On Dreaming (#18)

https://www.theartstory.org/artist/hammershoi-vilhelm/
I shouldn't be afraid to open up doors. Read on to find out more.

If you have been reading my blog since the beginning, you know that my dreams are frequently lucid and vivid. Some are dark and disturbing, while others are funny and absurd. All of them I find fascinating, and that is why I keep a dream journal.

Unfortunately, not all the dreams make it in there. Between the dreaming and my journaling, I have forgotten as many as I have remembered. On occasion, upon waking from a particularly powerful dream, I will take notes using my phone. However, most of the time I avoid that task, because falling back to sleep becomes a struggle.

Sometimes, when I have lucid, vivid dreams, I can recollect having them, but it is the details I cannot recall. And, yes, I mention that in my journal: "Last night I had a vivid dream, unfortunately, I cannot remember any details" or "I had dream, but all that I remember was that I was naked".  

Yet, there are times when I fail to dream at all. When these moments cluster together, I call them droughts. For me, lucid, vivid dreaming is another tool for analyzing my emotions concerning people, events, and ideas in my life. Even the bad, disturbing ones. So, when I am deprived of the experience for a long period of time, or I forget too many details, I feel an emptiness. The past few months, I have suffered quite a few dry spells and memory gaps.

Then, like a monsoon, the dreams flood back into my mind. Despite the overwhelming emotional force that washes over me, I am grateful for their return. Prior to last week, I was suffering one such drought. And then, beginning last Monday, the first of a four dreams arrived, the last two occurring these past two nights.

For brevity, I am only going to share the last one. Also, last night's dream contrasts well with the last dream I shared on this blog. That one was long, complicated, and disturbing. It involved one of my two daughters. This one was short, direct, and intense. My other daughter was in it.

One last thought before I describe it. I should have just opened the door.

It was at night. My daughter and I were standing in a room with a door that led outside. The walls seemed fake, like we were standing on a set of a television show. It even felt like a wall was missing. Except for the two of us and the door, the space was empty, and the walls were painted a maroon color, but otherwise bare. My memory of the dream begins with me already against the door, and the sense that something, or someone, was trying to enter. My daughter was at arms length, and right behind me. I do not know if I was keeping her back, or if she was hesitant to move closer. However, I do recall struggling to keep the door closed, and unable to lock it shut. At least twice, the door opened enough for me to see a dark mass on the other side. Each time, I fumbled for the door handle, and pushed my weight against the door. Then, just before waking up, I clearly remember standing there at the door, taking a step back, and thinking, "Maybe I should just let it in."            

Confessions (#21)

I believe I have referenced this work by Norman Rockwell before. I love it.
There is something about the look on her face. It is real, not perfect. Tired, but grateful.
Like good teaching. And, it is funny that tonight, for the first time, I noticed
the broken chalk, chalk dust, and eraser collected at her feet; the eraser on the head
of one student; and how one of the children wrote "Happy Birthday Jonesy" on the board.
Between the sincere kindness of  her students, the mess on the floor, the silliness of a rogue eraser,
and someone daring to call the teacher by their first name, this could have been any one of my classes.  

For good or ill, I allowed my high school students to challenge me. Daily they would question my curriculum and pedagogical choices. And each day, I would indulge their attempts to avoid what I thought best for them. Perhaps it was naivety. Maybe it was the culture of the that school. And while blaming an entire generation, or just the ignorance of youth, would soothe my guilt, deep down I know a part of me just gave up. There is way to give students the freedom and structure they require to learn effectively. But I never discovered it during those thirteen years of teaching.

In addition, during my career at that "little school in the woods", I wore many hats. There was the hat for teaching. Another for administrative work, like accounting, record keeping, communications. Then there was one for marketing, both digital and print. In addition, on Fridays, I would mop the gym and classroom floors. Every day, whether sending out an email on behalf of the headmaster to some irate parent, paying bills and printing invoices, redesigning the website, or just taking the garbage bags to the dumpster, I was doing more than just teaching.

One day during class, while my students hounded me with a request (I believe it was about a field trip), frustrated, I blurted out that I "had a million things to do". And true to form, without skipping a beat, one of my students, an annoyingly lovable one, quipped, "Alright, list them for us, these one million tasks."

Sigh. And true to myself, I surrendered, and began rattling off things I had to do. 

"First, there is the email I need to send out to your parents about next week's event. Second, I have to order the chairs for the event. Third, I have to sit down with the headmaster, and create an ad for the local newspaper. Fourth, the garbage cans in the gym need to be replaced. Fifth..."

