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.

A Time To Speak

Just over a year ago, on October 6, 2010, I got a phone call at 6:30 a.m. from my niece, Sadie, the daughter of my youngest sister, Karyl. She told me through sobs that her father, my sister’s husband Pat, had been killed in a freak car accident that morning. It seemed unreal. Pat was 45 years old, engaged in life, and one of the strongest men I had ever known. All the extended members of our family flew to Colorado where Karyl’s family lived, and the next few days were a blur of flowers, plastic-wrapped food, phone calls and planning. We were getting ready to drive Karyl to the funeral home for a 4:00 appointment to finalize details and I asked her how soon she wanted to go. “About 45 years from now,” she said.

In the past year, I’ve been surprised by a number of things. One was my absolute reluctance to write about the situation. I, who usually find it helpful to write about everything, suddenly found myself unable to put words together. I couldn’t seem to find a way to describe to myself or anyone else what was going on in my family, and writing about anything else seemed trivial and pointless. For about two months, I was horribly, inexplicably weary of words. It reminded me of the passage from Ecclesiastes about there being a time for everything, including “a time to keep silent and a time to speak.” For me, it was apparently time to keep silent. I didn’t really feel like I had an alternative.

I was, however, also surprised by my sister. I had always known her to be smart, funny and capable. But over the next few months through long phone conversations, I discovered that Karyl was also very wise. While going through devastating grief, holding a full-time job, and parenting her four children by herself, she was also able to articulate what the process felt like, and to educate me and others about what was and was not helpful when going through the grieving process. Here I was, the writer with nothing to say, while my little sister suddenly had volumes of wisdom to share. It finally occurred to me that, for her, it was time to speak. These were ideas she needed to share. I knew with certainty that she should write a book and that I could help her write it.

But not right away. We decided to allow Karyl and her family to navigate the hurdles of the first year. And there were plenty of hurdles. Actually, there still are plenty of hurdles. Nevertheless, we’ve kept notes, which I compiled in one, very long single-spaced document. After the one-year anniversary of Pat’s death, Karyl and I talked about starting the process of actually writing the book. We planned to meet in Colorado for several days, which is why I find myself writing this post from the living room in Karyl’s home. Karyl took time off work and my husband Doug and our daughter Sarah came along. This week, Karyl and I settled down with journals and notes and my computer. We’ve begun.

I hadn’t counted on the project pulling other surprises our way, however. Our parents also live in Colorado but their house is an hour away from Karyl’s. We really wanted to see them while we were in town so we asked if they would mind having all of us over for dinner one night. They improved on the idea; since our families will be in different places over Thanksgiving, my mom decided to host an early Thanksgiving dinner, complete with turkey, corn pudding, potatoes and pumpkin pie. She’s invited aunts, uncles and cousins. This was a bonus I hadn’t considered.

But that wasn’t all. Although it is a cliche, it is nevertheless true that tragedy has a way of refocusing priorities, which in my case meant spending more time with my sisters. With me in Oregon, Karyl in Colorado, and our other sister Karla in Texas, it was too easy for years to pass without seeing each other. No more. The three of us got together four times in the year since Pat died, visiting each other in Austin, Denver and my home in Lake Oswego. So it probably wasn’t that surprising when Karyl and I started talking this week, we both felt we needed Karla with us as well. Karyl called Karla yesterday, Thursday morning. Karla and her husband juggled plans, booked tickets, and will arrive late tonight. In a year filled with some of the most horrible things we could imagine, we can still be caught off guard by unexpected grace.

Today, after working for much of the day, we took a break. We decided to go for a run and then soak in the hot tub. Sitting there, looking out over the lights of Denver, I finally felt like I was ready to start writing about this big event that has blown through our family. I asked Karyl if she would mind if I occasionally wrote about our process in this blog, and she agreed.

God bless her. It is, once again, a time to speak.

 

 

Playing School

When I was little, while other kids played house, I preferred to play school. Instead of dolls and dishes and those wonderful little play kitchens I saw at my friends’ homes, I was happier with coffee cups filled with pencils, stacks of paper, rolls of scotch tape, and whatever crayons I could scrounge from around the house. Often, my sisters were the only playmates available to me and I somehow talked them into being my students. Truth be told, I might not have given them much choice, but they were fairly tolerant of my schemes. The school room could be a corner of the living room, or high up in our crooked tree house perched over the creek. One time I think I even set up space in the dog house, but that was quickly vetoed by both my sisters and the dog.

