone can learn to draw, just like anyone can learn to write. Sure, the talented ones will do it best, but we can all learn to do something better than we did before.

  This week, my country is on fire with anger, sorrow, and despair. Because of the murder of yet another black American by police, systemic racism is once again forcing us to look, to see.

  When I started my drawing lessons, I was surprised at how much it was like learning to write. And now, how much it is like confronting racism. They all have these things in common:

  You have to look. Really look.

  When I write, I look for the details that will paint a picture in my readers’ minds. When I draw, I look at how a pine tree is different from an oak. This week, I don’t have to look far to see the pain black Americans are going through.

  It takes time.

  When I sat down to draw, I used my eraser a lot. Writers call that revision. We need to erase systemic racism from our society, and revise our perspective on our own place in it.  

  It takes practice.

  We will make mistakes. Sometimes I throw away an essay or a drawing and start over. Can white Americans like me own our mistakes and start over?

  It takes humility.

  I cringed when I found something I wrote twenty years ago. I thought it was good enough to submit for publication. It wasn’t. My first attempts at drawing are not for public view, but they got me started. This week I joined a group to read and discuss the book White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism by Robin DiAngelo.

  Writing, drawing, looking – and maybe, finally, seeing. May it be so.

  How do you see the turmoil in our country these days? I’d love to hear, so leave your comments and I’ll put your name in the drawing for Toni Morrison’s novel, The Bluest Eye.

  The winner of last month’s drawing for Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani is Karen Edwards. Congratulations, Karen, and thanks for sharing your thoughts.

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  Posted in art, drawing, mindfulness, pain, racism, writers, writing | 4 Comments | Tagged drawing, writing

• Hot Steam on Cotton

  Posted at 11:45 am by lindawis, on April 8, 2020

  

  This is not another post on how to cope with pandemic anxiety or how to best manage your time in social isolation. I have nothing new to say about that, and frankly, the online “noise” is getting to me. So I’ll keep this short.

  Away from my normal life, I find myself looking at homemaking in a different way. No longer just troublesome chores, I embrace their quiet safety. I push the vacuum through sunlight and shadows in the corner where stripes of light pass through the blinds and slant over the rocking chair. I feel the goodness of simple work.

  Ironing, the smell of steam on cotton takes me to my mother’s muslin-covered ironing board and the sprinkler bottle she kept nearby. The whir of my sewing machine comforts me.

  One long ago afternoon, I passed a little shop on the side of a hill. The door was open to the spring air and half a dozen women sat before small black machines, turning the wheel with one hand, guiding fabric with the other. The hum of small motors made me stop and look. I feel at one with them now, doing what I know how to do, what my mother did, and her mother too.

  A line from a Mary Oliver poem is on my fridge: “why should I not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, looking into the shining world?” She goes on to say that delight inspires action. We are not to sit on the hillside all day. But for now, in this holy moment, let me pause. Let me look.

  Have you found, while at home, a small moment of delight? Does it remind you of someone or some other time? Share it below and I’ll put your name in the drawing for Michael Ondaatje’s novel, Warlight, a book set in 1945 England with some very mysterious characters.

  The winner of last month’s drawing is Jeanne Guy. She wins a copy of This Book is Overdue! How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All. Congratulations, Jeanne, and thanks for your comment!

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  Posted in anxiety, home, hope, Internet, mindfulness, peace, simplicity, Uncategorized | 16 Comments | Tagged homemaking, ironing, sewing

• Note It, Name It

  Posted at 1:46 pm by lindawis, on August 1, 2019

  

  “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy…” begins the song from Porgy and Bess. Easy for some, right? In my lucky life, summer really is an easy time, even more so now that I don’t have a regular job. I am more in touch with the seasons because I am not preoccupied with earning a living. From the window of my upstairs writing/quilting/yoga space, I can see cars move along a 35 mph road. I like to imagine the drivers heading to and from work, and remember the years I was one of them. I’m grateful I don’t have to do that anymore, though I’ve had some very fulfilling jobs.

