Your Own Little World

Sometimes we forget that everyone (including us) is in his/her own little world. We think that at least the people closest to us share the same experiences, have the same feelings, about the same things, but it's not really true. We are there, behind our own eyes, and no one has much idea what's happening behind them. One of the most terrifying thoughts for me is that someday, in real life and not just science fiction, we'll be equipped with some kind of implant that allows us to see into one another's minds. To know without a doubt what other people are experiencing. The terror probably comes from the notion I have that in the eventuality the implants become a reality, there will be no further need for fiction. But it's more than that. I like having my own private world to retreat to. I like the thoughts and things around me that make me who I am. What I value, actually downright love, in no particular order: my mother of pearl opera glasses, my shedding white Border Collies, my Sparky, my Winston Dictionary, my big box full of journals, Crayola crayons (especially the carnation and cornflower and sea green ones), the lavender light in snowy footprints, sweet corn, dancing, Annie Proulx's novels, Alice Munro's short stories, Cajun music, Renee Fleming's voice, the huge blooms of dahlias, Halloween, fireworks, my hands, and on and on. And I'd be willing to bet no other person on earth has the same list of loves that I do. That no person alive has the same list as any other. Or the same list of terrors, or kindnesses, or betrayals. We are steeped in uniqueness, and that's easy to forget. So your happiness assignment for the day is to go deep into Your Own Little World. Make a list of your loves, your longings, your quirks, and love them, because they make you unique. Choose one, and write about it, draw it. Appreciate everything that makes you your own self. And if you find out about research into those implants, do your best to sabotage it, will you?

So What?

It's interesting to have a condition like fibromyalgia, which for me, sometimes makes an appearance in the transitional seasons, Spring and Fall. Happily, the really awful years of the illness are past and I can usually be pretty functional even when I have symptoms, and most of the year be just fine and dandy. But when the illness asserts itself, in addition to being quite tired much of the time, and having some joint discomfort, I often find myself in a kind of altered state. I lose language, which you'd think would be terrible for a writer, but oddly it isn't bad. It makes me think in a different way, maybe the way people think when they take some kinds of mind-altering drugs (my experience with those have been nil, so I can't really say, but from what I've read my experience is similar). Everything slows down. I even feel my pulse get sluggish. My eyes unfocus, and the world seems like an Impressionist painting. When I relax into it, it actually feels kind of good. And probably is good for me. At least it forces me to reduce my stress level to nearly non-existent. It took me a long time to be able to do this, to just relax into it. Years, in fact. But when I fight it, it lasts longer, gets into my joints, is painful and frustrating. So now I just sit back and enjoy it. So what if I just stupidly gaze at 'pretty flowers,' and can't remember that they're called nasturtiums? So what if I read the same sentence in a book five times before I can understand it well enough to move on to the next one? I just try to read sentences that are really fine ones when I'm in a fibro fog. Annie Dillard or Thoreau are good. So what if I sit out by the brook and watch our dogs and rabbit snarf around all afternoon. It's kind of like being four again. It's kind of soothing.
One thing I've learned from this whole fibro fog thing is the pleasure of not fighting, of just being. So the exercise of the day is to say So What. So what if the dishes don't get done. So what if you serve scrambled eggs for dinner instead of roast lamb, then go sit in the backyard and Just Be. It won't kill anybody, least of all yourself. Notice the pretty flowers. Notice the clouds. Notice the leaves falling like snow around you. Then write it, draw it. But only if you feel like. Otherwise, say So What till tomorrow.

