It occurs to me how rich our lives are. All of us. Neanderthal or not. Nebuchadnezzer or not. This guy was a Babylonian king who was all over the Old Testament. He made war, punished those who refused to obey him, had a dream that Daniel interpreted for him (King N was represented in the dream as the golden head of a huge statue), which he ended up taking rather too literally, had a golden statue made and required everyone to worship it. Only a few guys refused, and would only worship their God (the true and right God, as it turns out in the book of Daniel). He had them bound and set afire. They walked out of the fire unscathed, and not only that, but God had been hanging out in the fire with them. So King N of course declared that real God, fire God, would only be worshipped. Then he had another dream, a very cool one, very poetic (check it out in Daniel 4). Daniel interpreted it again, and told King N he'd be driven from his kingdom, live in the wild with the animals, lose his reason, eat grass, and grow long freakish fingernails. And lo, it came to pass. For seven years the mighty King N wandered in the wilderness. Then, all of a sudden, after the predicted seven years, his reason returned to him, he praised God, and was returned to all the riches and glory of his kingdom.
Does this not sound like life?
We are all Nebuchadnezzars, I think. We have great riches, go mad, lose the riches, regain them, and only we know how amazing our lives really are. What comedies and tragedies we live every day. What dreams we wake from, the wonder of them, what visions or nightmares.
The exercise of the day is called Nebuchadnezzar's Dream, in which we commit an Act of Attention to remembering a time of great change, where we've gone mad, wandered in the wilderness, grown talons like eagles, then been restored to our great wealth and the riches of our kingdom. Maybe monetary riches, or maybe the riches we wrote about using our Neanderthal Eyes. Remember, reflect, write.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
My Neanderthal Life
I have been contemplating the oddness of life in the 21st century lately. Why have we become so defined by what we do, rather than who we are? It's usually the first thing new acquaintances want to know about us. "What do you do?" they ask. I am often stumped for a reply. Of course they want to know what I receive a pay check for. Am I a lighting designer, store clerk, elephant bather, financial consultant (god, no)? Do I spend my days doing menial tasks or sitting at a desk? That's really what people are asking, I think. They want to know one's social status. They want to know if the person they're talking to is worth talking to.
I think this is decidedly strange, considering that for most of history homo sapiens and their predecessors did the hunter gatherer thing. Like dogs and wolves, there were spurts of major activity to find food, then once it was found and eaten, everybody kind of hung out, just being. That is what I imagine, at any rate.
And this leads me to ponder: why can't we all just leave ourselves and others alone about what we do? Is it not good enough that we are alive and kicking, and able to appreciate our lives, and tulips and grass and pudding and silk and boots and yellow and fireflies and dancing and soft and each other? At the end of our lives will it satisfy us more that we got a lot of raises, or that we went to Nova Scotia once and camped on a cliff with a lover and saw whales leaping in the Bay of St. Lawrence?
Would not a better question be "What do you like to do?" on meeting a new acquaintance? It opens up so much more possibility to see into a person's life. So I like to indulge in this kind of pre-civilizationary thinking, and imagine my Neanderthal self. What would I most admire about myself and my life? (Sparky thinks it's a crack-up that I say "And another thing I admire about myself is..." Like all of us he is unused to anyone blatantly admitting there is anything to admire about themselves.) So the exercise of the day is My Neanderthal Life, in which we ask ourselves what we would appreciate most in our lives if we look through our Neanderthal eyes, and shed our appreciation of fancy cars and big screen TVs and the like(which we'd fear as Neanderthals, most probably)? Would it be our strong legs that carry us on our hunt through the supermarket most days? Would it be our good vision, with which we spot our child playing in the bush without our consent and oblivious to danger? Would it be the shade on a hot day, where we can sit and read Jane Austen? Would it be, simply, hot fish fresh off the grill, and roasted sweet corn? Look through your Neanderthal eyes. Pay attention. Write it, draw it.
I think this is decidedly strange, considering that for most of history homo sapiens and their predecessors did the hunter gatherer thing. Like dogs and wolves, there were spurts of major activity to find food, then once it was found and eaten, everybody kind of hung out, just being. That is what I imagine, at any rate.
And this leads me to ponder: why can't we all just leave ourselves and others alone about what we do? Is it not good enough that we are alive and kicking, and able to appreciate our lives, and tulips and grass and pudding and silk and boots and yellow and fireflies and dancing and soft and each other? At the end of our lives will it satisfy us more that we got a lot of raises, or that we went to Nova Scotia once and camped on a cliff with a lover and saw whales leaping in the Bay of St. Lawrence?
Would not a better question be "What do you like to do?" on meeting a new acquaintance? It opens up so much more possibility to see into a person's life. So I like to indulge in this kind of pre-civilizationary thinking, and imagine my Neanderthal self. What would I most admire about myself and my life? (Sparky thinks it's a crack-up that I say "And another thing I admire about myself is..." Like all of us he is unused to anyone blatantly admitting there is anything to admire about themselves.) So the exercise of the day is My Neanderthal Life, in which we ask ourselves what we would appreciate most in our lives if we look through our Neanderthal eyes, and shed our appreciation of fancy cars and big screen TVs and the like(which we'd fear as Neanderthals, most probably)? Would it be our strong legs that carry us on our hunt through the supermarket most days? Would it be our good vision, with which we spot our child playing in the bush without our consent and oblivious to danger? Would it be the shade on a hot day, where we can sit and read Jane Austen? Would it be, simply, hot fish fresh off the grill, and roasted sweet corn? Look through your Neanderthal eyes. Pay attention. Write it, draw it.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Unexpected Joy
I'm having a very lively library time this morning (I post from the local library, I won't have Internet access at home as it is such a time suck). It's a fine thing that the chairs are kind of bouncy and forgiving, as a world music percussionist is performing in the meeting room, and I am dancing to the beat, as much as typing and vaguely sitting down will allow.
Which leads me to talk about taking our pleasures where we find them. I can't say how often this happens to me (and probably to you as well). I am doing something random, like typing away in the library, or driving on the ramp to the highway, and an unexpected moment -- or hour -- of joy occurs. The ramp to the highway event included 10 baby geese, still yellow and not too steady on their feet, flopping around after their mum.
So, the exercise for today is to look out some Unexpected Joy for yourself. Go to a fairly innocuous place where you have experienced such things. For me it can be supermarkets, parks, especially airports. Or you can just take a bike ride or a drive or a walk, and really open up your Attention pores. Look, listen, smell, feel what's unexpected and unusual in the everday. Then write/draw it. Now I'm going to the concert, and dance till I drop! I'll file my report next week.
Which leads me to talk about taking our pleasures where we find them. I can't say how often this happens to me (and probably to you as well). I am doing something random, like typing away in the library, or driving on the ramp to the highway, and an unexpected moment -- or hour -- of joy occurs. The ramp to the highway event included 10 baby geese, still yellow and not too steady on their feet, flopping around after their mum.
So, the exercise for today is to look out some Unexpected Joy for yourself. Go to a fairly innocuous place where you have experienced such things. For me it can be supermarkets, parks, especially airports. Or you can just take a bike ride or a drive or a walk, and really open up your Attention pores. Look, listen, smell, feel what's unexpected and unusual in the everday. Then write/draw it. Now I'm going to the concert, and dance till I drop! I'll file my report next week.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Ordinary Computer Time Please?
I've been having computer woes this week, so have not posted much...very sorry. I will try to get this posted before either my computer or Blogger decide they've had enough. I am obliged to keep it short this go round, so there will be no witty repartee with myself, or humorous yet insightful vignettes. Maybe tomorrow, when I hope computer time is more ordinary.