  Summer for this semi-retired woman means farmers’ markets and the CSA, corn on the cob, leafy trees, no sweater, no socks. Ice cream, long evenings, reading outdoors, picnics, baseball teams, hot dogs. Sandy beaches, seagulls, cucumber cocktails. And equanimity.

  
  In summer there is less to do, it seems, though people with lawns to mow and gardens to weed may disagree. My herbs grow in pots on my deck, my tomatoes in a hanging basket.

  
  In summer, equanimity descends on my world. I’ve been listening to a meditation app called Ten Percent Happier. One of their popular teachers is Joseph Goldstein and today I practiced equanimity with him for 15 minutes. He said to observe whatever feeling comes and goes, whether good or bad, happy or sad, uncomfortable or not. Just note it and name it: “Bored. Sad. Frightened. Tired. Content.”
  

  Equanimity is in short supply these days. I don’t see it in the world around me or even in the books I read. A good story needs some kind of conflict, whether external or within the main character. Something to push against. But in summer, I don’t want to push. I just want to be. That’s equanimity. I’ll let you know when I get there.

  What is this summer like for you? I’d love to read your comments.

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  Posted in balance, Buddhism, mindfulness, peace, philosophy, simplicity, Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged meditation, summer

• Howareya

  Posted at 2:06 pm by lindawis, on April 25, 2019

  

  Hey, how ya doin’!

  How are ya!

  How are YOU!

  It’s not really a question. My neighbor says Heyhowyadoin every time he sees me. The man washing his car in his driveway says Howareya whenever I walk by. The cashier at the convenience store says HowareYOU.

  How do we answer this nonquestion? Like most people, I say Finehowareyou or just nod and smile. Nobody seems to feel they have time to give a real answer or that it’s even expected. But really, how long would it take?

  Once a month or so, I get fed up with the throwaway question at the cash register. Instead of grabbing my change and making room for the next person in line, I take two seconds and make eye contact. I have to wait for the cashier to look at me. Then I say, “I’m fine. And how are YOU today?” And I wait. They always say something back, usually Goodthankyouforasking. Then I tell them to Haveaniceday and leave because, you know, there are people in line.

  The other day, something different happened. A short woman with salt and pepper hair and a black uniform stood in line before me at the coffee counter. She asked How I was. Fine, I said, and waited as she ordered iced tea and paid for her seeded sesame bagel. I paid for my decaf hazelnut coffee refill to take back to the upstairs café, where four other women wrote on laptops as we do every Thursday morning, a hedge against the loneliness of writing at home. The short woman was in front of me again, at the row of coffee urns. She made deliberate eye contact and asked me again, How are you? Very well, thank you, I responded. How are you today? She mumbled Oh and some other words I couldn’t make out. Not good, I said? She told me she had a pinched nerve. I said I hoped she felt better. It’s not fun, she sighed. I told her to take care, and she said you too. Then she went back to work at the prepared food and beer checkout.

  All that took maybe 60 seconds out of my day but it added something important to me: connection to a real human being. Not that I think the neighbors or the cashiers aren’t real. Just that it’s rare to really think about what we’re saying. And when we do, what happens? We see someone. We remember them. I wrote this encounter down in my notebook. The short supermarket cashier with the salt and pepper hair is now in your mind too. Maybe you have a pinched nerve. Maybe your day is not so fine. Or maybe it is, and you could spread a little fineness with a smile, a sincere question, an eye lock. Just for a minute today. Imagine what could happen.

  Do you ever answer truthfully when someone says Howareya? Tell me about it in the comments and I’ll put your name in the hat for a copy of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, a mother-daughter novel about foster care and obsessive love.

  The winner of this month’s drawing is Gary Bennett. He will receive a copy of The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George. Congratulations, Gary and thanks for your comment last month.

