The Things That Matter

Neawanaka is a fictional town on the Oregon coast, and the setting of Brian Doyle’s novel, Mink River. Doyle is a local Oregon writer and his book has been getting a lot of attention around town lately, including being assigned  to my daughter’s high school English class. However, the book deserves notice from anyone, even those living outside of Oregon’s borders. Doyle’s prose is . . . . luscious. Earthy and evocative, layered and lyrical. Plus, much to the surprise and consternation of my daughter and her high school English class, Doyle breaks all sorts of rules of writing. He makes up words. He plays fast and loose with punctuation and traditional sentence structure.  And he makes it work brilliantly.

One of the best sections of the whole book is a passage at the beginning of Chapter 30, in which “the man with six days to live” talks with a young boy, Daniel.  They are sitting on the porch at night and he tells Daniel,

These things matter to me, son. The way hawks huddle their shoulders angrily against hissing snow. Wrens whirring in the bare bones of bushes in winter. The way swallows and swifts veer and whirl and swim and slice and carve and curve and swerve. The way that frozen dew outlines every blade of grass. Salmonberries thimbleberries cloudberries snowberries elderberries salalberries gooseberries. My children learning to read. My wife’s voice velvet in my ear at night in the dark under the covers.

The passage goes on for over a page, just one long paragraph. It is delicious to read and to savor, bringing with it tactile, spicy memories of things we all know and love, but often overlook: folding laundry warm from the dryer, fresh mown lawns, or the sound of ice shaken in drinks. I could happily copy out the whole section for you but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the joy of searching it out and reading it for yourself. Heck, read the whole book.

What I will do is encourage you to spend a few quiet moments and start your own list. What are the things that matter to you? Of course, when pressed, we will all quite accurately mention that our families are important, as are our friends, good health and peaceful nations. No arguments here. But what specific things make a difference to you. What small moments jolt you to joy. These are treasures. These are worth recording.

I decided to write a list for myself, a la Doyle. I’m sure, given time,  I will be able to refine it, or add to it. There are so many things that matter. However, here’s my first attempt, brushed down in about an hour.

 These things matter to me.

The way a single maple leaf transfers its russet imprint on wet concrete. The thick ink of my fountain pen rolled over the page of my Moleskine journal. The flutter of a chickadee darting at the feeder, it’s black cap and puffed out white chest. Being stunned by a poem. Wood smoke. A great blue heron stilted on a dock, so still I don’t see it until I row past. Creamy thick oil paint brushed on white canvas. My mother’s potato soup on the day of the first snow of my childhood winters. Starfish. The curve of a warm coffee cup in my hand. Kissing the salty foreheads of my children  when they were small. Kissing their foreheads now. The poetic names of flowers–plumeria, delphinium, gardenia, clematis, wisteria. Leaning over to tuck my daughter Kate into bed when she was a toddler, and the way she would gently roll strands of hair at the nape of my neck between her small fingers. The way it would keep me an extra twenty minutes, the stalling successful. Hedgehogs. The way the fingers of my husband Doug interlace mine. Floating on my back, held up by a warm ocean. Pearls. Quail running from brush to wood pile, their crests bobbing.  My sisters’ faces, mirroring my own. Sea turtle ballet in green water. The pleasure of towels folded properly. My son Sam, age 8, hugging me like he won’t ever let go. Sam, taller than I am now, hugging me the same way still. Rain on a tin roof. The laughter of women. The barn smell of horses and leather. The smell of chlorine on Doug’s skin when he hugs me after swimming. Candles. The pop and crack of a wood fire on a cold day. Pugs. Driving my daughter Katherine to ballet in high school, a half hour each way in traffic, listening to pop songs, listening to her think out loud. The quiet of snow. The way September sunlight angles and burnishes autumn trees.  Sliding into clean sheets. The way my daughter Sarah used to say “callapitter” for caterpillar, and “nay-naise” for mayonnaise, which was so adorable I never corrected her. The way Kate taught her to say it properly. The soulfulness of dogs’ eyes. The bittersweet taste of dark chocolate on my tongue. The birthstones of my children–sapphire, amethyst, ruby, sapphire–set in platinum, circling my finger. The curve of Doug’s shoulders. The silver starfish hung on a chain around my neck. The sound of the word grace when I say it softly, whispered as a prayer, floating past my teeth. Grace.