I wanted, at the very least, to get the next exercise out there. This exercise is a continuation of the last, thus it is called Ordinary Time, part 2:
Sit across from the person you wrote about/drew the last exercise. (The someone you are very close to). Observe him/her carefully. If you don't want him/her to know what you're doing, pretend to make a list. This is always a good ploy when you want people to think you're just being somewhat normal...While committing your Act of Attention to your person, try not to think about what you wrote/drew when you did the previous Ordinary Time exercise. Write or draw them now with fresh eyes and wild mind (as Natalie Goldberg would say).
I wanted, at the very least, to get the next exercise out there. This exercise is a continuation of the last, thus it is called Ordinary Time, part 2:
Sit across from the person you wrote about/drew the last exercise. (The someone you are very close to). Observe him/her carefully. If you don't want him/her to know what you're doing, pretend to make a list. This is always a good ploy when you want people to think you're just being somewhat normal...While committing your Act of Attention to your person, try not to think about what you wrote/drew when you did the previous Ordinary Time exercise. Write or draw them now with fresh eyes and wild mind (as Natalie Goldberg would say).
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Journey Through Ordinary Time
I went to church with mum yesterday. A very Poish Catholic church, I might add, one she's been going to forever, and that I guess I have to admit I was raised up in, even going to the church school for eight years.
As I was sitting there before the mass started, trying to distract myself from the wierdness of being in a church at all, I read in the church program thingy that we were now beginning the journey through ordinary time. What that means is that it's not a particularly special time, like Advent or Easter or Epiphany, etc. Yet, as I discovered when I checked it out this morning, ordinary time doesn't quite mean common. It is from the word "ordinal," which means "counted" time. The website I was perusing didn't really explain counting. Counting what? Probably the weeks until the next big show, like Advent.
In any case, it made me think that most of our time here on this planet is not party time like Christmas, or dire like Lent. It is just kind of, well, ordinary time. But, according to the church calendar anyway, it is counted. It counts. (Now the word "counts" is looking odd to me, as if perhaps I have not spelled it correctly. I guess I've used it too many times, so I'll stop.)
What occurs to me in not exactly a blinding flash is that our ordinary time matters, firstly because there is so much of it. Our journey through it ought to have some significance. Which brings me to the exercise today, which is, naturally: Ordinary Time.
Describe/draw someone you're very close to. Your spouse/child/friend/ father/mother, you get the idea. Do this exercise when the person is not present. Try for loving and positive, without getting all teary-eyed and sentimental.
Here's mine:
Mum has amazingly soft-looking skin. The skin of her face is like a kind of furrowed peach. She puts cold cream on it. No fancy potions for her. Cold cream, like many other simple things, have been good enough for her for eighty five years. There is a photo in the living room of mum and her sisters, arms entwined, around 1938. They have beautiful curling hair, puffed up around their faces. None of them look so different now, really. But mum, the oldest, has retained the most energy, the most activity. She does much of the yardwork still, trimming, watering and weeding her impatiens, the only annual she will plant. She complains about the yard all the time, but it's obvious she is pleased with it, to have it in her life yet, the same 1/2 acre yard she planned with my dad fifty years ago. Her hands are bumpy and blue-veined and arthritic, her feet are similarly afflicted, but she does not rest them much, does not give in to them. They are the cross she has to bear. Although she complains about small things, the water bill, the persistence of vines that encroach on the garden, she doesn't complain about her health. Once in awhile she'll sigh and fan herself, and say she has a headache. The extreme is "going to lay down," which again, she hardly ever does. She falls asleep at eight nearly every day while watching TV, and her head falls back, and her hands unclench, and she finally lets go of the vines and the water bill and my persistence in aggravating her and dreams then of a perfectly clean house, or a Dan Kane concert, or my dad sitting across the table from her once more...
As I was sitting there before the mass started, trying to distract myself from the wierdness of being in a church at all, I read in the church program thingy that we were now beginning the journey through ordinary time. What that means is that it's not a particularly special time, like Advent or Easter or Epiphany, etc. Yet, as I discovered when I checked it out this morning, ordinary time doesn't quite mean common. It is from the word "ordinal," which means "counted" time. The website I was perusing didn't really explain counting. Counting what? Probably the weeks until the next big show, like Advent.
In any case, it made me think that most of our time here on this planet is not party time like Christmas, or dire like Lent. It is just kind of, well, ordinary time. But, according to the church calendar anyway, it is counted. It counts. (Now the word "counts" is looking odd to me, as if perhaps I have not spelled it correctly. I guess I've used it too many times, so I'll stop.)
What occurs to me in not exactly a blinding flash is that our ordinary time matters, firstly because there is so much of it. Our journey through it ought to have some significance. Which brings me to the exercise today, which is, naturally: Ordinary Time.
Describe/draw someone you're very close to. Your spouse/child/friend/ father/mother, you get the idea. Do this exercise when the person is not present. Try for loving and positive, without getting all teary-eyed and sentimental.
Here's mine:
Mum has amazingly soft-looking skin. The skin of her face is like a kind of furrowed peach. She puts cold cream on it. No fancy potions for her. Cold cream, like many other simple things, have been good enough for her for eighty five years. There is a photo in the living room of mum and her sisters, arms entwined, around 1938. They have beautiful curling hair, puffed up around their faces. None of them look so different now, really. But mum, the oldest, has retained the most energy, the most activity. She does much of the yardwork still, trimming, watering and weeding her impatiens, the only annual she will plant. She complains about the yard all the time, but it's obvious she is pleased with it, to have it in her life yet, the same 1/2 acre yard she planned with my dad fifty years ago. Her hands are bumpy and blue-veined and arthritic, her feet are similarly afflicted, but she does not rest them much, does not give in to them. They are the cross she has to bear. Although she complains about small things, the water bill, the persistence of vines that encroach on the garden, she doesn't complain about her health. Once in awhile she'll sigh and fan herself, and say she has a headache. The extreme is "going to lay down," which again, she hardly ever does. She falls asleep at eight nearly every day while watching TV, and her head falls back, and her hands unclench, and she finally lets go of the vines and the water bill and my persistence in aggravating her and dreams then of a perfectly clean house, or a Dan Kane concert, or my dad sitting across the table from her once more...
Saturday, June 16, 2007
32 Perfections
Spent a good part of the past week getting Sparky off to the airport for his son's graduation from UCLA. See sidebar for a photo of Sparky. The preparations included planting trees, bathing a big dog, and bailing buckets of water out of the nearly overflowing washing machine. And of course the usual mad searches for clean t-shirts, matching socks, an unbesmirched tie. Then the actual race to the airport, with me clutching the steering wheel, white-knuckled, driving faster than I ever have except on other trips to get Sparky to airports relatively on time. It was only when we were pulling onto the ramp for the airport that Sparky discovered he was wearing two different (even though incredibly similar) boots.
When I got back to the house after this adventure, I collapsed and ate Boston Chicken and watched X-Files, in no mood to drive the hour plus back to mum's.
Then, the next day, yesterday in fact, my 'friend' came to visit, it was that time of the month, you can apply whichever euphemism you prefer for menstruation. And it was one of the approximately 3 times a year that I am truly stricken by the process. All I wanted to do was lie down and moan. I did manage to get back to mum's and get a little work done, but I also have this tendency to become incredibly brain dead, unable to think of the words for common things like 'cup' and 'window.' I actually say things when I'm in this state like: "Could you open the...thing. You know, the thing to the outside. That you can see through. You know." Needless to say, I didn't post.
But it got me to thinking about the next exercise. Yesterday I had also read about a young Nepalese girl's visit to Washington. Sajani Shakya is a 10 year old living goddess. She is a goddess because she has 32 perfections. It is believed the goddess Kali inhabits her and will do so until she reaches puberty, when the goddess will leave her, and she'll be retired and get a pension. This is a real, true thing. Even the pension.
