I didn’t know if I was going to manage my 59 posts this year while I am 59. I lost so many large chunks of the year. For long weeks now, I was still hoping to pull it off, but I knew I might get here and find out I’d have to let go of it, have to let myself not meet my goal for the first time in eight years of this. And I know cranking them out doesn’t allow for as many “gems” as might otherwise occur. I even worry that this crazed flurry of posts might be annoying for some folks. But I feel pretty good about getting them done. And if they aren’t what they might have been given more time to grow on their own, they still tell my stories, yes? (Or that’s what I am telling myself.) I hope to return to one post each week while I’m sixty (and two posts for eight weeks in the year). So I won’t inundate you like this again, and I won’t desert you like I did this past year. I can’t promise, but I think I have a good shot at it. Thank you, my dear readers, for hanging in here with me this year. I didn’t expect to fall so crazily behind. But I’m glad I got caught up. I feel tired but satisfied. Now, if only the recordings I’ve been trying to make of my white crowned sparrows had turned out, so I could share that delight with you, too. Then I’d be tired and gleeful. Here’s to another year of blogging. And thank you all again, for coming, for visiting, for reading. It means a lot to me. You matter.
I am tucked up in the blankets, my three latest “morning” books stacked beside me on the bed. It is new for me to read nonfiction like this and more than one at a time. It takes a kind of effort I don’t want to make when I want to read for pleasure, but now these books have found their way to my mornings, and it feels right. I have three days stretched before me with no out-in-the-world commitments after too hectic weeks. They are busy with work and training but knowing I don’t have to be anywhere is a luxury I revel in. I have bottles of tea wrapped in the corners of my blankets. I pour half a cup, sip it hot, look at the mountains with their tiny bit of new snow. I write this blog post and another. I’m going to work on my manuscript today, too. Grading papers will likely get pushed to later. I drink more tea. I can hear the white crowned sparrows speaking quietly in the bougainvillea through the open door. Sitting practice is next. I pour out another measure of hot tea and grin. I feel like a little kid, delight pushing against my skin.
I hope this flurry of posts isn’t annoying anyone. It’s only that I don’t want to give up on meeting my goal of 59 posts while I’m 59. Now I’m only eight posts behind where I should be (instead of 15 behind, which sounded much more daunting). I have every hope that my days ahead will return me to my self and the kind of writing I love. That I will find ways to weave my dreams or my daydreams into my daily life (and into my blog posts again) in a way that feels right and satisfying to me. I have a hunch I might be getting close to a kind of return to that, to making room for my writing, room for things to unfold as they will. But I’m not certain. So, in the meantime, I’m going to see if I can’t just post things anyway. Here you had a smattering of short timed writings from prompts. Oh, and I decided I can even claim that fiction is a kind of dream, yes? Or maybe I’m just using poetic license here. But claiming I am. (It makes me feel like I am still sticking to the intention of this year’s blog.) And I’m hoping you’ll be glad to see something from me, too, even if it comes in a mad flurry, even if it’s mostly short, odd bursts of imagination. Because I notice I’m missing feeling connected to you here, so I’m glad to be back. And I’ll hope to keep it up, accepting what comes. Wishing you all good things as we near this ending of our year. And thank you for still being here reading.
The morning after the last of my fever, I feel like something sat on me all night pushing my bones into the earth of our campsite. I head toward the meadow to do my qi gong, but I stop inside the pines. I don’t want the sun, don’t know why. I study the pine needle ground and choose my spot. I face west. Maybe because I am already slow, creaky and sore, I move through all the movements without a hint of rushing, without becoming lost in the habit of it. Halfway through I hear a tinkling passing back and forth among the trees nearest me, like hummingbirds but not, like bells, like the shimmer of light on water if it were a sound. I think of Tinkerbell, sprinklings of fairy dust. I don’t even feel goofy for it; it feels like my soundest reference, in fact. Unseen bird or invisible beings in this grove? Whoever they are, it feels like a visitation. They don’t stay long. After, I press my palms together before my chest, quiet awe and gratitude seeping out of my skin, chasing away the last taste of fever. Thank you, all.