What are the things that matter to you?

If I Wait and Watch

I love crossword puzzles. There is something so satisfying about a quiet hour spent with a cup of coffee, a crisp new crossword puzzle, and a sharpened pencil. I try to finish a  puzzle almost every day and have done so for years. As a result, I’ve developed a bit of a reputation for being good at crossword puzzles.

My husband, Doug, thinks I’m a crossword puzzle expert. He credits my ability to a well-known love of words and an entrenched habit of reading. He assumes that a person who works a puzzle quickly is someone who knows the answers to the clues before they begin. The execution of the puzzle is basically writing down what you already know.

As tempting as it is to let him believe that I am just unusually smart, I felt compelled to tell him the truth, which is something that those of you who regularly work the puzzles already know: crossword puzzle solutions are a result of a very specific set of skills which can be learned and practiced. While it helps to be fairly literate and to have a broad scope of interests, you will seldom know the answer to all of the clues. At least I don’t. I’m rocky on my geography and bad at Latin terms. I rarely know the names of famous sports figures or heroes of Norse mythology. The point is, it’s doesn’t really matter. You approach a puzzle without having all the clues, because there are other ways of knowing. And that’s what I love about crossword puzzles, and what keeps me coming back to them day after day. I get regular evidence that I know more than I thought I could know.

Doug asked me recently if I could teach him. For the past couple of months, we’ve sat down with the daily puzzle together. Slowly I’ve shared with him all the “tricks” I know. There are many other techniques, I’m sure, but here are a few for starters:

1. Some words are frequently used. They’re words like jai alai, oboe, sro (short for “standing room only” in a theater), or err. If you work puzzles long enough, you will start to recognize these regulars as old friends.
2. Just because you don’t know the answer to a clue, doesn’t mean you have to. You can also learn the answer by working all the crossed words. That’s why they call is a crossword puzzle! Don’t know the name of the largest lake in Australia? Filling in the perpendicular clues may tell you that it’s Lake “Eyre.” In this way, I’ve learned many wonderful, esoteric facts, like an etui is an ornamental needle case, or that the Hawaiian state bird is called a nene.
3. Understand that sometimes, the clue and the answer will be–how can I put this nicely–just really lame. I once struggled with the clue “a bit of foamy soap” only to learn that the answer was “sud.” Seriously. Never in my life have I encountered a singular sud. But there it is. Crossword puzzle writers have down days, too.
4. There is usually a theme to the puzzle–often a quotation, or a common structure, or a witty play on words. Figure out those, and you’ll make a lot of progress.

All of these are just tricks, however. The most important thing I’ve learned is not to spend too much time on any one clue. Trust that if you look away and work on something else your brain is still trying to come up with the answer.  Trust your marvelous mind to work on the problem without you consciously directing it. Let it show you what it knows.

This last lesson is the most exciting to me, because it has huge implications, not just for crossword puzzles but for other creative ventures in general. When approaching a creative problem, I’ve learned that there are two basic steps. They are:

One:  Show up for the work.

If I don’t pull out the crossword puzzle every day, I won’t learn anything and I won’t get any better. So do a crossword puzzle every day. Write a blog post every Friday. Paint one picture a week.

Two: Wait and watch for the answers.

You don’t have to have all the answers before you approach a creative project. In fact, it’s probably better not to have all the answers. Whether I’m writing a short story about my childhood, sketching a landscape, or figuring out how to arrange furniture in my living room. I will get further if I can find a way to be quiet and listen, and will often observe that my brain knows more than I can rationally explain.