I believe I made it to about twenty. What happened next is beyond my memory. Or I buried it deeply with a lot of regrettable or humiliating experiences from my days of teaching.

So, why am I thinking of this particular recollection? Well, I was going to begin tonight's post differently: "There are a million things swirling in mind tonight that I feel like I am drowning in them." And that is when the memory snapped into focus. Then I searched through the titles of my previous posts, hoping to find something better than "A Brief Interlude" or "A Deep Breath". That is when I spied "Confessions". 

And here we are.

I could indulge you, dear reader, like I did my students, and start cataloging all the thoughts bombarding my mind right now. It would not be a million, but it would easily exceed twenty. If I had to guess, a hundred sounds about right. But fortunately, for the both of us, none of you have ever asked me to list them. In addition, many of my thoughts would be too embarrassing to share. Indeed, I would end up humiliating myself and others. Some are typical, while others, trivial. Then there are the repeats, for those who have been regularly reading my blog, or listening to me when I whine. Finally, and simply, I do not have the time, the energy, or the will to present them in some interesting and witty manner.

So, no list for you.

Well, maybe one:

1) Fold the laundry;

2) Wash the dishes;

3) Write a blog post;

4) Daydream about how people will react to it when they read it.        

A (Sort of) Book Review (#1)

I am reusing this one, because I think I am heading
into a migraine; therefore, I am skipping out on a
search for a new image. 

At some point in my blogging, I wrote a post that I intended to be an introduction to a series on my reading habit, and all my struggles maintaining it. That series petered out: the mediocre sequel turned into a crappy epilogue. Then I tried to combine my reading and writing goals by attempting to write book reviews. Like most of my projects, nothing came of it.

Maybe, until now?

This past week, over the course of three days, I consumed two works of fiction. Well, one novel, and an autobiographical graphic book. However, I believe the author of the latter would agree that her account contains fictional elements, placing it outside the realm of something like someone's published memoirs. And since I am trying to expand beyond my reading comfort zone (i.e., non-fiction), I will include it as fiction.

Both titles arose from those ever growing banned book lists sweeping the nation. The first is The Push by Ashley Audrain; the second, Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic by Alison Bechdel. Having read them both, I see no reason to prevent teenagers from reading either work. Sure, I would be reluctant to use them as required reading in a high school setting. Neither reflect exceptional use of the English language. So there literary value would not trump their uncomfortable content. But I would not deny my daughters the opportunity to pick them off a school library shelf and surrender themselves to what lies within those pages.

While the content in both books contain controversial topics that would make even adults uneasy, their unflinching approach to child abuse, motherhood, repressed sexuality, trauma, and death, is delivered intelligently and creatively. None of it is pornographic. Even the sex scenes.

[Sorry, narrating that two people fucked and enjoyed it is not explicit; including illustrations of one woman's head between that of another, or a naked cadaver with its penis displayed, is not porn. Some people may not like to read such passages, or look at such images. Yet, neither come close to the experience of pornographic images and explicit texts. Trust me, teenagers are seeing much worse on their phones.]

For me, I am glad I read both books. While I figured out the ending to The Push within the first few chapters, Ashley Audrain's writing style, a combination of first and second person, and the characters themselves, kept me going. It did no read like trauma porn. Instead, I experienced the unfortunate lives of regular people struggling with their problems. And I witnessed three different types of motherhoods, none of them perfect. A few times, I even teared up a bit. It would be a book I could recommend to the people that I know. If they want a quick, depressing story. 

As for Fun Home (a play on "Funeral Home"), it is a book I cannot recommend as easily. Indeed, I can think of maybe two of my readers who would appreciate it. The content is depressing, and the discussion centers on the author's struggles with sexual repressions, not just in herself, but in another person. I learned a lot about how oppressive and destructive social norms can be on a person. But that is not why I would hesitate to promote this book within my social circle. While I consider myself an intelligent person, I am aware that many more people are smarter and better educated than I am. And this author is one of them. She uses a lot of literary and mythical references. There are plenty of quotes from Proust and Joyce, two authors who are way beyond my understanding. And the entire book draws on Icarus and his father in a way that I find confusing. Finally, it is all delivered in a structure that weighs down on you intellectually and emotional. It left me exhausted.

Perhaps that was the author's intention?  Drag me down just as her childhood has been a burden for her? Confuse me with the esoteric words and themes of literary giants as she was confused by her emotions and family dynamics? Leave me weary and drained, as her childhood left her?