But will she still have 32 perfections after she reaches puberty? Will menstruating somehow wash away those perfections? Now, even though I can't remember the word for 'window' and sound like David Sedaris speaking French when I try to refer to one, I think I still have at least 32 perfections. Maybe 56. Maybe more. You do, too, even if you're a man and don't menstruate at all.
So, this exercise is called 32 Perfections. And it's simple -- just look around you, look inside you, and perform and Act of Attention to your 32 perfections. What is perfect about your life, your person, your mind, your dog (although that's really the dog's perfections, not yours)? Write them, draw them. If you don't have time for 32 this round, do what you can then take an extra five minutes every day for the next however many days, and do a couple until you're up to 32.
My perfections have to start with:
1)My ability to write, which gives me so much joy. To write and spill my guts, or write about the most delicate images, the violet wash of color in footprints in the snow.
2)My ability to see, just to see yellow. Just to see the wrinkles in my mum's face, all soft and powdery. The bursting, silky peony...
I have been saying I will share my Bake a Cake exercise, or some of it, anyway. Here it is...
Did not bake a cake. Mum doesn't like me to use the stove, because of electric bill. Or maybe that's an excuse, and she expects me to burn the house down.
So...went on an adventure instead. There are mills in Indian Orchard (I want to base an exercise just on that name, someday). The mills used to produce cloth. Mum says that she bought a lot of my clothes there when I was young. Jerseys. There don't seem to be jerseys anymore, at least no one calls them that. In any case, there was a factory outlet store at the mill. Also, I remember my dad saying that the Chicopee River, that runs through the Orchard, used to be a different color every day from the dye. Disgusting, but I wonder if it wasn't kind of pretty, too. The mills now house a rug outlet, and artist's studios and a gallery.
The Orchard is plastered with banners, purple with white lettering, that tout the artist mills, and oddly, a Titanic museum housed behind Henry Ochrymowicz's jewelry and watch repair store. I'd never been to either, so opted for the gallery which seemed more promising, somehow.
After a kind of creepy drive through an industrial complex, now mostly abandoned, with broken windows and pot-holed roads, I found it and it was wonderful. Once I parked in the lot that was weedy and surrounded by crumbling loading docks and stairs that led no where, I found the entrance and went in. It was lovely. I immediately stopped imagining being done in in the parking lot by knife-wielding men with stockings over their faces.
The space was huge, and light-filled, the old factory elements muted by white walls and sage colored upholstered benches. And of course, art in many media. There was a warren of studios as well as the gallery, down narrow hallways, with all kinds of more art hanging on the walls. There was:
1)a stained glass dog, maybe a Boston Terrier, vivid and humorous.
2) a representational woman in a draping pink gown, looking very Edwardian- upper- class- tea- party. "After Thomas Eakins," the caption said, and I could see why.
3) bluey-pink landscape, with snowy crest of hill.
4) brown cows in a field...
When I got back to the house after this adventure, I collapsed and ate Boston Chicken and watched X-Files, in no mood to drive the hour plus back to mum's.
Then, the next day, yesterday in fact, my 'friend' came to visit, it was that time of the month, you can apply whichever euphemism you prefer for menstruation. And it was one of the approximately 3 times a year that I am truly stricken by the process. All I wanted to do was lie down and moan. I did manage to get back to mum's and get a little work done, but I also have this tendency to become incredibly brain dead, unable to think of the words for common things like 'cup' and 'window.' I actually say things when I'm in this state like: "Could you open the...thing. You know, the thing to the outside. That you can see through. You know." Needless to say, I didn't post.
But it got me to thinking about the next exercise. Yesterday I had also read about a young Nepalese girl's visit to Washington. Sajani Shakya is a 10 year old living goddess. She is a goddess because she has 32 perfections. It is believed the goddess Kali inhabits her and will do so until she reaches puberty, when the goddess will leave her, and she'll be retired and get a pension. This is a real, true thing. Even the pension.
But will she still have 32 perfections after she reaches puberty? Will menstruating somehow wash away those perfections? Now, even though I can't remember the word for 'window' and sound like David Sedaris speaking French when I try to refer to one, I think I still have at least 32 perfections. Maybe 56. Maybe more. You do, too, even if you're a man and don't menstruate at all.
So, this exercise is called 32 Perfections. And it's simple -- just look around you, look inside you, and perform and Act of Attention to your 32 perfections. What is perfect about your life, your person, your mind, your dog (although that's really the dog's perfections, not yours)? Write them, draw them. If you don't have time for 32 this round, do what you can then take an extra five minutes every day for the next however many days, and do a couple until you're up to 32.
My perfections have to start with:
1)My ability to write, which gives me so much joy. To write and spill my guts, or write about the most delicate images, the violet wash of color in footprints in the snow.
2)My ability to see, just to see yellow. Just to see the wrinkles in my mum's face, all soft and powdery. The bursting, silky peony...
I have been saying I will share my Bake a Cake exercise, or some of it, anyway. Here it is...
Did not bake a cake. Mum doesn't like me to use the stove, because of electric bill. Or maybe that's an excuse, and she expects me to burn the house down.
So...went on an adventure instead. There are mills in Indian Orchard (I want to base an exercise just on that name, someday). The mills used to produce cloth. Mum says that she bought a lot of my clothes there when I was young. Jerseys. There don't seem to be jerseys anymore, at least no one calls them that. In any case, there was a factory outlet store at the mill. Also, I remember my dad saying that the Chicopee River, that runs through the Orchard, used to be a different color every day from the dye. Disgusting, but I wonder if it wasn't kind of pretty, too. The mills now house a rug outlet, and artist's studios and a gallery.
The Orchard is plastered with banners, purple with white lettering, that tout the artist mills, and oddly, a Titanic museum housed behind Henry Ochrymowicz's jewelry and watch repair store. I'd never been to either, so opted for the gallery which seemed more promising, somehow.
After a kind of creepy drive through an industrial complex, now mostly abandoned, with broken windows and pot-holed roads, I found it and it was wonderful. Once I parked in the lot that was weedy and surrounded by crumbling loading docks and stairs that led no where, I found the entrance and went in. It was lovely. I immediately stopped imagining being done in in the parking lot by knife-wielding men with stockings over their faces.
The space was huge, and light-filled, the old factory elements muted by white walls and sage colored upholstered benches. And of course, art in many media. There was a warren of studios as well as the gallery, down narrow hallways, with all kinds of more art hanging on the walls. There was:
1)a stained glass dog, maybe a Boston Terrier, vivid and humorous.
2) a representational woman in a draping pink gown, looking very Edwardian- upper- class- tea- party. "After Thomas Eakins," the caption said, and I could see why.
3) bluey-pink landscape, with snowy crest of hill.
4) brown cows in a field...
Monday, June 11, 2007
Where's The Bundt Cake Pan?
As some of you have read, the last exercise was the Bake A Cake exercise. Not necessarily about baking a cake at all, but doing something calming that you really enjoy, committing an Act of Attention to the experience, and writing about it. You could bake a cake if you wanted, and my preffered way of doing this exercise is by baking a cake, hence its name. But I decided, by necessity partly, to do something different. I went to see art. I love museums and galleries, they calm me down. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring my Happiness Book, so can't transcribe it for you. Will do so my next post, by which time I hope to have figured out the scanning thing.
