Everything I’ve written on this project has been typed in from the start. This morning as I wrote in my journal, by hand, I circled back to explore an area I’ve typed about. What a difference! New thoughts and insights gushed onto the page, breaking through a wall I only dimly knew existed. I’ve known for ages that printing things out makes a quantum difference. Things just look different on paper than on screen. So why would this not also be so when the words go directly to paper?

This is not news to me at all. I’ve been journaling by hand for a few years now, and am firmly convinced of its value for exploring deep thought, but had not made that connection with this project. It’s too easy on the computer to just back up and have another go at it, which impedes the free flow of thought. I know — turn off the monitor. That’s not the same. I don’t write on paper with my eyes shut. Why would I type that way? No, I just need to spend more time with pen and paper.

A couple of weeks ago I met with a man who sought input on an idea that turned out to be quite synchronistic with my Writing for the Health of It project. He uses a fountain pen. I developed a full-blown case of pen envy as I watched that tip glide so smoothly across the Moleskine page. I have a pen. A nice one. I have no ink. Ink is not easy to find and I don’t like the idea of the tiny disposable cartridges. I also have an ancient Esterbrook from sometime like fifth grade. Where can I find ink? Will my thoughts deepen further with the silkiness of a perfect point?

The answer will appear. Meanwhile I still love my Tül gel pen.

It’s been another month between entries here.  The fact is, I’ve been totally absorbed in transforming my Writing for the Health of It workshop to include narrated slideshows I can use when I teach it via teleseminar (it will be listed as a Story Circle Network winter offering). This memoir project has sat untouched in the shadows. Work on my memoir has ground to a halt, at least in terms of applying fingers to keyboard. But it’s never far from mind.

This morning as I scanned Jerry Waxler’s latest post on his Memory Writers Network blog, I was suddenly transported back to the summer of 1951 into my seven-year-old body. I stood on the rise in front of our house looking down across the street to the cluster of kids gathered between Carol and Tom’s houses. More than anything I wanted to be part of that cluster. I wanted to belong there, not just hang around on the edges as I’d done a couple of times previously. And I had no more idea how to go about achieving that status than how to sprout wings and fly to the moon.

Suddenly I felt a visceral shift and stunning realization: this desire to belong, to fit in, to be connected and accepted, is the theme of my youthful years. This is the thread that carries through everything. This desire is what I thought about as I sat at the sewing machine. It filled my fantasies as I pumped toward the sky on the playground swings, or rode my bike around town, or … did anything at all. By the time I left for college I had made significant progress toward that goal.

Realistically I know I won’t be getting back to serious writing on this project before the end of January at the soonest, but I probably will do some doodling and journaling on this theme.

When I do get back to it, I’ll be writing primarily for the fabled “Audience of one.”  I may eventually share the story, but primarily this has become a self-exploration tool, and I know I can write deeper and more truly for two eyes than the eyes of a multitude. At least in the beginning. This is a valuable discovery. Private writing removes the need for artifice and strips things to the bones.

 

I’m doing some work with Christina Baldwin’s family myths concept that I mentioned in the last post. Results are mixed. I’m seeing lots of family myths that affected my life in powerful ways back then … and even now. I’ve discarded some on my own, and others have been outgrown by the whole family. Relatively few are left intact, but I do see how some linger even now, and in a couple of cases current events provide to cues to recognize departed ones.

My biggest challenge right now is sticking to my determination to frame off that particular period of time rather than jumping ship and following another thread instead. I run the risk of having a dozen unfinished manuscripts piled around like unfinished garments next to the sewing machine. When I realized too many garments had piled up, I tossed several out and realized I didn’t want to sew anymore. I’m not ready to let that happen with writing! Finished projects are sooo satisfying. For better or worse, I must get this draft written and get on with things.

The obvious solution to capturing the moment of insight into those that don’t fit into the Los Alamos frame is to record them in my journal, carefully flagging them for easy retrieval later. By the end of this month I should be ready to focus on this project more intently once again.

Sometimes turning my attention to other things is just what the doctor ordered, and that’s just what I’ve been doing the last few weeks. Putting the polish on my Writing for the Health of It class has consumed my attention and time. But as often happens, turning my attention elsewhere sparked new insight for this project.

