Into the Fire

It all started when I noticed an odd book on my desk that I have had on my desk for probably eight years. I never bought this book; I won it by having my ticket pulled at a writer's festival. It was an odd shaped book--about three inches cubed, so it never fit on my shelf. Inside were all kinds of writing prompts to help get you in the flow. I kept it, not so much to use the prompts for myself, but to get ideas for the writing workshops I taught. Yes, it took me eight years to realize that this toxically titled volume was what I saw sitting next to my computer as I wrote each day. I felt really dumb the day I realized what not-so-subliminal messages I had been sending to my brain. I wanted to get rid of the thing immediately.

I am not a book burner by nature, but felt that this book deserved a special kind of death. In my mind, I was already roasting marshmallows over it. But before I could execute my plan, I did some more spring cleaning. Even though I got rid of a lot of books in our move, I started looking through the volumes that were left with a more discriminating eye. Which books no longer served me or the person I was here and now? Which books were out of date? Which books contained information I could not look up on the internet? I began to see subjects which I had outgrown or had outgrown me. I was not the same person who bought those books. Much like my Writer's Block book, their appearance on my shelf represented being stuck somehow in a reality than no longer served me. I boxed up two more boxes of books, these slated for the book sale at the Arden Fair.

Then, I came upon my old journals. I am talking--20 plus years of morning pages, reading notes, goals, dreams, etc. This maybe amounted to a banker's box of material. I had moved all these journals from our old house. I write in my journals to get out all my feelings and ideas. I don't write them for the idea of rereading them at a later date.  This became very apparent as I started to flip through them looking for evidence of their worth. In general, they were not records of my life so much as ways for me to work through my yearnings. Much of the journals were accounts of why I wasn't enough and my plans for increasing my worth. Why was I so miserable at my job? How could I lose weight? I recognized lots of Oprah-inspired questing in those pages. It wasn't all bad, but it was sort of stuck circling the same issues over and over again. Whining, but hopeful. I didn't want to see myself in those terms any more. I don't want to live my life as quest, but as appreciation for who I am and where I am in this journey. Add these to the burn pile.

And so, last night I joined with a couple other friends. We lit some tinder in a fire pit, opened a bottle of bubbly and proceed to burn, baby, burn. Only two of us were actually burning journals. Yes, we had moments of not wanting to burn any possible gems, but then we let go and the fire roared. It was beautiful. Journals turned into amber roses as the fiery pages curled around each other. It was mesmerizing. The burn took two hours, during which time we told stories and talked about our own journeys and incarnations. After my box was emptied of my words, I went home and showered. Washing away the smell and soot of the fire. It was baptism.

I don't know what I expect now. Clearer channels? Flowing words? Maybe. But I think I just want to move on into this new day in which I honor the person I am and the moment in which I find myself.

Reading... and other victims of my lost attention span

I used to be a voracious reader. I have been reading novels since I picked up my first Bobbsey Twin Mystery in first grade. Oh, the Bobbsey Twins. Four kids: the two older kids with brown hair, the two younger ones with blonde hair. It was my family. If only I could convince my younger siblings to solve mysteries with me.  In Middle School, I was reading a book a day, sometimes more. I couldn't get enough.  As an adult, I pummeled through everything Oprah could recommend as well as my own novel choices. I usually had a work of fiction and a work of non-fiction going at the same time--to say nothing of my stacks of magazines. I always had a tote bag with me, which, in addition to my books and magazines, held a homemade journal so I could take notes--mainly on the non-fiction books. Even when the kids were little, I found time to read. At work on lunch breaks or while waiting in the car to pick them up from their activities. Maren was always the last child to emerge.

I don't read in bed as I did as a child and teenager. Mark isn't a reader, and he is early to bed, so I got out of the habit-- except when he went on business trips. Then, reading in bed, for as late as I wanted, became my big indulgence. Oh, yeah. Things get wild when Mark isn't around. But he hasn't taken a business trip in years.

What happened to me? Keri says that she could never read in our house, which she owned before we bought it. Too dark? I try not to let her personal idiosyncrasies of place influence my ideas of this house. Try being the operative word. While it might be true that this house isn't particularly conducive to reading, I don't think that is the issue. I have been having trouble getting into the swing of a good book for years now. A strong correlative may be the appearance of the iPhone in my life. I'm still reading, just in little snippets of Facebook posts, Tweets, the first couple paragraphs of an article that leads me further down a rabbit hole to other articles I did not intend on reading. Not long after we got our iPhones, I got an iPad. I love books, but as I always liked to carry several, I figured it would be more convenient to have them all in one device, rather than a heavy tote bag. I even started buying purses so they would fit my iPad. Plus, I didn't have to dust an ebook--or pack it in a box to move it across state lines.

I don't know. Was it the fact that an iPad isn't as personal as a book? That an iPad doesn't smell as good as the perfume of ink on wood pulp? It doesn't feel as sueded as the pages between my fingers. You can't read with it in the bathtub or floating on a raft in my sister's pool or in certain outdoor conditions. In addition, my eyesight has waned, and I didn't realize it at first. On the iPad, you can always make your print bigger. It was only when I switched back to an actual bound book that I realized that I couldn't see the print any more. Having to grab readers when you want to read is a deterrent. I own several pairs, and I still can't find them.

I also used to go through more audio books before I moved here. I would take long solo walks for exercise, and I took the audio books with me to pass the miles. Also, I drove my car more. As a sub, my schools were, on average, a half hour away, as was most of the shopping I had to do. I could listen in the car and make my commutes pass quickly. In Arden, I am more apt to walk with someone than alone. And stores are conveniently located to within ten minutes of our house.

I am getting through some books. The process is just so painfully slow. I have started mediating now for twenty minute increments. I know I need to also work reading time back into my daily routine. I need to back off of Facebook and all its immediate satisfaction. Maybe give up the binging on TV shows I missed the first time around, or at least give myself a break between series. It really is the new way to watch television. Oh so addictive.

I wonder if I am alone in this affliction or if others are suffering with me. This is one instance in which I think that the doing things the Arden way and joining a club isn't going to help me. A book group would just make me feel bad about my inability to read a book cover to cover within the very doable timeline of a month. And the book in question would more than likely not be one that I chose. For now, I must take my latest read back to the Arden library. I have had for too long and haven't finished it. They are having an amnesty on fines this week, so off it must go. And I must apologize to my friend, Andy, for not finishing his first novel effort that he asked me to read and review. It's not you, it's me. 

When people come up to me and apologize because they haven't read my book, I laugh. No apology necessary. I know. I hope modern society doesn't turn us all into non-readers or readers who only read 140 characters at a time. I have one great hope in my son. He is both an insatiable reader and someone who loves video games. If he can create the space to exist this dualism, I think I have a shot as both a reader and as someone who wants to write novels for a living. For the reading part, I just need to remind myself of the joy I used to get from all those words...once upon a time.