But while I was casting about for ideas re my Bake A Cake exercise, I was wondering...Where Is My Bundt Cake Pan? I make this fantastic cocoa spice cake with walnuts ground so fine they're like a fluffy powdery substance, quite unlike themselves, and buttermilk and molasses, as I recall. I still have the recipe, but the necessary Bundt pan went missing a while ago in one of my many moves. I have moved 21 times in 26 years. I admit this at the risk of sounding crazy, but I have gone a few years between some moves. It's just that some years I've moved a couple of times. Maybe that doesn't make me sound less crazy. But I recently discovered that Beethoven moved 44 times. That made me feel slightly better.
In any case, in all those moves, numerous and sundry objects have been left behind inadvertently or not, broken, stolen while momentarily unattended, fallen from the top of the car, etc. Pondering this, I remembered this exercise, called My Favorite Things. I am not a big fan of The Sound of Music, and particularly of the song, but it's appropriate. So, what is your favorite possession? The one thing that when you were moving, you would sit right next to you on the passenger seat of your car, swaddled in bubble wrap (if appropriate), making the friend helping you move scrunch in the back seat with piles of old New Yorkers and lamps and baskets of potpourri and other general detritus of your life. The possession most redolent of memory, most comforting. Is your favorite thing your high school yearbook, or your old Karmann Ghia, or the paisley blouse your daughter gave you for Mother's Day in 1969 that you can't wear anymore, but can't throw out either?
Whatever it may be, take it out, commit an Act of Attention to it. The thing itself, and the memories that arise from it like a cloud of incense, settling around your head.
OK. Mine is a cup. Or rather, a mug. It was given to me by my college roomate, junior year, when we had the most amazing huge room, and had tea every afternoon at four, complete with chocolate covered Wheatolos and really good tea, and loads of friends that would drop by for the ritual.
It is a Blue Willow mug. The pattern that I have loved ever since the mug came into my life. It tells a story. There is a landscape, blue on a white background, with a bridge, and willows and two flying birds, and two people on a bridge, and a third following. I think the two are supposed to be lovers fleeing from the woman's father, who kills them and they turn into the birds. Or something like that, with time compressed in the design. It is a ubiquitous design, being I think the first mass produced pattern in England, then here, now it's back to China, where it originated.
My blue willow mug is smallish, and a little squat, not elegant. But I love drinking from it, the way it feels smooth in my hand, with bits of the pattern peeping between my fingers-- the birds, then the willow, then the solitary man on the bridge.
The memories carried in this small piece of pottery extend over 25 years, and include The Speech. Every time I move and have a new housemate, I give The Speech. The speech consists of a warning. "You can use anything I own, maul it break it, take it to work and leave it under a radiator. But THIS (holding up the mug). If you use it and break it I'll kill you. If anybody's going to break it, it's going to be me." I can tell what kind of housemate they'll be by their reaction. If they just look at me like I'm a little touched and shrug and say OK, I know they'll basically be fine. If they swear up and down that they would never disrespect my possessions, and thank me for telling them, I know that the first time I go out, they'll use the mug. They will be compelled. If they say "If you even touch my hockey stick, the one that's signed by Bobby Orr, I'll kill you," I know it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship...
But while I was casting about for ideas re my Bake A Cake exercise, I was wondering...Where Is My Bundt Cake Pan? I make this fantastic cocoa spice cake with walnuts ground so fine they're like a fluffy powdery substance, quite unlike themselves, and buttermilk and molasses, as I recall. I still have the recipe, but the necessary Bundt pan went missing a while ago in one of my many moves. I have moved 21 times in 26 years. I admit this at the risk of sounding crazy, but I have gone a few years between some moves. It's just that some years I've moved a couple of times. Maybe that doesn't make me sound less crazy. But I recently discovered that Beethoven moved 44 times. That made me feel slightly better.
In any case, in all those moves, numerous and sundry objects have been left behind inadvertently or not, broken, stolen while momentarily unattended, fallen from the top of the car, etc. Pondering this, I remembered this exercise, called My Favorite Things. I am not a big fan of The Sound of Music, and particularly of the song, but it's appropriate. So, what is your favorite possession? The one thing that when you were moving, you would sit right next to you on the passenger seat of your car, swaddled in bubble wrap (if appropriate), making the friend helping you move scrunch in the back seat with piles of old New Yorkers and lamps and baskets of potpourri and other general detritus of your life. The possession most redolent of memory, most comforting. Is your favorite thing your high school yearbook, or your old Karmann Ghia, or the paisley blouse your daughter gave you for Mother's Day in 1969 that you can't wear anymore, but can't throw out either?
Whatever it may be, take it out, commit an Act of Attention to it. The thing itself, and the memories that arise from it like a cloud of incense, settling around your head.
OK. Mine is a cup. Or rather, a mug. It was given to me by my college roomate, junior year, when we had the most amazing huge room, and had tea every afternoon at four, complete with chocolate covered Wheatolos and really good tea, and loads of friends that would drop by for the ritual.
It is a Blue Willow mug. The pattern that I have loved ever since the mug came into my life. It tells a story. There is a landscape, blue on a white background, with a bridge, and willows and two flying birds, and two people on a bridge, and a third following. I think the two are supposed to be lovers fleeing from the woman's father, who kills them and they turn into the birds. Or something like that, with time compressed in the design. It is a ubiquitous design, being I think the first mass produced pattern in England, then here, now it's back to China, where it originated.
My blue willow mug is smallish, and a little squat, not elegant. But I love drinking from it, the way it feels smooth in my hand, with bits of the pattern peeping between my fingers-- the birds, then the willow, then the solitary man on the bridge.
The memories carried in this small piece of pottery extend over 25 years, and include The Speech. Every time I move and have a new housemate, I give The Speech. The speech consists of a warning. "You can use anything I own, maul it break it, take it to work and leave it under a radiator. But THIS (holding up the mug). If you use it and break it I'll kill you. If anybody's going to break it, it's going to be me." I can tell what kind of housemate they'll be by their reaction. If they just look at me like I'm a little touched and shrug and say OK, I know they'll basically be fine. If they swear up and down that they would never disrespect my possessions, and thank me for telling them, I know that the first time I go out, they'll use the mug. They will be compelled. If they say "If you even touch my hockey stick, the one that's signed by Bobby Orr, I'll kill you," I know it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship...
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Cultivating The Happiness Habit: Why Writing?
I was perusing our local used-t0-be-alternative-but-now-is-filled-with-advertising freebie newspaper, and came upon an article about happiness experiments conducted by a UC Santa Monica professor, Sonja Lyubomirsky. In case you don't know, positive psychology is an academic field growing by leaps and bounds. Everybody's doing it.
Ms. Lyubomirsky developed these particular experiments to attempt to discover whether people can rise above their genetic happiness set point (yes, apparently, happiness, like everything else, is about 50% genetically determined). Her objective is to find out how happiness works.
The conclusion she has come to after various studies is that, yes, happiness can be affected, can be increased by specific actions people take. In her studies, she has people keep gratitude journals, and "kindness interventions" (the article didn't specify how). The results indicated that as long as people practice happiness, they really are happier, but a few months after they stop, they become less happy. So habit seems to be key. The happiness strategies have to become habitual to keep working.
Which brings me to the real point of this post. Why writing? Why can writing be a great tool to practice happiness? I think because writing is already habitual to most of us. Besides breathing, speaking, walking and reading, it is probably the most habitual act we perform. Even if we don't think of it as real writing, we e-mail, we text, we write memos and lists and phone messages every day. So it should be easy to make the leap to using writing as a tool to create other habits, like the habit of happiness. That's my theory, anyway. You don't need to think of it as real writing, but like e-mails and lists, as a means to an end. You don't have to be a writer, you don't have to be an artist, you just have to PAY ATTENTION. Like Ann Lamott says in her book about writing, Bird by Bird, "...we may notice amazing details during the course a day, but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift." So, think of yourself as the author of your own life. Make yourself pay attention, write it, record it for posterity, which may be you ten years from now, or your kids or grandkids. Or maybe you'll be the Samuel Pepys of your generation, the great diarist of the common man or woman.