In the end, I am grateful for experiencing both books, but I doubt I will ever return to them.

Take that observation however you see fit.         

As for me, I have two non-fiction books to read before Wednesday. One is about the joys of Algebra; the other about better ways of thinking.

Hey, that is how I roll.      

A Brief Interlude (#23)

Not really sure why I picked this one.
I don't have the urge to find a new image.

For the past eight days, I have been sick. A steady fever of a hundred degrees. Aches and chills across the first few days. Sore throat and coughing fits throughout the nights. Until last night, I barely totaled four hours of sleep in any of those previous ones. Tests on Friday morning cleared me of COVID, Strep, and the flu. So, the doctor sent me home with a powerful antibiotic (I am so looking forward to some of the possible side effects), an inhaler (my first time with one, and it seems to have helped a lot with the coughing), and a steroid (I am going to pass on that one and its side effects). And I can say honestly, forty-eight hours later, and a complete night of sleep, I feel a lot better.

So much so, I spent the second half of the day at my eldest daughter's last dance competition of the season. Of course, what has not improved was my hearing and speech. Like the plastic bench beneath my butt, I am sure both were hard and grating. However, I coughed perhaps once or twice, and that was from walking outside in the cold air. Did not blow my nose once. Finally, I left the event tired, not exhausted. 

There is still enough energy in me to write this post. What I lack is something worthwhile to talk about. Since I skipped last week's blogging, I decided to make an attempt. 

A few posts back, I discussed my obsession with documentaries. One about a woman and her family's life in an area near the Arctic Circle inspired a marathon of viewing. I ended up trudging through a World War I series, and blitzing through one about World War II. Somewhere in there was a trilogy about wildlife in Scandinavia's Arctic regions. And now I am hiking through a program that follows several groups of people living remotely near Alaska's Arctic Circle.

Something about those cold, wilderness regions and how people and animals survive it, along with stories of wholesale slaughter and destruction, that has me watching more tv in the past few weeks then I have probably all of last year.

Time watching televisions shows is time I could be spending on reading. Something I spent so little of while I was sick. Yes, I find it difficult to read while I am ill. But, in the past, my symptoms rarely lasted more than two days. Three at the most. This round was rough. However, I am happy to say, at one point, I cracked open I book, and found myself reading at least three or four chapters in a sitting. And it was a work of fiction. That was in the middle of last week, and I have not returned to it since.

Yet, now that I am feeling much better, I hope to revisit it as early as tomorrow. If I can get through it, I can move on to other titles. Maybe I will even write about it. But one step at a time.

Speaking of writing, I cannot recall the last time I journaled. Perhaps two weeks ago? That would make it my longest drought. Not blogging, I can excuse. Writing fiction has been an ongoing struggle. But journaling was always my anchor connecting me to that elusive habit. Or a fall back position whenever I advanced two far into no-man's land. A way to keep sane.

And I severed the rope, and I am adrift, or crawling from one bombed-out crater to another. 

[Okay, so I cannot decide on which metaphor to follow. The first ties back to the Alaskan videos, the second to those trench warfare films. I should choose clarity over cleverness.] 

Yet... yet... writing this post has me thinking. Okay, not always a good thing, especially when I overthink. But this time it may pay off. A week of illness followed by a day in which I endured a public event without suffering exhaustion (physical, emotional, etc.), and here I am typing away a post I had no intention of producing. That is something.

In addition, the beginning of March starts in the middle of this upcoming week. That means spring is around the corner. A whole months of planning and starting gardening projects. There is a metaphor somewhere in there. One I can apply to writing. 

Not sure what it is.

And this post is getting long. 

So, I am going to wrap it up.

My goal tomorrow morning, is journal. And maybe read a chapter.

I just have to do it before I start the laundry, clean the kitchen, go grocery shopping, bake some brownies...

[Shit, I forgot about the brownies!]

A Brief Interlude (#22)

This is a painting done by J.R.R. Tolkien.
I have always enjoyed his paintings and drawings. 

Two weeks ago, I published a grim post. Then skipped a Sunday of blogging. Now I have returned. During that interlude, I spent three days in Disney World, hanging out with some close friends, watching our daughters perform in a national dance competition. That trip required me to step way out of my comfort zone. It was worth it. Even when I spent half a day without access to my phone.