It’s just after six in the morning. I steer my rental car down Ocean View. I’m going back to Palm Springs for the day. The eastern sky is a soft, rich orange. I stop the car in the middle of the road because the waning moon is hanging just above the layer of clouds, the thinnest sliver luminous against that green-blue we glimpse here in twilight hours. I sit, breathing, taking it in, the air cold on my face, the light growing around me. I feel greeted by the universe, the promise of a good journey, well wishes for the long day ahead. I leave my car at the airport, and when I walk out the main doors of the terminal, I’m stunned by the glory of our mountains and their snow. I feel oddly proud of our airport, proud to know people who’ve never been here before walk outside to this spectacular view. I walk home, past the fountain, relishing it all. As I go I spin in a circle now and then, scanning our ring of mountains, snow, sky. Off and on, I want to whine or pout to have missed the first day of this new snow. But mostly I feel lucky again and again. I go to the library, buy four used books for four dollars. I don’t want to worry about due dates right now, but also I love these soft trade paperbacks. And lately I’ve been reading my way through my pile from the last big library sale, the books that appeal to me when I’m filling my bag but so often go unread. I’m enjoying all the different voices, and I want to keep going. I buy vegan wraps at the health food store, and then I am home. The birds all still have a little seed left in their feeders. The mouse in the house has eaten the small succulent on the kitchen table that Mami gave me and a few of the buds on the Christmas cactus, but she’s stayed out of my bed and not caused havoc, so I’m grateful. I clean up the bits of dirt from the table, sweep the floor, ride my bike to get my hair cut, eat two wraps, drink kombucha, make small piles on the bed for repacking. In the evening I call Ian for a ride to class, get to hear about his metta retreat. After he drops me off again at home, I pause outside my door. All the feeders are filled, ready for the morning birds. I look up at the stars, take a deep breath, soaking up my dark courtyard, my sky. I close my eyes, and when I open them I see a falling star above my home. I make a wish. I open the door, step inside, deep, quiet awe welling up in me for the framing of this day: the moon at sunrise, the falling star, brackets of welcome, of reassurance, of solace. Thank you.
The third assignment I write for the MOOC doesn’t sing, but I feel better about it than the two that came before. The requirements are specific, a scene with three female characters with a fourth who comes along to “thwart their desires.” It’s the first time in this class I’ve had “real” characters come, and the fourth woman who arrives doesn’t behave at all as I’d imagined. It’s been a while since I’ve had characters acting on their own, and I love that part of writing fiction. My scene with these four women happens on a train, and the next assignment needs to take place after a catastrophe of some sort (either internal or external), so the train lends itself to that. I lie in bed this morning dreaming up bits and pieces of how I might continue with these women on the train. I see the two-story house in Oakland, watch Rachel working in the garden, hands in the dirt. And it comes to me that dreaming up fiction might be just as compelling as worrying about money or family, might take me away from being present with the same obsessive flair. But what a way to not be present. Dreaming up fiction beats focusing on my fears, no contest. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled to have fiction floating through me like this. It makes me giddy and grateful: for this free class, for my lighter work load, for the cooler mornings that let me lie in bed getting to know these women in my head instead of having to be out early sweeping the patio, feeding the birds, before the brutal heat descends. The southern sun sends blocks of yellow light across the wall of my room. I love winter mornings in this trailer home, look forward to a long string of them with childlike glee. All in a rush I feel the longing for all the years I might have been churning out fiction. I glimpse how it could feel to be old and know I have characters in my head who I might never get down on paper. I tally up the years. Could I have 30 years still ahead of me to write? More? I want them, every one of them. So I will need to make good use of them. I will need to savor every character, relish every story like a good, rich stew. And bring as many of them as I can onto the page before I die.
When I think about my summer, my time without students is bookmarked by my meditation retreat and my writing workshop camping trip. They were both intensive, designed for breaking through, and I did. But each time I do I slump back again, go dormant. I eat too much, read too much, do too little. And summer itself feels like too much, sapping me. Then I get caught up in the semester start, all that needing to step up, all the patience and kindness it takes to welcome all those people, help them all get settled. Amid the flurry of it I return to my daily yoga practice, moving my mat to follow the shade of the umbrella, misters wetting the cement. One day I lie on my back and see the deep impossible blue of the sky against the edge of the orange umbrella. It takes me by surprise. I can’t remember the last time we had that color in the sky here. The days shorten, and the nights drop into the sixties. I return to writing again first thing because I can afford to sweep the courtyard and feed the birds a little bit later in the morning now. I write propped up in bed, a jar of cold herb tea beside me, my house finch loud and cheerful in the corner of the courtyard. I can see them through the kitchen window. I do my sitting practice next, listen to my finch, to the pwitter of dove wings, to the sound of cars along the road, the hum of the fridge. I hear a big frenzy of flapping, likely a hawk circling. And in the sudden quiet after all the birds take flight, I hear the soft sound of the second hand moving on the small green clock beside my bed. I can feel the promise of fall, of winter here when we can all burst out into the world again, take a walk in the middle of the day. This easing now of life in the desert becomes certain. I wonder, too, if my slumps weren’t also part of the natural cycle of things, the moving forward and moving back. I wonder if I might even find a way to honor that dormancy, to trust in the need to lie fallow. Might I stop resisting it, allow it to be, not make it wrong? Because now I am somewhere in the middle, I think, like the season. I am not quite one place or another, trusting in the transition.