In this case, two key discoveries, perhaps key tools, have come from delving back into Christina Baldwin’s book Storycatcher, a book I’d nibbled on previously. Baldwin’s book is rich and multi-layered, and somewhat like a huge pot of soup. Soup is formless and filling. rich with a blend of ingredients. You can’t “get your hands around it” or isolate ingredients, but the blend nourishes you and satisfies your hunger. Even so, on this reading, two concepts popped out  that unlocked new direction.

One is the importance of Story as a meta-concept similar to Truth. It took me a long time to grasp the concept of Story as an organizing principle, the lens for viewing experience and making sense of it. Story in this sense isn’t about single events, it’s my sense of self, of who I am. “Big S” Story is composed of individual experiences that may be recounted as “little s” vignette stories. Truly, I’d never thought of Story this way. A new vista has opened. Thank you Christina. This concept is even more important for my class than this project, but it will give new depth and direction to my memoir.

The second concept is that of Family Myths. These are the stories that we tell ourselves about what makes our family special and different. What binds us together (or pushes us apart). I’ve thought of personally defining characteristics, but not collective ones. Another big Aha.

I’m not ready to get back to my narrative just yet. I have another week of intense preparation for the class, and then we’ll devote a bit of time to reveling in fall color. But even if I’m not drafting my narrative, I will be spending some good journal time exploring My Story and our Family Myths. That’s sure to fertilize the narrative and perhaps I’ll even finally “catch my story.”

The grandchildren have come and gone. At the risk of seeming to brag, I’ve got to say, they are ideal grandchildren. As teenagers, they are respectful, helpful, considerate, well-behaved, resourceful, full of insightful ideas and great conversationalists. And so, so full of energy. The constant rush to cram a lifetime of visits into a week took its toll on this grandmother. I’m exhausted.

But I’m also refreshed and feeling  a bit of new perspective nibbling at the back of my heel. Isn’t that an interesting place to experience inspiration — in the Achilles area? Now what could that mean? Obviously something about vulnerability . . . or maybe moving too slowly in the fast lane?  Is something “nipping at my heel”?

Another source of inspiration is coming from Dominique Browning’s book Slow Love: How I Lost My Job, Put On My Pajamas & Found Happiness, the memoir I’m chilling out with while waiting for a resurgence of energy so I can finish plans for my Writing for the Health of It class that begins a week from today. I’ll review the book when I’m finished, but two things stand out right now. First, she uses dialogue as a very occasional accent, like a splash of lemon-yellow against an olive background.

The other is one line that stands out like that splash of lemon-yellow: “What I have found, in these hours of sleeplessness, is something I may have encountered as a teenager, and then lost in the frantic skim through adulthood — the desire to nourish my soul.”

The “frantic skim” through adulthood . . . is it time to slow down? To “take the repeats” as she began doing and nourish my soul? Could be. What does that mean? For life in general and for my writing? These are juicy journal prompts, for sure!

New, or possibly revised, concepts are bubbling away in the dark. It may be a few more weeks before they begin to take form on the page, but the yeast is lively.

Last night I spent a few hours with a high school friend I have not seen or spoken directly with for over forty years. Reconnecting was a rich experience, but more like getting acquainted anew rather than revisiting the past. Somehow our memories of “back then” didn’t click into recognition and alignment, and my occasional attempts to steer the conversation in that direction bounced like a super ball. She did remind me of a couple of things, but nothing major.

I had considered this possibility in advance and decided it didn’t matter. Whatever was meant to happen would happen. Expectations could only hinder. Having realized or decided this ahead of time freed me to allow conversation to flow as it would rather than insisting on controlling it to meet my expectations.

Did this encounter move my project forward? Hardly at all. But neither does it hinder.

As I think with my fingers here, I realize how odd it is that I seem to be the one collecting connections with a dozen key people from the past who would not otherwise stay in touch. I did not serve this role back then. I did not feel central as I now do. Hmmm. Something to think about. What does this mean?

This is one of the benefits of journaling, which this blog more or less is — new insights and connections are often spontaneously revealed when thinking is made visible on the page.

I’ll have time to ponder this question tomorrow as I ride a bus around central Alaska. More in a few days.