Anyway, enough proselytizing. Here's the exercise. Which I have not done yet, bad me. Not that I haven't done it in the past many times, but...I usually bake a cake or cook something, and right now I can't, mum has a hissy every time I use the stove for more than five minutes, so I have to get over myself and just do something else then report back Monday. I call this exercise, for the reason above, Bake a Cake.
Think of one thing that gives you a real break from your daily stuff. It should be something solitary this time, so you can really concentrate and commit a good Act of Attention. A bike ride, or baking a cake, or just driving or walking to a pretty spot in your neighborhood. Something pretty tranquil.
Find an hour at least to do this exercise. Just before you start, take your anxiety pulse. Are you an anxious 7 on a scale of 1-10? Write your 'score' down. Then start your activity. Really pay attention to the experience. Take notes if it's not dangerous, don't perch your notebook on your steering wheel (I've done it and can't recommend it). If you can't take notes, just try to remember as much as you are able. The misty day, the dewy feeling on your skin. Remember the shiny smoothness of batter, the intense, grainy sweetness when you taste it.
Or do any people who may pass seem preoccupied, energized, exhausted? What are they wearing? What expressions are on their faces? I once noticed while driving that most people had angry expressions on their faces. Another day, they all looked crazy. One was driving through a sea of balloons packed into a tiny car.
Try to remember any details you can, even if they're not bizarre. Then, as soon as you're done, write your experience and/or draw it. Every detail. Then take your anxiety pulse once more. Is it lower? Is it a lot lower? Bet it is.
Ms. Lyubomirsky developed these particular experiments to attempt to discover whether people can rise above their genetic happiness set point (yes, apparently, happiness, like everything else, is about 50% genetically determined). Her objective is to find out how happiness works.
The conclusion she has come to after various studies is that, yes, happiness can be affected, can be increased by specific actions people take. In her studies, she has people keep gratitude journals, and "kindness interventions" (the article didn't specify how). The results indicated that as long as people practice happiness, they really are happier, but a few months after they stop, they become less happy. So habit seems to be key. The happiness strategies have to become habitual to keep working.
Which brings me to the real point of this post. Why writing? Why can writing be a great tool to practice happiness? I think because writing is already habitual to most of us. Besides breathing, speaking, walking and reading, it is probably the most habitual act we perform. Even if we don't think of it as real writing, we e-mail, we text, we write memos and lists and phone messages every day. So it should be easy to make the leap to using writing as a tool to create other habits, like the habit of happiness. That's my theory, anyway. You don't need to think of it as real writing, but like e-mails and lists, as a means to an end. You don't have to be a writer, you don't have to be an artist, you just have to PAY ATTENTION. Like Ann Lamott says in her book about writing, Bird by Bird, "...we may notice amazing details during the course a day, but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift." So, think of yourself as the author of your own life. Make yourself pay attention, write it, record it for posterity, which may be you ten years from now, or your kids or grandkids. Or maybe you'll be the Samuel Pepys of your generation, the great diarist of the common man or woman.
Anyway, enough proselytizing. Here's the exercise. Which I have not done yet, bad me. Not that I haven't done it in the past many times, but...I usually bake a cake or cook something, and right now I can't, mum has a hissy every time I use the stove for more than five minutes, so I have to get over myself and just do something else then report back Monday. I call this exercise, for the reason above, Bake a Cake.
Think of one thing that gives you a real break from your daily stuff. It should be something solitary this time, so you can really concentrate and commit a good Act of Attention. A bike ride, or baking a cake, or just driving or walking to a pretty spot in your neighborhood. Something pretty tranquil.
Find an hour at least to do this exercise. Just before you start, take your anxiety pulse. Are you an anxious 7 on a scale of 1-10? Write your 'score' down. Then start your activity. Really pay attention to the experience. Take notes if it's not dangerous, don't perch your notebook on your steering wheel (I've done it and can't recommend it). If you can't take notes, just try to remember as much as you are able. The misty day, the dewy feeling on your skin. Remember the shiny smoothness of batter, the intense, grainy sweetness when you taste it.
Or do any people who may pass seem preoccupied, energized, exhausted? What are they wearing? What expressions are on their faces? I once noticed while driving that most people had angry expressions on their faces. Another day, they all looked crazy. One was driving through a sea of balloons packed into a tiny car.
Try to remember any details you can, even if they're not bizarre. Then, as soon as you're done, write your experience and/or draw it. Every detail. Then take your anxiety pulse once more. Is it lower? Is it a lot lower? Bet it is.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
The Elusivity/Elasticity of Happiness
OK, so I'm not even going to go into what happiness is. I'll leave that to the experts. Suffice it to say we know it when we feel it.
But here's a burning question. Why are so many people somewhat miserable, somewhat often? I have a crackpot theory, and it goes way back to our founding fathers. Why did these otherwise really smart guys go with Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. That implies we Amuricans will never achieve it, only be doomed to the bloody pursuit ad infinitum. Why couldn't they just say we're entitled to Life, Liberty and Happiness and not qualify it? They jinxed us.
Whatever the theories are, lot's of people are unhappy. Often with good reason. But really, we are our best sources of happiness, or not. We can't count on a new car, or a trip to the Mall of America. Sometimes all we want to do is stay in bed all day. Sometimes I do. But inevitably, after a while, I get up, eat an egg (Jane Austen's Mr Woodhouse says eggs are not unwholesome), talk to my dogs for awhile, then get back to the world.
Sometimes I don't want to go. I feel exhausted, sweaty, feverish. But I desperately want to go. I am sick to death of my mum's obsessively clean house, the pristine neighborhood where there aren't any real people outside, only landscapers roaring around on the Chemlawned expanses. I want to see people, feel connected. So I force myself to just do it.
Here's the assignment. The one I call Back to the World. Go to a place where there are people. Bring your notebook. Sit in a cafe, or on a park bench, or the mall foodcourt if need be, and cultivate your senses. Use them all. Notice what people say to each other(or themselves). How do they use language? Write them down, word for word. Their conversations may be quirky or amusing or dull, but notice.Describe the people who walk by. Their clothes and hair and dogs. Smell the pizza in the air. Is it veggie or pepperoni? How do the clouds move across the sky?
Alright, now I'm in the cafe. (I am drawing as well as writing, but stupidly haven't yet figured out how to let you see them) Here's a guy who came in. His hair is pretty outrageously curly. I wrecked his eye -- it looks like he's wearing an eye patch. Oh, well.
Then there's this guy, who has all kinds of lines in his face when he smiles. He's not bad looking in real life, but my drawing makes him look ghoulish. I am still terrible at drawing people, but that's not the point. I'm absorbed and entertained. And my bad drawings make me laugh, and laughter is good for the soul.
Here's a guy with a cap, and a big wad of food in his cheek. He reminds me of an old boyfriend who had this theory of eating. He took the biggest bite of food he could manage to stuff in his mouth, wadded it up in his cheek, and then chewed methodically, bit by bit, swallowing when each bit was mush. He had to chew like forty times for each bit, and each wad took about five minutes. He was the slowest eater I've ever known...
This exercise always makes me happy. I am usually uplifted or armed with some fresh absurdity by my observations
There are all kinds of people in the world, with interesting or silly habits and thoughts. You are only one of them. While you're busy observing and noticing, someone may be observing you, too. We can all be part of making each other's day, making one another's story.
But here's a burning question. Why are so many people somewhat miserable, somewhat often? I have a crackpot theory, and it goes way back to our founding fathers. Why did these otherwise really smart guys go with Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. That implies we Amuricans will never achieve it, only be doomed to the bloody pursuit ad infinitum. Why couldn't they just say we're entitled to Life, Liberty and Happiness and not qualify it? They jinxed us.