This point was brought home to me this week. I was flipping through an old art journal from 2007, and on a page sandwiched  between a smudgy pastel design  and a watercolor sketch of a pineapple, I found that I had copied out a passage from a book, taken from a novel by Peter Pouncy, Rules for Old Men Waiting. I remembered the book fondly. It is a lovely story about an aging historian who, struggling with his wife’s recent death, decides to create a set of rules by which to live out the rest of his days, the most important of which is to “tell a story to its end.”

The passage which struck me, both in 2007 and this week, was his description of  how to tell his story. It’s all about listening, and it gives as good an explanation as I’ve ever seen for how to solve a problem, finish a crossword puzzle, or record the story of a life. Although written in prose, it is so lyrical, so dense, I’ve copied it out here as a poem.

I said to my soul, be still,

and watch the small trickling beginnings ease towards flood.

Let the story declare itself,

and the characters and events take me down among them

and draw the words out of me.

I have tried to possess myself in patience,

I have gathered all the hungers of my past in readiness,

to spell out the missing syllables of my life.

In the morning watch I shall wait,

and the quick, brown, wordy fox will come out of his hole,

sniff the air, and begin his narration.

It is only natural.

Sooner or later, if I watch, it is bound to happen.

Then I shall fill my book with profitable wonders.

I don’t know about you, but I find great comfort in these words. They remind me that I don’t have to be the smartest person, know the most facts, or master Latin conjugations. I just have to be still, to be patient and watch for the wonders that will reveal themselves to me.

What’s Your Word?

Years ago, I worked as a counselor at a community college. One of the great things about working with a bunch of counselors is that we got paid to spend time talking about mental health and personal development. Of course, we tried to use these skills to better the lives of our students and clients. Just as often, however, they were skills we could benefit from ourselves.

Two of the women I worked with, Bernie and Donna, had been in the business of counseling–and of life, for that matter–for 10 or 15 years longer than I had, and served as both mentors and friends. They told me about an interesting strategy:  they would often choose a word that represented an area in which they wanted to grow and have that word engraved on an inexpensive ID bracelet which they would wear until the artificial gold or silver finish wore off.

Back when Donna and Bernie first shared their idea, I became obsessed with the idea of carrying an important word around with me, a constant reminder of a quality I aspired to grow in myself. I remembered those ID bracelets from my childhood. I had one myself, a silver bracelet engraved with “Barbara” in fancy script. There was even a little fake green peridot, my birthstone, as an accent. Yet after hearing Bernie and Donna’s great idea, I couldn’t find one. As much as I searched (and these were the days before Amazon and the Internet) I had a hard time locating any bracelet, with or without birthstones. I reluctantly let the bracelet idea go.

I didn’t, however, let go of the idea of finding my word. What quality did I most want to cultivate? What word, if it were readily available to me, would help me make the better decision, the better life? There were so many to choose from:  grace, courage, faith, laughter. After a great while–and I’m talking several months–I finally decided on my word:

Attend

I know, I know. It’s kind of a strange word, but hear me out. I realized that most of my regrets were born from a reluctance to become an active participant in my own life. I tended to roll with the inevitable, to allow other people to overly influence the path of my life. The alternative? To attend, as in to show up for my own life. Not to sit this one out. Very quickly, I realized that a variation on this word is “attention,” which has also proved meaningful. The way you show up for your own life is to pay attention to what is happening. Very basic concept, I know, and one which perhaps many people have already figured out. I was in my 30′s by the time it finally made sense to me.

The idea of having a favorite word stayed with me, particularly as I noticed the increasing use of tattoos. Although I haven’t personally felt the need to go there, I have often wondered what word would be meaningful or important enough for me to permanently inscribe on my body.  It made me wonder what I’d do if I ever felt the need to change my word. Although “attend” or “attention” may always be important to me, I’ve been wondering lately about the idea of branching out. Am I ready for a new word?

Then, serendipitously, I read a recent blog post by Quinn McDonald (Geez. I’m beginning to sound like a Quinn groupie!) called Choosing Your Word. You can understand why the title caught my attention. In it, she says that she’s never really liked the idea of New Year’s Resolutions, a sentiment I share. Instead, she has for several years chosen a word, or even a short phrase, to capture her intention for the year. One year she chose “light,” the next year it was “step up.”