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  Posted in compassion, mindfulness, Uncategorized | 4 Comments | Tagged connection, convenience store, eye contact

• Give and Take

  Posted at 4:08 pm by lindawis, on February 26, 2019

  

  My neighbor is a terrific cat sitter. The first time we went away, I brought her back a little souvenir, some soap or candy, I forget what. She was so upset, waving her hands and shaking her head, saying she didn’t want “payment,” that I felt like apologizing for insulting her.

  “It is more blessed to give than to receive” is a popular quote from the New Testament. But can we take that to extremes, taking away the giver’s joy by not receiving well?

  When this same neighbor got sick, I brought her a carton of soup from a nearby Italian deli. I might have known, when I caught a cold, she would come to my door with a carton of soup twice the size of mine plus fresh rolls. This winter, she was sick again. Not wanting to compete for the title of most generous neighbor, I brought over the original size soup. The next day, she sent her husband over with a tin of Italian cookies. Each Christmas, she rings our doorbell and offers a bottle of wine and a box of fine chocolates, says Merry Christmas and runs away waving her hands. A day or two later, so as not to appear to be paying her back, we deliver cookies or some other small treat, and she tells us it was not necessary. Which of course, it wasn’t. We’re just trying to be as nice as she. And it feels like we’re losing.

  All this to say, her giving annoys me no end, which is a clue she’s manifesting something I don’t like about myself.

  Once a friend asked me why I didn’t hug her back. I hadn’t realized I had been standing with my arms weakly around her. Another friend said she had to concentrate to receive a hug, because she wasn’t used to feeling loved. Hmmm. I have plenty of love in my life, but suspect my childhood taught me not to see it. I want to change that.

  Why is it so hard for us to receive? When my neighbor keeps trying to top me with her gifts, I feel pushed. So, I’m going to practice letting her be the way she is. When she brings our recycling bucket back from the curb, along with all the others in the neighborhood, I won’t try to stop her, or beat her to it. I’ll just say thank you.

  What about you? Is it hard to receive a gift or good deed from someone without immediately “giving back?” Do you believe we need to repay the good we receive from others?

  Comment on this blog and I’ll put your name in the drawing next month for a copy of  Kate Atkinson’s novel, Transcription,  set in the World War II offices of the BBC, and full of intrigue and second guessing.                        

  The winner of last month’s drawing is mystery writer and blogger Sandra Carey Cody Take a look at her website for some good reading. She wins The Clockmaker’s Daughter by Kate Morton. Congratulations, Sandy, and thanks for commenting on my blog.

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  Posted in anxiety, balance, cookies, gifts, mindfulness | 10 Comments

• 2019- Ready or Not!

  Posted at 2:47 pm by lindawis, on December 29, 2018

  

  As the old year ends, I feel an urge to finish what I started, as if I need a clean slate to begin 2019. And then I laugh. As if that’s ever going to happen.

  Just last month, I stopped reading a book I hated. It was for my book club. Which I’m dropping out of. I didn’t like the story or the characters or the writing. Or the members of the club. Or the hard wooden chairs we had to sit on. Can I quit now? It wasn’t worth my time, but I don’t like to leave anything unfinished. 

  I have a half-done quilt on my sewing machine, wrinkled clothes waiting on the ironing board, and a Christmas tablecloth with stains I haven’t managed to remove. And then there are all the short stories and essays in progress on my computer.

  My kids grew up before I was finished raising them. Wait, I wanted to say, I’m not done. I forgot to teach you to ice skate…or to make a pie…When they walk away, I still want to wrap my arms around their ankles.

  My parents died before I understood them. I didn’t ask my dad what his childhood was like. I forgot to ask my mom if she ever doubted her faith.

  I dropped freshman organic chem. I didn’t care about the experiments, my grades were awful, and a boy said I was taking the place of someone who had been drafted to fight in Vietnam.  

  I dropped friends who moved away. Staying in touch was too hard in our busy lives. Or maybe they dropped me.  

