Being in the Moment

End of the Day, Town Landing, Falmouth, Maine

Spring in our house always feels jam-packed.  The to-do lists are long, the days fly by, and suddenly, after winter's long semi-hibernation, I wish I only needed about two hours of sleep a night.  There just aren't enough hours in a day for us to do the work that pays the bills plus do the million and one house projects that somehow feel most urgent in spring plus keep up with the classes I'm taking, plus get my own writing projects done, plus see friends and family plus workout daily plus cook meals plus--and most pressing and exciting for me--work in the garden.

Just Before Dusk, Congress Square, Portland, Maine

I'm grateful for my iPhone camera, because it reminds me in the midst of all of these tasks and commitments (so many of which I love) to pause and breathe and just take note of what's around me.  My word for the year is "see," and I live in a part of the world where so much of what there is to see is beautiful.  But I see what's not beautiful, too, and I believe that's just as important.    

Early Morning on Moulton Street, Portland, Maine

So many of us feel rushed and stressed these days more than ever.  I think that as much as we love them, our technologies--our phones and laptops and various other gadgets and devices--play a big part in this stress and in this feeling of never being able to truly shut down, rest, retreat.  It's up to us to take charge and use this incredible technology for our own benefit--to determine how we use it rather than letting it gradually take over.  So, I love to use my phone to take photos of simple, quiet moments.  I share some, but many more I just keep for myself to enjoy.  I also make sure that when I go for walks or out to eat I don't always bring my phone with me.  Sometimes it's best to just be in the moment, no need to record it.  I don't need a photo of every pretty latte I drink or every gorgeous rose I see.  That makes the photos I do take all the more precious to me.

I'd love to know what you do to slow down and relax.  What helps you rest and recharge?

Wild Mind

Remember the baker's twine I mentioned at Thanksgiving?  Well, here's mine in the photo above, and as you can see, it's still at loose ends.  That's fine with me.  Nothing is done or nearly done on my list, and yet I took time today to take and process photos.  It felt good to set up shots, think about light and mood and cropping.  I didn't have room in my head for worry.  I was in my working wild mind.  I go there for photos and for writing; I don't let anything in the outside world touch that part of me.  It's too precious.  You know when people ask what you'd grab first in the case of a house fire?  Besides the kitties and Mr. Magpie, I'd be happy if my body and my wild mind made it out intact.  

It's not exactly my brain that I mean.  My brain's part of it, I suppose, but it's my gut, too, and probably my heart.  And other parts I can't define.  I don't talk about this with many people--just the writers that I help to craft their poems and stories and letters and thoughts, and the people closest to me, the ones who don't mind when I get that absent look on my face in the middle of supper or someone's birthday party right when it's time for candles and cake.  I don't mean to be antisocial or rude.  It just happens.  I smell the scent of cinnamon or catch a glimpse of a book on a shelf that I read in 1982, and I'm gone . . . back to my wild mind for however long it takes.  I'm sharing this with you because I know you get it.  You go there, too, I bet.  You call it something different, but you can't imagine living without it, and that is why we've found each other. 

October First

The morning comes slowly, with silver limning the hawthorn and lilac branches in the yard.  Night's shadows hang on, and the sun never quite shows itself before the rain begins.

I welcome this dark, wet start.  My thoughts, bright as the last of the marigolds, seem all the clearer for it.  The day is full of lists that must be finished.  I work, piece by piece, without pause.  No leaping ahead to the next task; no what if I can't, what if they don't, what if it never.

Here is the secret the scarlet leaves whisper as they drop from the trees: there is this one moment.  Only this.  

A Bit More Mist . . . and a Few Thoughts About Solitude and Togetherness

Do you mind a few more photos of fog?  These are shots I took at Willard Beach in South Portland.  It's a lovely neighborhood beach in any weather, but I do love a good rolling fog for a walk. 

I also wanted to say thank you for all the wonderful comments and emails about my last post.  They made my week.  

I can't help it; in my head I've named this shot "The Happy Couple."

I've been writing a great deal lately, and helping clients work on their writing projects, which is a process that brings rewards of its own.  Often when people ask me for advice about how to become a writer, I am hard pressed to give them any one answer.  Of course, reading heaps of books is up near the top of my list, and writing every day--or as close to every day as possible.  But I think maybe the most essential trait a writer can cultivate is a love of solitude.  Social butterflies are not suited to the task.