I love this idea. Instead of picking a resolution to guide my behavior (get to the gym, skip the cookies) it gives an opportunity to guide my thoughts, which are much more fundamental and the foundation to any behavioral change anyway. Plus, it offers me another way to focus my attention. Do you see why I got excited?

So, I’ve had a lot of fun thinking about my word for 2012. It’s an important decision, but much less permanent than one I figured had to be tattoo-worthy. It can be a noun (like “joy” or “play” or “energy”). It can be a verb (like “attend” or “connect” or “step up”). It can be an object (like “light” or “wings” or, say, “chocolate”). Whatever it is, I think it should create a little buzz of energy or joy or peace whenever you think about it. Throughout the year, it should provide opportunities to explore how this word could show up in your life, both in ways expected and totally out of the blue.

My word for 2012? I think I’m going with “breathe.” I’m excited to see what this word can teach me.

What’s your word?

Say What You Need To Say

 

Letter to a Younger Me

Perspective.  What a wonderful thing. Although many things seem to get more challenging as I get older, I am very thankful that age and experience have their own advantages, and that perspective tops the list.  These days, when my own kids are teenagers and young adults, I listen to their struggles and their dreams and their worries and I mostly want to tell them to take a deep breath, and to trust that they don’t have to have it all figured out right now. I wish I could have said the same thing to myself when I was that age. But perspective takes distance and time.  And getting older. Sometimes much older.

Yesterday, as I was going through some old files, I came across a story I wrote a few years ago called “Sixteen.”  It was a letter I wrote as an adult to my 16-year-old self, trying to reassure her that however hard it felt to be 16, time heals, joy returns, and there is always something to look forward to.  You might try writing such a letter to your younger self.  I’d love to hear what other people come up with.

In the meantime, here’s mine:

Dear Barbie,

Yes, I know you’ve never really liked the name.  You never felt like the “Barbie Doll” type. You always felt like more of a “Barbara.”  But be patient.  In a few years you’ll go off to college and have a fresh opportunity to decide how you want to be known.  You will introduce yourself as Barbara and it will stick.  That moment will be a turning point for you, when you realize that your life is a blank slate to all those new people, and you are in charge of how the world perceives and receives you.

But now, at 16, a lot seems uncertain.  You sit there in your bedroom with the brown carpet and orange paneling.  Your 8-track tape of Billy Joel is playing, and you’re wishing there was some sort of guarantee about your future.  You want reassurance that things won’t always seem so out of reach–like finding comfortable contact lenses, or getting asked out on a date.  Mostly, you’re wondering if you’ll ever find a place where you “fit.”

I won’t tell you how it all turns out.  Most of the joy will come from the surprises along the way.  In the meantime, though, I’ll give you a couple of clues:

• Don’t stock up on 8-track tapes.  Cassettes are the way to go, at least for a while.
• You may find this hard to believe, but there will eventually be a surgery that will correct your vision and you won’t need glasses or contacts.  Amazing, I know.  I’m still in awe.
• Don’t worry about not dating.  Relax.  It will happen.  You will marry and have a family.  So let it go for now.  Instead, pay attention to your own life. Figure out what gives you energy and joy. Who do you want for friends? What places would you like to go?
• Don’t be afraid to cut your hair.
• Make a point to visit all of your grandparents.  Ask them to tell you about their lives and WRITE IT DOWN.  Do the same with your parents. You’ll be glad you did.
• Stay in touch with your sisters when you go to college.  These relationships will continue to enrich your adult life.
• Spend time painting, drawing, writing.
• And like I tell our kids (yes, you have awesome children), you are in charge of what you say, what you think, and what you do.  These are the only things you are in charge of.  So pay attention. Being intentional in your thoughts, words and actions is very powerful.

Have courage.  I’m in your corner.

Love,

Barbara

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