In which I spent small amounts of time (ten minutes, or longer if the inspired) writing whatever came to mind.
March 31: It’s been, as they say and, as nearly always is the case, a long winter. Today, March 31, was bleak and windy, but nearly 60 degrees, and this morning Aidy and I spotted a blue jay so bright it seemed almost dangerous; too flashy for its own good. I don’t know if that’s a sign of spring - an extra bright blue jay - but when you’re looking for them (the signs) they manifest easily. Nonsensically. We vacuumed out the minivan and that was a sign of spring. We ate dinner outside with friends, bundled in our winter coats, uncomfortable but happy, and that was too.
April 11: Today, plagued by the sense that I haven’t been writing as much as I should (as in denying the deepest creative impulses of my very soul…as in neglecting the most fundamental quality of my very self…), I decided to look up writing retreats, workshops and teachers, under the impression that some time away, some tutoring or some camaraderie might reignite the practice better than the simple act of, you know, just doing the thing on a more regular basis. I learned that I could pay $1,500 for meals, lodging, a fireplace and instruction in a wooded retreat center, or opt-in to weekly sessions at a local book shop geared to get words on the page and facetime with a trusted circle of likeminded writer types. And, the thing is, that these and all the rest - cabins with a mixed bag of artists! ( which actually might be a little bit like torture) and practical sessions on how to generate better blog content! - actually do sound worth it. I’m happy that there are tools to employ should I have the time and openheartedness required to jump in. But then I set the timer for ten minutes and was able to write with the aid of nothing more than a cup of black tea. I didn’t even take the teabag out; it is floating in my cup still, creating an increasingly bitter product and whispering a reminder: the process can go any damn way you want.
May 4: The other day I realized that I hadn’t watched the news - in a purposeful way, besides in passing - in a long time. Weeks. I realized this while lying in bed reading a book (“Small Things Like These”) that my mom gave me, told me I absolutely “have to read it” - as she so often does, and she’s always right - and then, you know, I didn’t. Reading was something that, until recent weeks, I also hadn’t done in a long time…not in a purposeful way, only in passing. Snippets here and there, struggling to finish my book, with the rare page-turner thrown into the mix, but it had to be a real page-turner (easy, suspenseful) for me to engage in anything more than a few pages (or even a paragraph!) at a time.
The realization about the news caused me to think for a few minutes about why, and the answers came easily: post-apocalyptic-politics, post-COVID (although it’s never “post-COVID”) wall-to-wall coverage binging had been my norm, and perhaps I was subconsciously taking the spring of 2022 as a needed vacation from knowing all the details all the time.
I gave social media up for Lent and that, too, allowed for a deeper concentration, something I hadn’t really offered myself the chance to explore, what with the constant interruptions of modern life. You can’t opt out of all of them, but you can opt out of some. And some, it seems, was enough for me to pick up a few of the “you have to read this” books on my bedside table and once again enjoy my most long-standing hobby, not in stolen moments, but in now available ones.
This week, obviously, threw me back into my aggressive news consumption mode, but I watched all the hot takes from bed this morning with my book laying face down on the blanket, open to where I’d stopped, right there within reach when I was ready to resume.