As for not blogging, it was acceptable. I did not want to haul my laptop through security, onto the plane, and then have it sitting around in the hotel, worried I would leave it behind. I did not need to keep track of another item, and increase my anxiety. Also, it turns out that I never had enough time to myself, between all the walking, talking, eating, and introspection that happened. Except for the shower. I was alone in there. But it is not a place for a laptop.

No computer also meant no journaling. I have been struggling with that habit since the beginning of the year. To miss three full days of it was a major, but necessary set back. It is a good thing that I have so much free time waiting for my daughter at her dance studio. I spent the full two-and-a-half hours in the car typing away a journal entry that ran six full typed pages, single spaced. And I only wrote half of what was on my mind of my experiences from the trip. Really, it was an outline. At some point, I need to go back and expand on some of the content.   

Speaking of habits, I tried to improve another one, reading. The last time I wrote about my reading habit was more than a year ago. So, I decided to put some effort into it. I downloaded two pieces of fiction, and one non-fiction. The latter, Empire of the Summer Moon, covers the history of the Comanches. I read about two chapters, and realized I did not want to spend the trip catching up on our dark past. Especially when I spent the week before watching a documentary series on the First World Way. One of the fiction books is a favorite of a close friend, and I have been meaning to start it since hearing them mention it. That was three years ago. And now it will have to wait a bit longer. As I discovered on my plane ride to Orlando airport, I struggle to commit to new works of fiction.

Instead, I settled on the third book I downloaded. It would seem a part of me knew I would prefer something old and familiar. A book that I have read enough times so I could skip over various parts. But I one enjoy so thoroughly, that I could easily turn to it when I needed to escape, or found myself alone. It is the Lord of the Rings. The entire series. For three nights, right before bed, I delved into its pages. Then on the flight home. Reading it kept me grounded, and connected to a feeling I wish to experience more often.

The Lord of the Rings is the first book that I can vividly remember loving to read. I even inspired my best friend to give it a try. He ended up enjoying it, too. That all happened back in the seventh grade. Since then, I have returned to it at least ten times, cover to cover, and a dozen times just one or two sections. But in no way would I recommend it to anyone I know. While it is good literature, and an essential part of the fantasy genre, its style and content does not appeal to everyone. Even I grow weary of reading certain passages. Especially the long speeches. However, there are other parts, entire chapters, especially the first part of the story, that hooks me in every time I start it. 

And so, from time to time, I go back to it, in order to recapture the magic I felt the first time I experienced that book. It is ironic that it would be a book that explores the passing of golden ages, and heroic times; of one last grand adventure before a vast, fantastical world fades away. It is also no surprise that my ability to read it thoroughly wanes as well. Yet, my nostalgia keeps me going. 

I just hope that joy inspires me to explore more works of fiction.    

A Deep Breath (#21)

I struggled with selecting an image for tonight's post.
My initial thoughts leaned toward "disturbing". Like "Zdzisław Beksiński" disturbing.
That went too far.
So, I decided on "harsh truth delivered in a funny way".
If you have seen Beksiński's artwork, you are probably glad I did.

Lately, I've been taking a lot of deep breaths on this blog. Since the beginning of January. Maybe it's just the post-holiday doldrums. Like a long sigh. Next weekend may break the spell. Because I will be engaged in an experience that will require all my attention, there will be no blogging. It may be the jolt I need in order to transform my writing. That is all I will share about the event at this time. 

Meanwhile, I will focus on tonight's post. This past week, I traded in reading my book for viewing documentaries. The history of Vatican II will have to wait. Last Sunday's foray into one family's living in the Alaskan wilderness sent me down a new path. That's the way my mind works. Watching this couple disassemble nearly twenty years of trials, triumphs, and tragedies, along with the wooden structures they created together, was beautiful and inspiring. It reminded me of how much I enjoy documentaries about nature. So, I followed up Rewilding Kernwood with Arctic Daughter, the life of the mother from the first documentary I saw. There is a third movie, Arctic Son. Unfortunately, that one was not free with Prime; therefore, it will have to wait. By Monday night, I caught a film about the mass migration of animals through the Brooks Range in Alaska. Unfortunately, I went to bed two-thirds of the way through, and have not been able to find it since, in order to finish it. However, on Tuesday night, I discovered the trilogy, Wild North, by Scandanavian photographers. Wrapped that series up by early Saturday night.