  It’s okay. If we hold on to everything we start, our lives would be a spaghetti-ball mess we could never untangle. Life is about choices.  

  A new year is about to begin, a turn of the calendar’s page, opening more possibilities. What will I choose to start this year? What will I finish? And what can I quit in the middle of, knowing full well that “enough is enough,” that forcing myself to complete something that is no longer important is just a waste of my precious time? Time I could use for the things that matter.

  Do you always “finish what you started?”

  Comment on this post and I’ll put your name in the drawing for a copy of The Untethered Soul by Michael Singer, a practical book about inner peace and freedom.

  The winner of last month’s drawing is Susan Berrodin. She will receive a copy of Old Friend From Far Away by Natalie Goldberg. Congratulations!

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  Posted in book, life stories, memoir, memoirs, mindfulness, philosophy, Uncategorized | 14 Comments | Tagged 2019, lifestyle, new year

• The Comfort of Words

  Posted at 4:17 pm by lindawis, on June 27, 2018

  

  Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

  I read today that Joyce Carol Oates describes sitting down at her writing desk as “low dread.” Hmmm. Just how I see America today: “low dread.”  What new horror will our president and his enablers bring upon us? Crying children torn from their parents, closing the door on immigrants because of their country’s majority religion, taking healthcare away from millions who cannot pay out of pocket…I could go on. But I won’t.

  Low clouds cover the sky as I write outside on my deck, as if someone unrolled the batting I sew into a quilt and spread it over the world I see. Birds chirp, but is that a happy sound or a frantic cry for help, like the sparrow under attack on my porch last month? I think I smell something burning, go inside and search my house, but no. It must be outside, or in my head. “Low dread.”

  I know somewhere the sun is shining. I know it’s above those batting clouds. But how far? I know they will part, even here. But when? What comfort is here for me now, on a day with a lowering sky?

  I turn to this poem from my writing teacher, the late Judi K. Beach.

  No Matter How Dark

  There is always the possibility
  of light. The deepest forest spills its
  leaf to leaf like rain, falling.

  At the far end of the tunnel,
  light dilates as you drive closer
  and darkness falls behind.

  No matter how dark, the light
  finds a way in. The night of no moon
  is sequined with stars.

  Even this blackness, this treading
  in ink, this ebony residence, this
  vulnerability to the opiate of despair

  has light, though your eyes
  have not yet adjusted to it, looking
  as they do to the well-lighted past.

  There is always a time of blindness
  moving from bright into black.
  Remember the sun

  is making its way to you and remember
  how far light must travel. Somewhere
  the sun is rising and somewhere

  it is high in the sky. In your house
  this night, this fortnight or year,
  the sun will find the loose clapboard,

  the east-face of your sorrow.
  Your world is
  turning toward the light.

  p.107, How Far Light Must Travel, 2007, Fithian Press

  ************************************************************************************

  What words do you turn to for comfort? Share them in the comments for a chance to win a signed hardcover copy of by invitation only, the new novel by Dorothea Benton Frank. Family drama, comedy and a Lowcountry landscape – great for beach or poolside reading.

  Congrats to this month’s winning commenter, Linda Hehn! She will receive a signed copy of Boardwalk Summer, Meredith Jaeger, whose mom also happens to be my cousin. Set in California in 1940 and 2010, it has #MeToo, racism, single motherhood and a whopping big family secret.