Whatever the theories are, lot's of people are unhappy. Often with good reason. But really, we are our best sources of happiness, or not. We can't count on a new car, or a trip to the Mall of America. Sometimes all we want to do is stay in bed all day. Sometimes I do. But inevitably, after a while, I get up, eat an egg (Jane Austen's Mr Woodhouse says eggs are not unwholesome), talk to my dogs for awhile, then get back to the world.
Sometimes I don't want to go. I feel exhausted, sweaty, feverish. But I desperately want to go. I am sick to death of my mum's obsessively clean house, the pristine neighborhood where there aren't any real people outside, only landscapers roaring around on the Chemlawned expanses. I want to see people, feel connected. So I force myself to just do it.
Here's the assignment. The one I call Back to the World. Go to a place where there are people. Bring your notebook. Sit in a cafe, or on a park bench, or the mall foodcourt if need be, and cultivate your senses. Use them all. Notice what people say to each other(or themselves). How do they use language? Write them down, word for word. Their conversations may be quirky or amusing or dull, but notice.Describe the people who walk by. Their clothes and hair and dogs. Smell the pizza in the air. Is it veggie or pepperoni? How do the clouds move across the sky?
Alright, now I'm in the cafe. (I am drawing as well as writing, but stupidly haven't yet figured out how to let you see them) Here's a guy who came in. His hair is pretty outrageously curly. I wrecked his eye -- it looks like he's wearing an eye patch. Oh, well.
Then there's this guy, who has all kinds of lines in his face when he smiles. He's not bad looking in real life, but my drawing makes him look ghoulish. I am still terrible at drawing people, but that's not the point. I'm absorbed and entertained. And my bad drawings make me laugh, and laughter is good for the soul.
Here's a guy with a cap, and a big wad of food in his cheek. He reminds me of an old boyfriend who had this theory of eating. He took the biggest bite of food he could manage to stuff in his mouth, wadded it up in his cheek, and then chewed methodically, bit by bit, swallowing when each bit was mush. He had to chew like forty times for each bit, and each wad took about five minutes. He was the slowest eater I've ever known...
This exercise always makes me happy. I am usually uplifted or armed with some fresh absurdity by my observations
There are all kinds of people in the world, with interesting or silly habits and thoughts. You are only one of them. While you're busy observing and noticing, someone may be observing you, too. We can all be part of making each other's day, making one another's story.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
An Act of Attention - a happiness how-to
AN ACT OF ATTENTION
(Pre-script: Sorry these beginning posts are so long -- they will get shorter once the explanatory stuff is out of the way. For the impatient, the happiness exercise is in bold type, as are my run-ins with them. The quotation marks indicate a book excerpt)
"To allow happiness to save your life, I am advocating two steps.
The first is to try to see, hear, smell, feel the world around you, at least once a day.
Really notice light, clouds, rain in puddles. Feel the air on your skin. Or in the supermarket, notice the pyramids of fruit, the colors, the textures, all the abundance. Or take a shower and really feel the warmth of the water sluicing down your skin, the steam in your nose. Close your eyes and just feel it. Try not to think of anything else.
Then, take the Act of Attention to another level. Create something from it. Bring a small notebook and a pen or pencil wherever you go. Then you can write or draw your experience of your Acts of Attention. Writing for me is easiest, although sometimes I draw, too. Remember, this is for your eyes only, so you don’t have to be intimidated. Use the medium that feels most comfortable, or a combination. No one else will see your drawing or writing unless you choose to show them. This is only for you.
You don’t have to produce anything akin to Leonardo’s notebooks the first week, or ever. God knows I haven’t. Nor does your writing or drawing need to be particularly “creative.” This is initially, at least, only a tool to remember experiences, to recreate them and to have a record. If you feel that you must be “artistic” it’s doubtful you’ll do anything but create more pressure in your life.
Keep It Simple
At first, just notice the day. Write the date and time, your estimate of the temperature, generally what the weather is like—cloudy, sunny, snowing. And one or two other observations, after really attending to some aspect or aspects of life around you. Squirrels are good. “There is a squirrel in the backyard.” Then try to draw it or describe it. “A fat and happy squirrel, getting ready for winter. It seems redder than other squirrels. It just looked at me. Maybe it’s observing me, too. It has little beady eyes.” Remember, it doesn’t have to be a profound Act of Attention. It just has to be one.
If you’re thinking now, “How can noticing a squirrel, then making an inept drawing of it make me happy? This project is a dumb waste of time,” I’m sure you’re not alone. But these will be your Acts of Attention, your drawings and writings that will be aids to your memory. The moments of happiness, or simply moments of attention in your own life. Believe me, they will eventually accumulate and make you appreciate your life and your self more than you ever have.
What You Will Need
1) This book, for a while. How to use it: read it through, doing the exercises as they come up (or the next day if you don’t have time while reading). Then embark on the thirty exercises at the back of the book, one for each day of a month. Then you can repeat them, or make up your own.
2) A notebook and a pen or pencil.
(Choose them well. The notebook should be a size that is easy to take everywhere, to carry in your backpack or purse or shirt pocket, depending on how light you travel. The paper quality should suit your writing tool. I like juicy pens, so I need pages that will not bleed through. They can be lined or unlined, whichever you prefer. The notebook should be bound well so that pages don’t fall out. Experiment with paper, pens and pencils. Find what you like best. This is important. You must enjoy using them, whether you use a designer pen and notebook or a #2 pencil and your second grader’s discarded Malibu Barbie notebook.)
3) Twenty minutes a day (less if this is not possible, but twenty is optimal).
That’s all.
Getting Started
So you have your notebook and your pen. Set aside twenty minutes. Sit in a comfortable place in your home, at your kitchen table, in a recliner, on your bed, out in your garden if you have one. Write the date and time. Now look around you. Write something about the first thing you see. Really look at it, as if you’d never seen it before. Then take your time writing, drawing. You don’t have to speed, you can be very deliberate. Really look before you put pen to paper, then think what you want to say before you write. “There is a water glass on the table. It has a blue tint to it, and swirls in the glass. It is from my mother’s house. I remember it came from a box of laundry detergent, a long time ago, when I was a child.” Then write about the next thing. “The curtains in this room are faded, like ivory. They would look really good if someone embroidered on them, in pale colors.” “My dog is chewing a rawhide as big as his head. The end looks all soft and smushy, like dough from him gnawing at it.”
THE FIVE EASY PIECES EXERCISE: Write about five things you see. Write whatever you happen to observe or think about them. Write only a few sentences for each object. Then if you like, you can draw them as well. Try not to be too critical. Try not to incorporate your own feelings, unless they are either fairly neutral or positive feelings. Go.
If this has taken you twenty minutes, that’s fine. If not, look at more things, describe them. Draw them if you want. If you commit Acts of Attention to only three objects, that’s fine, too, as long as you use all your time. Then stop and read what you wrote, look at what you drew. Do not judge. Close the book and wait till tomorrow.
Congratulations. You have started on the road to being happier."
OK, so here are my five easy pieces, from the garden that I can see out the window, as it is raining massively and I wanted to start with the garden:
A fan of chives, the green of the stems dripping, and the puffed heads of the flowers, the color of the thistle crayon in the BIG box of Crayola crayons. Always it was one of my favorite colors, along with sea green and salmon. The kind of colors you would only need in bottom of the ocean mermaid coloring books.
There is a large plastic owl in the garden, the kind they sell in hardware stores to keep the crows from stealing the seeds. Only there is a huge and shiny and rain-soaked crow perched atop the owl, looking very pleased with himself.