A craving for documentaries came over me, and ones about nature were not enough. An entire week of these films stirred up memories of childhood. When I used to devour entire series about Vietnam and World War II. Sure enough, my streaming services delivered. It took some time, but I found one on the Second World War. I gave up after the first few minutes. The footage was reconstructed with cheesy special effects. That inspired me to find a documentary with actual footage from the time period. It took another stretch of time searching, before  I found it. It was from the History channel, which made me wince (a topic for another day--a channel of so much squandered potential). But I put aside my bias, when I learned that the content contained never-before-released home movies from that era. And for over an hour, I was held captivated by what I saw.

And thoroughly disgusted. At least three times I teared up. Several times I paused it, and walked about my bedroom angry. I do that sort of thing when I become emotional. But turning it off was not an option. My childhood is filled with graphic footage from war. That includes, during my preteen years, watching Soviet footage of concentration camps, void of music, or commentary. I could handle it. Just not silently, or without emotion. And so I endured a tumultuous journey through various eye witnesses of Europe's worst civil war.

While I searched for WWII content, I came across I Am Not Your Negro. It is a film about James Baldwin, and I have been meaning to watch it for some time. Besides movies about warfare, I also viewed films about the Civil Rights Movement. By the time I entered high school, I was exposed to the beatings and marches, lynching and riots; the sight of a little girl being attacked by crowds of adults; and the face of a young boy in a coffin, murdered by two adults for something he never did. However, I settled on the History Channel's The Third Reich. James Baldwin would have to wait.

Once again, my life is full of coincidences. On the same day I watched amateur video from German soldiers recording their harassment and murder of civilians, authorities released body cam footage of Tyre Nichols' death. As I saw soldiers march naked people towards open graves where they lined them up and shot them dead, the world witnessed a group of police surround a man and beat him to death.

History does not repeat itself. But some humans seem to wish it would.   

A Deep Breath (#20)

You'll have to read the post in order
to understand their significance.

I am a day late with this post. Yesterday, my daughter's dance team hosted a competition for the first time ever. Overall, it was a success. However, leading up to it, I had many doubts, most of which stemmed from my personal struggles with social interactions, and past experiences with planned events. A week of intense anxiety, ten straight hours of standing, a way too many interactions with strangers, left me exhausted. So, no blogging for me. Instead, I ate a lot of Chinese food (not exactly a good idea on a near empty stomach), and experienced about an hour of an interesting documentary (someday soon I will discuss it), before retiring to bed (I slept well for the most part, except for a strange dream that caused me to wake up briefly in the middle of the night).  

After spending the day doing laundry (a usual Sunday chore), making the weekly trek to my favorite grocery store (a twenty-minute drive both ways), and prepping snacks and meals for the family (an two-hour task itself), I am ready to sit down a write. Yet, my mind and heart are not fully committed. The former wants to analyze all the mistakes I made these past few days, and uncertainties that plagued me this past week. The latter thinks no harm, no foul, and that the slate has been wiped clean, ready for me start anew.

And my gut is reminding me of several punches it has received, some self-inflicted. 

For the moment, I will briefly mention two. The first one came from the direction of a documentary. It was about three adults and a child who constructed over twenty years of life in a remote part of northern Alaska. Actually, the film centered on the deconstruction of those memories. If my own recent foray into a wild life event had not left me drained, I would have finished watching. I have found it that intriguing. That story, and an interesting coincidence. Just last week, I started another documentary about a massive yearly migration that takes place through the Brooks Range in Alaska, the very place where this family discovered a huge part of their life. 

It is another coincidence that brings me to the second punch to my stomach. In the beginning of January, I began reading one of two books from a Jesuit priest. The first focuses on the Council of Trent, while the second on Vatican II. Both are important historical events in the history of the Catholic Church. I have been drawn to this topic since last November, a process worthy of its own posts.  The subject matter and writing style of the two books has me reading at least thirty minutes to an hour a day for the past few weeks. That means a lot to me. 

Well, a few days ago, I decided to purge a pile of books from my daughter's room. The plan was to donate them to the local library. Something inspired me to pack them all into a single bag and walk them to the library. One mile away. Fifteen minutes later, with aching muscles and short breath, I found myself at the rolling cart for book donations. It was red. And empty. Except for two books. Both were thin, old, and worn, piled to one side. I placed my large pile of thick, like-new modern books, most of them teen romance, on the other side of the cart. The asymmetry caught my eye, and I decided to examine the two other books.

Their titles were Called to Communion: Understanding the Church Today and the Spirit of the Liturgy. Both by the same man. Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, who would eventually become Pope Benedict XVI. And both about the same topic. The Catholic Church and how Vatican II changed it. 