Interestingly, my fascination with teaching never seemed to extend to my career aspirations. That slot was filled early on. I knew from about age seven that I wanted to be a writer. In my wilder moments, I would also dream of illustrating my own books. However, no matter how much I loved my classes, or how excited I got about school supplies, I never identified with being a teacher. I didn’t chase after it as a career goal.

That doesn’t mean that it didn’t chase after me. Time after time, while pursuing other goals, I’d find myself taking on teaching roles, with students other than my long-suffering sisters. I was a TA  in graduate school, tutoring one-on-one, or setting up small groups to help panicked counseling students figure out statistics. To pick up extra cash one year, it seemed like a fun exercise to teach GRE prep courses. And after I finished my masters degree in counseling, I was not drawn to mental health clinics and private practice like some of my classmates. Instead, I went to work in the counseling department at the local community college.  I did mental health work, of course, but I also taught classes–in career development, student success strategies, personal development and writing. I was, after all those years, a teacher, sharing with other people what I knew and what I believed to be true. But I also learned first-hand how empowering education is all by itself. Being a teacher isn’t one-directional, with me off-loading a body of knowledge to a waiting audience. A good teacher, in my opinion, is a guide who helps someone figure out for themselves what they need to know.

I finally figured out that it’s not so much the role of being a teacher that draws me, but education itself. Actually, I can break it down even further. Learning is powerful. There is really nothing that gives me more joy than learning something new, growing my understanding of a subject–any subject. The only thing that can equal that sense of satisfaction is being along for the ride as someone else learns something new. This, I now realize, was the pay-off in all my years of parenting, of counseling, or writing and, of course, teaching.

And now, so many years after those afternoons when I pushed my sisters through spelling tests and math problems, I am somewhat surprised that through my work with I Am Story Studios, I have become a writer, an illustrator and, at last, a teacher. I’ve done workshops for years, usually at conferences, churches or private organizations. Now, however, I’m pleased to announce that I have four classes next month that are open to everyone. Or at least, everyone within commuting distance:

Telling Your Story 2 Pages at a Time: 

I’ve noticed that when many people set out to write their stories, they make two mistakes: 1) they try to write too much, and 2) they try to write too soon. As a result, they get overwhelmed and stop. Worse, they don’t start at all. Fortunately, there are easy fixes for these problems, and this two-hour workshop will show you what they are, and help you create a 2-page story about your life. The registration fee for this class includes copies of my books Half Past Perfect and Story Starters. This class is offered at two different times.

Date:   Tuesday, October 4, 2011 OR Thursday, October 27, 2011, 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.

Where:  Oswego Heritage House, Lake Oswego, Oregon

Cost:  $49, including all materials

Introduction to Art Journaling

Making art is a way to explore what we believe, and to make visible the stories and thought patterns by which we live.  Using the basic vocabulary of art–color, imagery, texture, shape–we gain access to what we think, even if we never verbalize it.  If we commit to art making on a consistent basis, however, it can open a wonder-filled world of creative expression, healing, stress-reduction and, at times, transformation. This introductory class will be a playful, art-filled opportunity to explore the techniques of art journaling. We will learn about different materials and media, discuss journaling prompts, and create one complete art journaling page.

When:  Thursday, October 13, 2011, 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.

Where:  Oswego Heritage House, Lake Oswego, Oregon

Cost:  $49, including all materials

Creating Heritage: Telling Someone Else’s Story

You probably know someone whose story should be captured, perhaps a parent, a grandparent, an interesting neighbor. But how do you begin? This workshop will help. You’ll learn about valuable resources, intriguing prompts to draw out details, interviewing ideas, and brainstorming about your project. In addition, you’ll receive an organizational notebook that will help you break down the project into meaningful pieces.

When:  Thursday, October 20, 2011, 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.

Where:  Oswego Heritage House, Lake Oswego, Oregon

Cost:  $49, including workbook

So, that’s it for Fall, 2011. I’m looking for people to join me in these learning experiences. For more information or to register, click on the above links or go to the “Workshop” section at www.IAmStory.com. You can also email me at barbara@iamstory.com.

I look forward to hearing from you!

Daddy’s Girl

 

Waiting for Words to Come

 

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