Marigolds, which surround my bedraggled basil plants at the stage where they’ve not decided whether to flourish or give up the ghost. The basil seems kind of transparent, as ghosts are portrayed. The marigolds, however, are almost wildly bright and look pleased with themselves.
A pot of geraniums, whose leaves I love, circles of green with darker hearts inscribed on them. I tend to notice the leaves more than the flowers, even though these are bright screaming pink and want to be admired beyond reason.The leaves yet remind me of Fantasia flowers, although it’s been forever since I saw the film, the images are still vivid in my mind.
Rhubarb. Talk about leaves. I made a hat from one on Sunday, remembering a Eudora Welty character making her baby a hat out of a leaf. Oh, it was Gloria in Losing Battles. One of the best summer books. But rhubarb is the quintessence of spring. It’s sharpness, it’s pink and greeness. Made a strawberry rhubarb pie. I got the crust right even though it was not pretty. Flaky and crisp and delicate brown, with the filling leaking a little, just enough to glaze the edges a bright berry pink.
So, that took about twenty minutes to write. Could have written more except that I was distracted by my mother coming in and asking, “Are you writing?” I nodded my head. She continued right along. “There are some good specials at Big Y, but I don’t like to park there. And I don’t like the aisles being so narrow. You know, I saw a cat in the garage the other day. I don’t know, I think it’s terrible that people let their cats roam around...” I try to just carry on, and I don’t know, I guess I really started doing this blog to save my life (see my profile, which should be up v. soon). And no, I’m not 14 years old...but the five easy pieces exercise did make me happier, it really did. Hope it does the same for you.
[.1]
(Pre-script: Sorry these beginning posts are so long -- they will get shorter once the explanatory stuff is out of the way. For the impatient, the happiness exercise is in bold type, as are my run-ins with them. The quotation marks indicate a book excerpt)
"To allow happiness to save your life, I am advocating two steps.
The first is to try to see, hear, smell, feel the world around you, at least once a day.
Really notice light, clouds, rain in puddles. Feel the air on your skin. Or in the supermarket, notice the pyramids of fruit, the colors, the textures, all the abundance. Or take a shower and really feel the warmth of the water sluicing down your skin, the steam in your nose. Close your eyes and just feel it. Try not to think of anything else.
Then, take the Act of Attention to another level. Create something from it. Bring a small notebook and a pen or pencil wherever you go. Then you can write or draw your experience of your Acts of Attention. Writing for me is easiest, although sometimes I draw, too. Remember, this is for your eyes only, so you don’t have to be intimidated. Use the medium that feels most comfortable, or a combination. No one else will see your drawing or writing unless you choose to show them. This is only for you.
You don’t have to produce anything akin to Leonardo’s notebooks the first week, or ever. God knows I haven’t. Nor does your writing or drawing need to be particularly “creative.” This is initially, at least, only a tool to remember experiences, to recreate them and to have a record. If you feel that you must be “artistic” it’s doubtful you’ll do anything but create more pressure in your life.
Keep It Simple
At first, just notice the day. Write the date and time, your estimate of the temperature, generally what the weather is like—cloudy, sunny, snowing. And one or two other observations, after really attending to some aspect or aspects of life around you. Squirrels are good. “There is a squirrel in the backyard.” Then try to draw it or describe it. “A fat and happy squirrel, getting ready for winter. It seems redder than other squirrels. It just looked at me. Maybe it’s observing me, too. It has little beady eyes.” Remember, it doesn’t have to be a profound Act of Attention. It just has to be one.
If you’re thinking now, “How can noticing a squirrel, then making an inept drawing of it make me happy? This project is a dumb waste of time,” I’m sure you’re not alone. But these will be your Acts of Attention, your drawings and writings that will be aids to your memory. The moments of happiness, or simply moments of attention in your own life. Believe me, they will eventually accumulate and make you appreciate your life and your self more than you ever have.
What You Will Need
1) This book, for a while. How to use it: read it through, doing the exercises as they come up (or the next day if you don’t have time while reading). Then embark on the thirty exercises at the back of the book, one for each day of a month. Then you can repeat them, or make up your own.
2) A notebook and a pen or pencil.
(Choose them well. The notebook should be a size that is easy to take everywhere, to carry in your backpack or purse or shirt pocket, depending on how light you travel. The paper quality should suit your writing tool. I like juicy pens, so I need pages that will not bleed through. They can be lined or unlined, whichever you prefer. The notebook should be bound well so that pages don’t fall out. Experiment with paper, pens and pencils. Find what you like best. This is important. You must enjoy using them, whether you use a designer pen and notebook or a #2 pencil and your second grader’s discarded Malibu Barbie notebook.)
3) Twenty minutes a day (less if this is not possible, but twenty is optimal).
That’s all.
Getting Started
So you have your notebook and your pen. Set aside twenty minutes. Sit in a comfortable place in your home, at your kitchen table, in a recliner, on your bed, out in your garden if you have one. Write the date and time. Now look around you. Write something about the first thing you see. Really look at it, as if you’d never seen it before. Then take your time writing, drawing. You don’t have to speed, you can be very deliberate. Really look before you put pen to paper, then think what you want to say before you write. “There is a water glass on the table. It has a blue tint to it, and swirls in the glass. It is from my mother’s house. I remember it came from a box of laundry detergent, a long time ago, when I was a child.” Then write about the next thing. “The curtains in this room are faded, like ivory. They would look really good if someone embroidered on them, in pale colors.” “My dog is chewing a rawhide as big as his head. The end looks all soft and smushy, like dough from him gnawing at it.”
THE FIVE EASY PIECES EXERCISE: Write about five things you see. Write whatever you happen to observe or think about them. Write only a few sentences for each object. Then if you like, you can draw them as well. Try not to be too critical. Try not to incorporate your own feelings, unless they are either fairly neutral or positive feelings. Go.
If this has taken you twenty minutes, that’s fine. If not, look at more things, describe them. Draw them if you want. If you commit Acts of Attention to only three objects, that’s fine, too, as long as you use all your time. Then stop and read what you wrote, look at what you drew. Do not judge. Close the book and wait till tomorrow.
Congratulations. You have started on the road to being happier."
OK, so here are my five easy pieces, from the garden that I can see out the window, as it is raining massively and I wanted to start with the garden:
A fan of chives, the green of the stems dripping, and the puffed heads of the flowers, the color of the thistle crayon in the BIG box of Crayola crayons. Always it was one of my favorite colors, along with sea green and salmon. The kind of colors you would only need in bottom of the ocean mermaid coloring books.
There is a large plastic owl in the garden, the kind they sell in hardware stores to keep the crows from stealing the seeds. Only there is a huge and shiny and rain-soaked crow perched atop the owl, looking very pleased with himself.
Marigolds, which surround my bedraggled basil plants at the stage where they’ve not decided whether to flourish or give up the ghost. The basil seems kind of transparent, as ghosts are portrayed. The marigolds, however, are almost wildly bright and look pleased with themselves.
A pot of geraniums, whose leaves I love, circles of green with darker hearts inscribed on them. I tend to notice the leaves more than the flowers, even though these are bright screaming pink and want to be admired beyond reason.The leaves yet remind me of Fantasia flowers, although it’s been forever since I saw the film, the images are still vivid in my mind.
Rhubarb. Talk about leaves. I made a hat from one on Sunday, remembering a Eudora Welty character making her baby a hat out of a leaf. Oh, it was Gloria in Losing Battles. One of the best summer books. But rhubarb is the quintessence of spring. It’s sharpness, it’s pink and greeness. Made a strawberry rhubarb pie. I got the crust right even though it was not pretty. Flaky and crisp and delicate brown, with the filling leaking a little, just enough to glaze the edges a bright berry pink.