   

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  Posted in anxiety, fiction, mindfulness, nature writing, philosophy, suffering, Waiting | 10 Comments | Tagged anxiety, healing, society, writing

• The Not To Do List

  Posted at 2:00 pm by lindawis, on January 24, 2018

  

  Image by Pexels.com

  It’s the end of January, and according to businessinsider.com, 80% of New Year’s resolutions have been broken. I’m no longer a “business insider,” if I ever was, having left the corporate world 27 years ago, nor did I make any New Year’s resolutions. But like most people, I have lists of things “to do.” They are useful reminders, and so satisfying to check off when completed. But what takes their place? Another to do list! It’s an endless daily process, and while it certainly helps me remember what I need to do next, that list can get overwhelming. Recently I came across the idea of a “not to do” list. Business writer Michael Hyatt writes here about how and why you need one to succeed at work. https://michaelhyatt.com/do-you-have-a-not-to-do-list/

  Since I’m not reporting to anyone but myself these days, my not to do list is aimed at getting out of my own way so I can be happy, a lifelong quest I’m getting pretty good at. Since I believe it helps to write these things down, here’s my 2018 Not To Do List:

  1. Spend time with people I don’t like.
  2. Watch TV every night.
  3. Eat anything that doesn’t taste delicious.
  4. Compare myself to someone else.
  5. Take the best parking spot.
  6. Ignore my feelings.
  7. Say yes when I want to say no.
  8. Silence my voice.

  What do you think? Is a “not to do” list is a good idea? What would be on yours?

  Comment here on my blog and I’ll put your name in the drawing for my next book giveaway: The Moment of Truth by Damian McNicholl. Based on true events, it’s the story of a female bullfighter in 1950’s Mexico faced with all that the machismo culture can throw at her.

  **********

  The winner of last month’s drawing is Mary Lou Baldwin. She gets an autographed copy of The Promise of Pierson Orchard by Kate Brandes. Congratulations, Mary Lou!

   

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  Posted in balance, book, fiction, mindfulness, novel, philosophy | 10 Comments | Tagged lifestyle, society, writing

• Your Attention, Please

  Posted at 2:01 pm by lindawis, on November 20, 2015

  
   In his book, Buddha’s Brain, neuropsychologist Rick Hansen says what we  give our attention to literally changes our brains. It’s called neuroplasticity. I like the metaphor he uses: our “attention is like a combination spotlight and vacuum cleaner: it illuminates what it rests upon and then sucks it into your brain – and your self.”

  This week, like many people, I’ve been giving my attention to fear because of the terrorist attacks in Paris and the barrage of news and social media posts about “smaller” recent attacks in Beirut and elsewhere. If that weren’t enough to kick my occasional vertigo into high gear, there is that particular American terror of a deranged gunman who can walk into a school or movie theater on any given day. And so I search for the reasons why, and how “we” can prevent these acts and protect ourselves and those we love.

  On one level, it makes perfect sense. According to Hansen, in order to survive, our ancestors evolved to constantly scan their surroundings for threats. But are we really so unsafe? I won’t quote the statistics here about the likelihood of a gunman or a terrorist in your city or town or neighborhood. Statistics are floating all over the internet this week, and you can find what you need to prove any point. Instead, think about this: What if focusing our attention on danger is exactly what we don’t need?

  Fear of terrorists and gunmen leads to fear of “the other,” i.e., anyone not like ourselves, our friends, our families. We start scrutinizing our neighbors. And fear makes our evolved brains scramble for all sorts of creative ways to protect us. Like keeping “the others” out of our country, city, neighborhood. Passing laws, writing angry letters, passing judgment on people because they resemble the latest evildoers.

  The world has always been a dangerous place. The Middle Ages, Pearl Harbor, the Holocaust… as Gilda Radner used to say as her comic character Emily Litella on Saturday Night Live, “It’s always something.” Sadly, this twenty-first century horror is our “something.”

  Yet for most of us, the world is safe. We don’t like to think about that, because we’re afraid of “letting down our guard.” But for most of us, most of the time, we are essentially okay.

  After a treatment for my vertigo, I was surprised at the change in my mental state. From sadness at the killing of innocents and the demonizing of strangers, not to mention the gloomy rainy day and my creaky aging body, I drove away feeling light, safe and cared about. I saw that something could be done to help my dizziness. And I took that in, because Hansen says it activates the left frontal region of the brain which lifts my mood and grows neural pathways of inner contentment.