There, alone, in that long hallway of the library, standing beside the red painted metal cart, upon which sat two uneven piles of book, I laughed aloud. Then I took a picture, for my blog. I sighed, shook my head, and left.

Despite a now empty bag, I walked home bearing a heavier burden.

Fucking coincidences.      

  

A Deep Breath (#19)

One week of purging and organizing. By next weekend,
that table to the left, and the stuff above and below it,
should be cleared out. 

My basement is split into two parts: finished and unfinished. Both need organization and decluttering. Well, I spent the better part of last week focused on the one half I have come to call my office. It is where many a rushed creative session has taken place. Like for my daughter's sweet sixteen, and the eight Christmas seasons we have had in this house. In addition, this space has birthed several Nutcracker props. Mostly because my garage has no insulation and is not heated. Painting and gluing during the winter seasons requires use of the basement. Hopefully it becomes the permanent center for my writing and drawing goals.

First, I have to transform it into the proper environment. In my last post, I included an image of the mess that overran the space. A few of the boxes already had a home somewhere else--they contained Christmas decorations. I just needed to move them. Some of the stuff was scraps of paper and poster board from finished projects. They went into the trash bin. However, a good deal of items in that photo, demanded more attention. A decision had to be made: save or toss. 

I have a reputation for getting rid of clutter, even sentimental objects. In fact, the day after New Years, my daughters witnessed how ruthless I can be with decluttering. I gathered over six trash bags while ransacking my youngest's room. People will criticize the level of waste I collected, and my child may regret a few of my choices, yet, she felt better immediately. A clear, clean, organized environment fosters a healthier mind and body. And it opens up opportunities, especially to fill the space more effectively.

There comes a time when a physical mess interferes with growth and change. You can promise yourself all you want that you can upcycle those unused items languishing away in some corner of the room. Pinterest is full of possibilities for those slightly broken furniture pieces. Or, you tell yourself that all you need to do is take a few photos, post them on Facebook Marketplace, and those old toys will find a new home. Better yet, share them on free sites, and they will disappear into the arms of more productive, creative people. In the end, you convince yourself that those old drawings, slips of paper from fortune cookies, the canvas pencil case with your name on it will be just fine tucked away into a sturdy plastic box with a tight lid. 

But we all know you end up shoving it all into a torn cardboard box that you do not bother to close shut, or a cracked container with the wrong lid. Because, who has time to run out and buy some quality storage bins. Over time, you pile more receptacles of broken goals and forgotten dreams into those crowded recesses of your room. And if you find it too difficult to look at, eventually you hide them away in the basement.

Yet, a few things are worth saving, if only just long enough until your next burst of productive creativity. Afterall, creation is not consistent. It spikes, then languishes. And you never know when that collection of half-used poster board, pile of cheap fairy lights, or reams of various colored card stock that you have been holding on to since your teaching career ended eight years ago, will come in handy. In your experience, it some times does. Like two weeks leading up to Christmas, and you are stuck on how to wrap up a handmade gift for someone, thinking you will need to spend a good deal of money, or just give up. And then it hits you, somewhere in that collection of loose ends, is the perfect length of corded rope. Your project is saved.

The key is knowing what to keep, how to keep it, and when to let go of it. Well, I like to believe, after collecting and purging for a greater part of forty-five years, I now have a keener eye. I know what size of cardboard or length of wood is worth keeping. What I do not doubt, however, is my ability to organize things and place them in sturdy, well-labeled bins. That comes from my days teaching and stage managing. Hefty makes a great line of plastic containers, and Lowe's continues to restock them. Finally, I need to work on trashing stuff. It has been twenty years, and I have yet to turn that stack of oak cutoffs tucked away along the side of the garage into anything worthwhile. It may be time to clear them out.

So, I found myself, alone, last Tuesday, in the basement, overwhelmed by the sight before me. The ease at which I began my daughter's room a week before, eluded me now. The smaller scraps were easy. So, I started there. Garbage. Then there were the ribbons. Loose pieces. Long enough to make bows. And they had a labeled, plastic bin. Saved, snapped closed, and put away into the unfinished side of the basement, for another day. And that was okay, because I will use them again next year, and they are contained. 

Now I had momentum. I soon discovered more stuff that could be tossed, or had a specific bin that could hold it. Progress! Until, of course, I met an item that gave me pause. Do not ask me what it was. I cannot recall now. But I remember finally throwing it out, and feeling immediate relief. That I have forgotten the object's name and purpose is proof I made the correct decision. More importantly, it inspired me to purge more stuff. 