When you do seek companionship, it is helpful to find others who love solitude, too.  Then you can be alone together.  They need to be people who don't fret when you wander off for hours to stare at leaves and shells and rocks and twigs.  They need to feel very secure in their own ability to be alone when you lock yourself away for hours to write. They need to not wait for you to come out of hiding.  Instead, they must have their own quiet obsessions that occupy long stretches of time.  In this way, when you do come back together, it will be out of a mutual joy in the work and play you are both pursuing.  There will be much to share, much that sustains both. 

And there will be no petty jealousy.  Each will support the other in his or her pursuits.  I'm not saying this is an easy path to choose, but it is certainly a more joyous and productive one when we can share it with like-minded spirits.  This all seems like an obvious thing to say, but I know what it's like when a writer (or an artist of any kind) tries to share her life with someone who does not understand the need for solitude.  This leads to a silent pen, which leads to loneliness, something utterly different from solitude.  The latter nourishes, the former leeches one dry. 

Are you someone, writer or not, who needs solitude?  If so, how do you find it?  I think it is increasingly rare in our relentlessly "connected" world.  One trick I have is that I don't watch television . . . at all . . . ever.  I'd love to hear some of your strategies for finding solitude.

Wishing you a week of beauty and lots of creative energy, my friends!

Writing Life

Though it hasn't been obvious here on the blog lately, I am first and foremost a writer.  In fact, I have been writing more over the last year than ever before in my life.  Regular readers of The Magpie's Fancy might be puzzled by this statement, as there has been little evidence of any real writing activity here during that same period.  The cupboards have been bare.  Not a can of beans or a box of saltines for you to nibble on as you wait for me to get my act together and bake some cookies or whip up a proper pudding.

I promise that will happen soon.  Once we are in the new house at the end of August, you won't be able to get rid of me!

In the meantime, one half of my brain is thinking gardens and French doors and room colors and bead board, even as the other half writes and writes and writes.  What I am writing is still top secret for now, but I can tell you that its presence has taken up so much of my existence that there has been little room for much else, including blogging.  That is a good thing, though, for as a beloved professor once told me, "Write every day, even when you don't feel like it, even when you have no time, even when it gets in the way of the rest of your life."  She was right, and I do.

Even as I type this, I recognize how slightly crazy and selfish it sounds, but I don't care.  A writer writes.  A writer also reads--maybe even more than she writes.  And this writer takes very long walks.  Walking helps me write.  So does washing the dishes by hand.  So does daydreaming--not worrying or obsessing, but real daydreaming of the sort that allows for surprises and possibilities.

I hope some of my writing students--both past and present--see this post, because I often give them this advice about the writing life, and I want them to know that I don't take it lightly.  The writing life is uncompromising, demanding, and difficult.  It also brings moments of great joy among the soap suds and reveries.  For me it comes down to this: discipline leads to discovery.  It is that simple, and I wouldn't want any other life.

The Magpie's Pen

Okay, my friends, it's up and running!

From now on, The Magpie's Pen will be the new home of Freewrite Fridays . . .

. . . and much, much more,

all designed to keep your pen moving 

and your fingers typing.

I hope you'll fly on over there for a visit.

Romancing the Muse: Digging into the Archives

I have been tagged by my amazing and hilarious friend Ange whose blog Signed by Ange never fails to inspire me. Often I don't play along with tags simply because I forget, which I know is lame, but it is exactly what happens.  This tag, however, is easy as pie, and loads of fun.  I'm supposed to repost my sixth and tenth blog posts ever and then tag some other folks to join in the fun.  I'm cheating a little and posting my fifth instead of my sixth because I think this one is rather useful for anyone who is trying to write.   I'll post my tenth tomorrow and include my list of bloggers then.  So, here it is, my fifth post from Saturday, March 7, 2009:

I write every day. Right now that's easier to do than usual because I have a writing residency that gives me the gift of time, but even when life is hectic, I write very regularly.  Place doesn't matter quite as much; I write in coffee shops, airports, waiting rooms, wherever I have time to linger. The best writing, however, the writing of my wild mind, happens at home at my desk with the talismans and tokens in this photo and my cat Dill on his pillow beside me.  Students often complain to me of writer's block.  The best advice I have to give them boils down to a few simple things:

• Turn off all your electronic devices--just like when you're on an airplane--and simply sit quietly for a bit, allowing your brain to hear its own thoughts.
• Make a date with your muse every day and don't stand her (or him) up.  Even if it's just time for a quick snog.  Be there in the chair with the pen and paper or laptop and put the words on the page.
• Don't be critical of your writing as you draft.  Just write.  Criticize and revise later.  When you're having a tough time keeping dates to write new stuff, make a date to work on revisions. That's when you can be tough, but even then, think of revising as a form of play. Imagine the possibilities for your poem or story.  Don't feel married to earlier drafts.  There's been no wedding--just dates.
• This last one is the most important one: read.  Read books you love.  Read with abandon. Read more than you write.  Become a book addict.  It is the single most valuable habit a writer can cultivate.  Even if you've missed a date or two with the muse, she'll forgive you if she knows you've been reading.  

I'm adding one tip to the list today, May 3rd: If it helps, wherever you keep a calendar or datebook, tuck your date with the muse into that schedule.  Write or type it right in there in bold capitals.  Treat it like you would a meeting or an appointment.  If you're a writer, it is every bit as important as anything else you'll be doing that day--and more important than most.  

Winter White and Promise

I just had to show you another shot of the paperwhites on my windowsill.  They won't quit.  How can I give up trying if those little flowers keep going and going?

I'm wrapped up in an old quilt my grandmother made and I'm drinking Earl Grey Tea tonight with a bit of Winter White honey from the Savannah Bee Company.  If you're ever in Savannah, pay them a visit.  They have a honey-tasting bar and the best honeys I have ever tried.    

This week has been all about home improvement projects.  I'll show you some photos later this weekend.  A few posts back I asked what you do to seek comfort when you're down.  So many of you wrote with insights and remedies that I was comforted just in the reading of your words.  Several times I have thought about what Ange said about getting lost in concentration, in the doing of one's work; as she put it, "[I] become what I am doing."  That is one of the best remedies I know.  So, hammers and paintbrushes and nails and screws have been just what the doctor ordered (in this case my husband, who is a Ph.D. and not a "real" doctor, but he's pretty good in a pinch).  Speaking of my husband, have I told you that I have the best one in the world?  I know many of you do, too.  Aren't we lucky?  This morning mine brought me a bunch of unopened daffodils.  Each time I glanced at them throughout the day, they revealed a tiny bit more yellow.

Promise.  Just what I needed.

A Room (or Desk or Garden or Studio or Shed) of One's Own

This morning I worked on one of my writing projects in a coffee shop that I love.  Sometimes I seek noise and bustle for inspiration; blaring music, teenagers gossiping loudly over mochas, and lawyers on their cell phones serve as a great backdrop to certain types of writing that I do.  In fact, they create a kind of rhythm and energy that drives me forward.    
Other times, when I want to write poetry, my first love, I need to come home to the cocoon of my workspace, surrounded by my favorite books, mementos, and flowers (yes, those are the flowers from the last post--they're holding up well).  
My desk is beside a window high above an old canal.  I can hear the noise of the city below, but it is muffled by the walls of the huge old mills on my street.  I am safe and sound and quiet in my old wooden chair.  Books are stacked and arranged . . . well, everywhere.  

I keep on my desk an ever-revolving collection of flea market finds and objects from people I love.  I am particularly fond of the escort card pictured above.  Can you imagine a young man today presenting a girl with one of these?

My muse.

The harmonica was a gift for my eighth birthday from my father.  I can't play it one bit, but I always keep it on hand.  You never know when inspiration (or talent) may suddenly strike.  My brother gave me the amazing cat letter-opener--very Edward Gorey.
I am obsessed with stationery items--paper clips, binders, push pins, and notepads--so the cigar boxes help hide some of the clutter.  In the picture below you'll find my other muse, Dill.  He loves to help me write.  Seriously.  If I'm writing, he's right beside me, sometimes sleeping, other times simply staring at me for a very long time.  It's almost like he's sending me brain waves: "Think, dammit.  Be creative, girl!"
I love my desk.  It's one of the places where I feel most myself, most able to create.  The kitchen is a close second.  Where do you love to work, create, make beautiful things?  I'd love to hear about the place that inspires you to craft your best magic.