  Yes, we should care about the suffering of others and do what we can to help. So I’ve decided to devote one hour a day to news and social media posts about the state of the world. Surely I can learn what I need to know in one hour a day and support my causes. Surely the dead are not served by my fear.

  I plan to savor the lightness of feeling cared for, the smiling faces of people I meet, and the good all around me if only I pay attention long enough to see it, take it in and make it part of me.

  What about you? How are you coping today?

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  Posted in anxiety, balance, BPPV, BPV, mindfulness, peace, philosophy, suffering, vertigo | 9 Comments

• Rest When You Are Weary

  Posted at 3:11 pm by lindawis, on August 23, 2013

  Today I’m back from a week in the mountains, where I wrote for 2 or 3 hours every day, went on long hikes and read. A retreat I had planned all summer, hoping to finish revising the novel I’ve been working on for years.

  

  What happened with the writing:

  I found plot holes and plugged them.
  I tied up loose ends in the story.
  I found ways to make the main character’s actions believable.

  But…

  I didn’t finish.
  I figured out how to make the story better, which means:
  I have about 25% more of the novel to draft, then revise. I have been writing long enough to know that means more than one revision.

  The good news:

  My story is really fun to write and spending so much time on it makes me eager to keep going.
  After months of struggle, it’s all coming together.
  I know exactly what to do to “bring everybody home,” which means all major characters reach a satisfying conclusion.

  Now I’m back in my regular world where:

  Laundry must be washed, dried and put away
  Phone calls and email messages need replies
  I need to get some exercise today

  But I’m tired, physically, mentally, even emotionally. The end of things, even a vacation writing retreat in the beautiful mountains, always makes me a little sad.  And writing, even when it’s fun and good and rewarding, makes me tired.

  The weather is gloomy now, which doesn’t help. So I’ll put off the to-do list for later. First, I’ll curl up with a good book I started this week: The Art Forger by B.A. Shapiro. And maybe I’ll take a nice little nap.

  Why not? Do you need a “good reason” to rest besides being just plain tired?

  
  

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  Posted in balance, book, fiction, mindfulness, novel, philosophy, retreat, writing | 1 Comment | Tagged home, writing

• Posted at 1:16 pm by lindawis, on June 21, 2012

  This month of June in our house is a breath-holding time, suspended in waiting.

          At the end of May, we attended our younger son’s graduation from college. He followed us home in his car, ready and eager to go on with his life. Over the next three weeks, he arranged interviews by phone and Skype and in person, and this past Monday, landed a great job in his field, in the city he loves. The search for a place to live takes up most of his time now, and it’s all going on in silence, online, which only adds to the hushed sense of waiting around here.

          Meanwhile, it’s summer. We want to take trips. I want to finish revising my novel. He’s not happy because he doesn’t have his own place yet, and we’re not happy because he’s not happy. The tension hangs over everyone but the cat. Oblivious, she continues sleeping at our feet or running up and down the stairs alongside us, meowing at her dish morning and evening.

          All my mindful self-help Buddhist knowledge, what there is of it, is called into play. This month will never come again. I tell myself in my journal and in my head on my daily walk: Focus on the beauty of the day lilies and hydrangeas. Breathe in the fragrant candle. Feel the tendons stretch in your hand therapy exercises.

          Peace does not come easily. Unless: I accept the tension, the anxiety, the waiting. Let it come. Do not fight against it nor fall into a hole of depression over it.

          This June offers me another chapter in my imperfect life. Another challenge to not be challenged by it. Just be in it. So hard to do, letting go of worry. We want to control the outcome, and so we pray hard for the future and visualize success, because the alternative – utter helplessness over events and people – is so frightening we think we cannot bear it. But maybe we can. Maybe I can.

          The advice and suggestions and support and hugs have all been given. And just like I walk through the rain, I walk through this time of breath-holding before the next phase. And the next.

  

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  Posted in anxiety, Buddhism, children, mindfulness, sons, Waiting | 0 Comments Read On →

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