In the end, what you see in the photo required five days and four trash bags. I could probably have done it in two, but I had other commitments to make and daily chores to finish. Also, cleaning and organizing the basement forced me to tackle another area of my house, the garage. As I was returning some items to the garage, it occurred to me they were of no use to me. So, I tossed them. That led me to look around, and start throwing out other useless objects. I had to stop myself, noting that the basement was priority. There would be plenty of time for the garage (in fact, this upcoming week).

There is still clutter, some of which you cannot see directly in the photo. But it is now manageable, and the end is in sight. But it will have to wait until tomorrow. Today was laundry day, and I decided to tackle other chores as well. Also, the stuff remaining is mostly papers, mementos, and necessary, but uncategorized items. All these require some thinking and planning.

Once I clear off that table on the left, and move it off to the far right (I will have to find a place of a bookcase that you cannot see in the photo, but it has wheels, so I am not concerned), clear off the papers on the black shelf behind it, and reorganize my desk on the left, Phase I of the basement will be complete. Then I can move on...

Wait, I did not mention that this effort was only the first phase?

Interesting...

(To be continued...)    

A Deep Breath (#18)

Sigh.
This is my personal space,
where I want to write, draw, and create.
It did not always look like this. Not before the holidays.

I am twenty posts away from reaching two hundred, and still have not given up this project. However, as I shared before, I am in the process of reassessing my motivation for blogging weekly. Five years had passed since my first fourteen years of teaching ended, and I needed to reevaluate my life choices. When the school closed, I turned to blogging in order to find direction. While that effort failed, it laid seeds for a future attempt, the one you are currently reading. In addition, during those five years, I had built up new friendships and found a place to express my creativity and share my skills. But a lockdown, caused by a world-wide pandemic, inspired anxieties about losing those relationships and my place in the world. So, I turned to blogging in order to stay connected and remain relevant. Finally, writing, as an experience, always held a special spot in my head and heart. Putting my thoughts into written words excited me, emotionally and intellectually. It felt good releasing the jumble of ideas that churned daily in my mind. Also, teasing out those strands, and laying them out in a logical, cohesive structure challenged my analytical and rhetorical skills.

Those were the meta goals of my blogging. They sound deep and significant. Inspiring. Worthy of effort and resources. But abstract goals like those are not capable of changing old habits. And old habits undermined my first attempt at blogging, sabotaged my friendships, and interfered with my writing. Procrastination played a part in the first and third categories, but the wrong expectations obstructed all three. After learning more about building lasting habits and establishing healthy, realistic expectations (thanks to a series of podcasts and books, but also through reexamining past personal failures), I decided to approach blogging, and writing in general, from a different angle. 

After all, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

As I approach my two hundredth post and three-year anniversary of this blog, it is inevitable that I should look back on my achievements, and acknowledge my shortcomings. There are plenty of the latter. My daily journaling has been inconsistent, some times absent for an entire week. The novel I worked on fourteen months ago remains untouched. Blogging is reserved for Sundays, when, at one point, I was contributing three posts a week. The content itself is nowhere near what I had planned. There are so many subjects I have not discussed. And that chapter of my life at the dance studio, where I volunteered my blood, sweat, and tears, ended over a year ago (there was an epilogue, but, for the moment, it is too raw to share).    

Yet, none of this has been a waste. As the new year unfolds, I can reclaim those lofty goals. But, now I can change how I pursue them. Journaling and blogging works in tandem. If I am inconsistent with one, I have the other to cover the gap. Each day, I need to find time for both. Even if it is thirty minutes. The muscle memory is there, I just have to get moving. Changing up the blog content requires a new approach. And some courage. Writing down my reactions to things I have read may help. Then I can draw upon them when I sit down to blog. As for my anxieties, well, that requires a different kind of effort. My fiction ideas require me to ignore my expectations about what is good and worthwhile, and just put those thoughts down. I can go back later and fix it.

Finally, there is the matter of my relationships, not just to people, but to my community, and the world. Without a doubt, I have matured. There are things that need work. Communications being one. Maybe one or two expectations. And certain negative thoughts. However, I have changed for the better. In the past I would have clammed up, shut down, and turned away in the face of struggle. Now, I speak up (not as much as I should), or reconsider my own thoughts and actions (perhaps a little too much). 

No one can say that I have not stepped out of my comfort zone. 