Pudding Contests and Camels

This was a strange weekend. I got sick again, because of the dreaded shift back to cold weather. But before I did that, I went off on some odd excursions. Where I live in Westen Massachusetts, there are interesting and sometimes downright strange events. The usual Harvest Festivals, a Cider Day, huge craft fairs abound. But none of those I've attended have struck me as so perfectly New Englandy as the Hawley Pudding Contest. I've been wanting to go for years, but it's never incredibly well-publicized and I always miss it. But this year, I made it, Sparky in tow. It was held at a small church. It began with a buffet ham and bean supper (it was really lunch, but we call every meal that takes place in a church a 'supper' in New England). Sparky was over the moon. He loves ham. I just skulked around, waiting for the pudding to appear. In my naivete, I thought it would be a decorous award announcement, and perhaps a pudding viewing and (I hoped) tasting. No such thing. This was an extravaganza of small town life. After the 'supper,' we were asked to enter the church proper, as the pudding contenders were readying to parade. And parade they did, carrying their dishes of sweet or savory pudding proudly before them. Some were in costume, as the pudding contest originated sometime in the late 1700's. There was song. There was a talk about vanilla. There was a pretty impressive performance from one of the judges, the culinary head honcho (and also an interpreter) from Plimoth Plantation, who described in an early New England accent, in early New Englandish costume, the event of the very first pudding making in the new colony. And there was a skit, depicting the original Hawley pudding contest, where the award went to the biggest, rather than the best pudding. Then and only then were the prizes awarded. And the prizes were GOOD, fancy skillets and Cuisinarts, and big piles of stuff for each pudding finalist. The pudding I was rooting for, a corn pudding made by my friend, Janice, came in third. The other pudding that sounded amazing, and I later discovered was, a rose geranium pudding, only got fifth. I think that pudding was robbed.
Then, after we were sated with peanut butter pudding and rum pudding and corn pudding but oddly no chocolate pudding, we headed out. Only to meet a very nice woman in the parking lot who commented on my lovely Border Collie, Charming, who I was walking a bit before the ride home. We talked about the puddings, and dogs, and childhoods, and it ended with her inviting us to come to her place the following day.
Her 'place' it turns out, is a huge fiber farm hanging off a hill looking North over to the Green Mountains. There were angora goats and llamas and Icelandic sheep and eight dogs and oddly, camels. With two humps. I forget what that means, but it was impressive. I was mesmerized by their huge round padding feet. And Jodi, who owns this animal oasis, is a poet, and a fine one. We talked for a long time, occassionally but mostly politely interrupted by her Tibetan 'grandson.' A few Tibetans live and work on the farm, helping with the animals and building stone walls.
After we bid her farewell, and wended our way through the hills still saturated with autumn color, we drove into the most spectacular blue and gray and golden sunset, and I thought, my god life is good when you can go about it so indeliberately, drifting from one interesting and unique thing to another.
So, I encourage you to find your own Pudding Contests and Camels. Seek out what seems offbeat and intriguing. Drive around looking for inspiration in color and sunsets and new people and oddity and kindness. Then write it, draw it, and know life is good.

Rain

The weather is finally tending toward autumn here in New England, after an extremely extended summer. It's felt more like San Diego for the past four and a half months. Which has been fine with me, as I adore summer. However, it was beginning to feel a little unnatural. No rain. No frosts (almost unheard of by October). I was beginning to think I wouldn't need to move to San Diego. It was coming here. But today it's rainy, and there is a chill in the air. Sparky is telling me that snow is predicted for next week. I do not believe him. Although a warm and sticky Halloween would be pretty dismal, a snowy one would be decidedly odd, too.
In any case, I am enjoying the rain, and the chill. It is good for reflection, tea-drinking, reading, outlining my new creepy novel. Sometimes rain is just fine. It makes us draw inward, and if it isn't allowed to be seen as depressing, it's good for us.
So, don't allow yourself to be depressed by your weather, external or internal. Embrace the Rain. Work on your new project. Make some soup. Have some tea. Go inward and reflect on your reasons to be happy, and write them, draw them.

Something Completely Different

I am beginning a new book, the title of which has been kicking around in my head for a few years, while I have been working on novel # 2. The elements of the new book have come to me in bits, but only about a week ago the entire outline came flowing into my head, like a river of ideas. That happens sometimes. Our minds are truly amazing. Things are always simmering away in there, like a good stew, with lots of ingredients.
What I have been doing in the week past, since having my little novel epiphany, is outlining, researching, coming up with character names and traits. This is a new process for me, as I usually just start writing, without the preliminaries. But this time around, I have decided to attempt NaNoWriMo -- i.e., the National Novel Writing Month challenge -- where one commits to writing the entire draft of a novel (175 pages, 50,000 words) all during the month of November. All I can say in my defense is that timing is everything. If the concepts for a new novel hadn't popped into my head just at this time, and I wasn't scheduled to teach a writing workshop at the library in celebration and support of NaNoWriMo, I would never do something so ridiculous. I am more of a contemplative writer. It took me six years to complete my first novel. But I decided, why not?
Sometimes it's good to be shaken up. Sometimes it's really fun to embark upon a completely new project, in a completely new way. It's exciting. It's compelling. And it promotes happiness, even in the planning stages (maybe particularly in the planning stages, when one hasn't yet become jaded).
So, today I am advocating that you begin a Completely Different project. Maybe something you've never attempted before. Maybe something familiar, but in a completely new way. If you have knit a scarf or two, try a Fair Isle sweater. If you like the climbing wall at the gym, learn sky-diving. Always been fascinated by bagpipes? Join a bagpipe band (the members are usually very nice, and will teach you right from your first quavering note - I once checked it out). Whatever you decide to do, do it with joy. And don't forget to enhance the experience by writing, drawing!

Hiatus

Well, first I was creeped out by a comment made on my last post (am feeling OK about it now, it has been sufficiaently explained), and now the library where I post during the week is having repairs done and I am sneezing and hacking and itching because of dust, and need to get out of here. Oh, the trials and tribulations of trying to spread happiness! But I will continue posts this weekend (probably later today), for sure. Sorry about the hiatus...