Introduction

"To do writing practice means to deal ultimately with your whole life" (3).
The last line of this introduction is to "use this book," and so I will. I've always shied away from writing in this or in anything online every day. What if someone reads it? What if no one reads it. The reality is that the area is here whether I use it or not.

The idea of ultimately dealing with my whole life is at once exciting and terrifying. Of course it won't happen all at once and maybe not at all. But maybe I owe it to myself to try.

And so, after trying to find a routine for this, I have decided that I will read (re-read) a vignette from Goldberg's two book volume: Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind and write something each day. Or when I remember or feel like it. I don't know that I can stick to this, but it will be an exercise.

Writing Down the Bones

The past few days I've been trying to read a mini-essay from the book Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and taking notes about things to write about. Lately I keep thinking about all of the things I need to do instead of doing them. There are four things I want to do each day for myself--read, write, walk, and yoga. Each of them for about twenty minutes (except the writing, which I feel like I can do in less time for some reason), and each of them make me feel better in all kinds of ways when I do them.

When I get up in the morning to do yoga, my head is clearer and I'm calmer. Serene, peaceful. Maybe this feeling of calmness is in my head, but even so, that still means it's real, right?

So, now, I have pages of lists in my notebook that may be translated to this blog or may just stay on the paper. When Goldberg first wrote The Bones she wrote exclusively about paper to pen or pencil, saying that pen to paper is nearly a spiritual process. I know that to be true--but I also wonder if hand to keyboard cannot also awaken the sleeping writer in us. My hands move faster when they type than when they write. So, does my brain move faster or am I trying to keep up?

On my sketchy list of things to write about is the line "our senses by themselves are too dumb" which of course is true. I walk around life trying to feel and remember every feeling and everything, but it is only when I step back that I realize my true thoughts about an issue or an idea or person.

There was a time when I believed that the feeling approach I took was the best or the only approach, but now i realize that it is a choice like most other choices we make about ourselves, even if it is an unconscious one.

Of course writing, and this book, and Natalie Goldberg make me think about Dr. Walker. When we went through her papers a few weeks ago and we found letter after letter of hers from Leslie and some other man. She write these love letters in ways that made me realize I didn't know her much at all. We were given a small slice of her life, and that slice was beautiful, but it was definitely not the only part of her. We were barely a part of her life, but we were there at the end, circled around her and holding her hands. Listening to her breaths move slowly and less rapidly from her body until she was dead. Barely knew her, yet held her as she took her last breath.

Dear Dr. Walker

Witt and I took some time to go through your papers and we found stacks of letters that you had written to Woody and Leslie. Witt declared them love letters, and I stuffed them into sacks and they're outside now in the cold November air. It seems lonely that all of your words would be stuffed into sacks, and shoved into the cold, but when I read the occasional paragraph I was struck by how detailed and beautiful your words were to these men that we never spoke about.

Immediately I felt as though I was invading your privacy, but I was also entranced by these drafts and drafts of love letters or these letters that you never sent. Letters that you wrote about hiking and Franconia College and having a couple over to dinner. We even found an old photo of you--Witt said it was professionally made, and you must have been thirty or even forty. I imagine you were about my age now, but you had already lived a lifetime. A terrible world of hurt, losing your daughter, surviving a first husband.

Remember when I brought you Thanksgiving dinner? And you ate and we sat in your room and talked about dinner. And we must have talked about other things, but I don't remember. I remember what. I have flashes of you--in class, in the hospital, in the nursing homes.

Your letters reminded me today that being with someone at the end gives no true indication of beginning. It makes me afraid to have children.

The BIG Review of The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Indian

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Michelle Tracy gave me this book for my birthday in August. I had wanted to read it for a while, then forgot about it. When I unwrapped it, I was excited to see the book I had forgotten.The book was an easy read, and the cartoons were nothing short of hilarious, but of course it was an exercise in depth of character as well. The prose was fluid as well as poignant. Arnold/Junior faced challenges that all teenage boys face and challenges that minorities face and does so with a maturity that is real and respectable. I enjoyed how smart and thoughtful Arnold was. His dual personality consistently weighed on him but he also lived his life in both places instead of merely talking about it. And that’s why I love this book—he doesn’t just tell me how it is—he shows me.

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The BIG Review of South of Broad

South of Broad by Pat Conroy


My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Overall, I was disappointed in this book. The language, like all of Conroy's books, is remarkably fluid and lyrical, but the story lacked the tightness and character development that Conroy's previous books hold. At his best moments, Leo King seemed interesting, but more often than not, he was pathetic. The most gripping events of the book--the summer the friends became close, the back stories of the twins and the orphans, the death and aftermath of the brother, the terrible secret that comes out at the end that could have serious ramifications for Leo's mother--all glossed over.

In many ways it seemed as though this was three books wrapped into one; too many things happened for one book.

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Aging

You know you're getting old when all of the sudden you realize the actors and celebrity that you grew up admiring now play the parents (or grandparents) in movies. When I first saw There's Something About Mary, I never imagined Cameron Diaz as a mother. She put cum in her hair, for God's sake. She couldn't raise a child; she is a child.

And, yet. She's the mother of a child with cancer in the movies. I know how that makes me feel. I wonder how it makes her feel. People don't really spend time talking about these kinds of transitions--when you realize that you can't go to bed at three in the morning and get up at eight and be happy. When you can't eat whatever you want at ten and sleep through the night with no problem. Digestion changes. Your knees change. Your hip feels out of place. And then it hits you. "I never thought about my hip before I was (insert current age here).

Yet, with age comes a kind of confidence. A confidence that if I'd had when I was thirteen, would have meant a much different path for me. I didn't do things that I regret, yet there are some things I would have done if I thought I could live them or through the embarrassment. And now, I realize that I could have lived through any embarrassment because I have lived through far more.

Initiations

This morning I'm trying to get into the mindset that Gabriel Halpren suggested one finds when taking on the role of the student instead of the role of teacher. "I am water, I am water." Yes, yes, at first I thought he was a whack job--I'm not water!

But upon reflection, I realize that we need students to be water--fluid, moving, rushing at times to get to the next step, slowing down at times to roll over bumps. So, this morning, I am water in an effort to be initiated into my new job.

It's so strange to consider that a few hours away my friends are initiating someone who will teach in my room (I know, I know, it's his room now).