So, that took about twenty minutes to write. Could have written more except that I was distracted by my mother coming in and asking, “Are you writing?” I nodded my head. She continued right along. “There are some good specials at Big Y, but I don’t like to park there. And I don’t like the aisles being so narrow. You know, I saw a cat in the garage the other day. I don’t know, I think it’s terrible that people let their cats roam around...” I try to just carry on, and I don’t know, I guess I really started doing this blog to save my life (see my profile, which should be up v. soon). And no, I’m not 14 years old...but the five easy pieces exercise did make me happier, it really did. Hope it does the same for you.
[.1]
Monday, June 4, 2007
The Save Your Life Project
Is happiness like to a bolt of lightning, striking haphazardly when you least expect it? Or can it be controlled, even created?
I think the latter is true. I've done it. I also think I can teach you to do the same. I am beginning the Save Your Life Project as an experiment to see if I'm right. Also as a kind of testing ground for the book I'm writing, naturally entitled Happiness Can Save Your Life.
Here's the story: I have written all my life. Poems and essays and a novel and a half. Also massive quantities of journals. I have a banana box stuffed full of them, from strange little horsey girl musings I wrote when I was eight, to a 300 page travelogue about a 10,000mile odyssey with a folksinger boyfriend and two big dogs in a 1982 Toyota Corolla. Not unusual, I know.
But then, pretty recently, I had this two-by-four to the head realization. What was actually happening, if I did it right, was that the endless journaling made me happier. Like, a lot. The key was doing it the right way. The right way, I discovered, is to really focus on something, then write about it in as much detail as I can, taking as much time as I can. Sort of the opposite of Julia Cameron's morning pages, if you're familiar with her good books, like The Artist's Way. I don't spew all my woes onto paper, don't speculate on my dog's inexplicable diarroeah (sp? I never do remember the spelling of diarroeah), or ponder the nature of erstwhile friends, although all this is undoubtedly very cathartic. I commit an ACT OF ATTENTION (capitalized because this is a key concept of the project). Recently the objects of my Acts of Attention have been, in no particular order: a really amazing purple and white iris, a silk scarf with bullfighters on, very stylized and cool, that I recently unearthed from a cedar chest in my mother's house, my feet. Yes, I did say my feet.
Then, I write about the Act of Attention, and/or draw it, in a notebook just for this purpose. I only allow myself to make positive observations. And I did say draw, although I'm the worst drawer in the world, as you will see when I figure out how to scan my bad drawings into this blog.
And that's it. It usually takes about twenty minutes a day, and only requires a notebook, a pen, and if you want to get fancy, it's nice to have colored pencils for drawing.
"How can this make me happier?" you will undoubtedly be saying. I am not sure, but I think it's just the really paying attention to what is around you, this minute. Then recording it. Giving your real life now some respect, loving your life by attending to its details. You can create your own Happiness book. All I can say is, it works for me, and it might work for you, too.
You don't have to be a writer.
You don't have to be an artist.
You don't have to be rich (to be my girl...only kidding...love Prince).
You only have to be open to making your own happiness, and giving it twenty minutes a day (more on time later).
The idea is that I will post at least three times a week, letting you know about the Save Your Life exercises I am doing, and hope you will do, and let you know my progress on the book, including excerpts. To spark your interest, some chapters are: "When Your Life Feels Like a Scary Movie," "Before You Got Nintendo," and "I want to be Julia Child." Which in itself might seem like a scary movie, unless you're a little wacked and food-obsessed like me.
What do you have to do, if you think you want to try this to be happier? Read the posts. Do the exercises. Let me know how it goes if you want to. That's it.
What this is not about:
The psychology or science of happiness...very popular subjct, see Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert...great book.
Geeky Happiness tips. Although I may sneak some in occasionally. (Chocolate (especially Dagoba Xocolatl) = happiness!)
Earnest New Age/inner child stuff, although in my book, the Dalai Lama is seriously cool. And not New Agey at all. Tibetan culture is hardly new, anyway.
So, that's about it, except for a disclaimer: I really have no idea how to blog, so please bear with me. I am probably the most technologically challenged person I know besides my 85 year old mom.
Next post tomorrow, including a suggested Act of Attention, and my own response to it, to give you more of a clue.
I think the latter is true. I've done it. I also think I can teach you to do the same. I am beginning the Save Your Life Project as an experiment to see if I'm right. Also as a kind of testing ground for the book I'm writing, naturally entitled Happiness Can Save Your Life.
Here's the story: I have written all my life. Poems and essays and a novel and a half. Also massive quantities of journals. I have a banana box stuffed full of them, from strange little horsey girl musings I wrote when I was eight, to a 300 page travelogue about a 10,000mile odyssey with a folksinger boyfriend and two big dogs in a 1982 Toyota Corolla. Not unusual, I know.
But then, pretty recently, I had this two-by-four to the head realization. What was actually happening, if I did it right, was that the endless journaling made me happier. Like, a lot. The key was doing it the right way. The right way, I discovered, is to really focus on something, then write about it in as much detail as I can, taking as much time as I can. Sort of the opposite of Julia Cameron's morning pages, if you're familiar with her good books, like The Artist's Way. I don't spew all my woes onto paper, don't speculate on my dog's inexplicable diarroeah (sp? I never do remember the spelling of diarroeah), or ponder the nature of erstwhile friends, although all this is undoubtedly very cathartic. I commit an ACT OF ATTENTION (capitalized because this is a key concept of the project). Recently the objects of my Acts of Attention have been, in no particular order: a really amazing purple and white iris, a silk scarf with bullfighters on, very stylized and cool, that I recently unearthed from a cedar chest in my mother's house, my feet. Yes, I did say my feet.
Then, I write about the Act of Attention, and/or draw it, in a notebook just for this purpose. I only allow myself to make positive observations. And I did say draw, although I'm the worst drawer in the world, as you will see when I figure out how to scan my bad drawings into this blog.
And that's it. It usually takes about twenty minutes a day, and only requires a notebook, a pen, and if you want to get fancy, it's nice to have colored pencils for drawing.
"How can this make me happier?" you will undoubtedly be saying. I am not sure, but I think it's just the really paying attention to what is around you, this minute. Then recording it. Giving your real life now some respect, loving your life by attending to its details. You can create your own Happiness book. All I can say is, it works for me, and it might work for you, too.
You don't have to be a writer.
You don't have to be an artist.
You don't have to be rich (to be my girl...only kidding...love Prince).
You only have to be open to making your own happiness, and giving it twenty minutes a day (more on time later).
The idea is that I will post at least three times a week, letting you know about the Save Your Life exercises I am doing, and hope you will do, and let you know my progress on the book, including excerpts. To spark your interest, some chapters are: "When Your Life Feels Like a Scary Movie," "Before You Got Nintendo," and "I want to be Julia Child." Which in itself might seem like a scary movie, unless you're a little wacked and food-obsessed like me.
What do you have to do, if you think you want to try this to be happier? Read the posts. Do the exercises. Let me know how it goes if you want to. That's it.
What this is not about:
The psychology or science of happiness...very popular subjct, see Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert...great book.
Geeky Happiness tips. Although I may sneak some in occasionally. (Chocolate (especially Dagoba Xocolatl) = happiness!)
Earnest New Age/inner child stuff, although in my book, the Dalai Lama is seriously cool. And not New Agey at all. Tibetan culture is hardly new, anyway.
So, that's about it, except for a disclaimer: I really have no idea how to blog, so please bear with me. I am probably the most technologically challenged person I know besides my 85 year old mom.
Next post tomorrow, including a suggested Act of Attention, and my own response to it, to give you more of a clue.
Cheers,
C
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