Growth needs positive constructive feedback. Therefore, if I want my writing, and ideas, to improve, I need to share it and solicit responses. Asking for comments scares me. Valid criticism I can handle. It is the awkwardness which could transpire after an outright rejection that I fear. In addition, what I write will offend someone. Strangers I can handle. But people whom I respect? I am not sure I can stomach falling from their graces.

Finally, there is the matter of making a mistake, or being wrong. In a circle of friends, it is easier to correct ones self, or apologize. At least, it should be. That is why they are friends. The internet is more hostile, and far less forgiving. Humans have always struggled when admitting faults and errors. Social media has made doing it nigh impossible. Yet, accepting that one is wrong is essential to growth. It is the foundation of intellectual discourse, but also healthy emotional relationships.

With regards to my personal life, I have embraced humility whenever I make an assertion, given the people in my life the benefit of the doubt when I think they are wrong, and tried to openly accept my mistakes and errors as they come up during conversations. I am good with the first two, but still working on the last one.

As for the public sphere, I struggle. If I want to grow, I need to turn that around. That means writing  assertions that may end up being wrong, and sharing ideas that may upset people. Then correcting and apologizing when necessary. It would be easier if I felt more confident about my ability to express myself. My writing skills are still weak. And I have never felt my knowledge on any given subject was adequate. But, none of that will not improve, unless I put myself out there, and analyze the feedback. 

A catch-22. 

As for now, the last load of laundry calls me, as does my dinner. These thoughts will have to wait, along with my goals for reading, drawing, gardening, and woodworking.

(To be continued...)   

  

A Deep Breath (#17)

How did last year end? A week of suffering and recovering from the flu. Followed by a week of baking cookies and fruit cakes (well worth the effort). And skipping out on a lot of writing, including my daily journals. 

How did I spend New Year's Day? A lot of cooking, cleaning, and laundry. At least five episodes of the Derry Girls (when it comes to movies and television, I am always several years behind). And reading up on the history of the Catholic Church.

And the day after? Filling three trash bags worth of junk that accumulated in my youngest daughter's room. Wrapping up the Derry Girls series (many a laugh was had, and many a tear shed). And writing this blog post.

So, here I am, bloated from a weekend of culinary debauchery, tired from two straight days of housework, and disappointed with my failure to maintain my writing goals during the last few months. Yet, I have never been one to despair. Even when the waters of the local river and canal began to collect at the foot of my driveway during Hurricane Irene, I refused to lose hope that they would pour into my basement (eventually eight feet of water would fill the basement). Hence tonight's effort at blogging.

I am also easily inspired. Especially by what I see as timely experiences. For example, there is the book recommendation that I discovered thanks to a recent Google feed (it is always hit or miss: yes, tell me more about best practices in middle school mathematics, but, please, I do not care what Kim Kardashian said about Kanye West's co-parenting skills, or how Margot Robbie's red outfit in the movie Babylon blew people's minds). It was an article about the Vatican II Council. In the past year, I have grown interested in Catholicism, both historically and theologically (I was born, raised, and confirmed a Catholic, but have since renounced the Church). So, I read through it and found a suggested author: John W. O'Malley. Once again, interlibrary loans to the rescue. Within two days, I had two of his books: Trent: What Happened at the Council, and What Happened at Vatican II. I dove right into the first title, because Trent happened before Vatican II, like four centuries prior. And I am loving every page of it.

If you have been following this blog, you will know that reading is important to me. Unfortunately, I struggle to find time for it. But on those rare occasions when I pursue a particular title, I am quickly reminded why I love reading. Even when I find the book disappointing (it happened twice this year). So, following through on the suggested works of Father O'Malley, and finding myself thoroughly enjoying his telling of an historical event, well, it like a revelation. But one I have known many times before. 

Now combine that with a tale about five teenage girls (well, one is a boy, but does not matter, except when it does) living in Derry, a city in Northern Ireland. I must confess, I do not like committing to television series. There are too many episodes and too many seasons. And the worse is when each episode lasts more than thirty minutes. Focusing is not a problem--I can sit through a six-episode  documentary on the history of cinema, or twenty-four lectures on the science of philosophy. But, I have reached middle-age, and my time is precious to me. Like, I do not have time to spend following the rise and fall of a high school chemistry teacher across sixty-two episodes. Or the lives of sadistic rulers in a pseudo-medieval world through six seasons. A part of me regrets ever wasting time sitting through the entirety of Cheers, Friends, and How I Met Your Mother. I mean, I love Frasier, but I was getting sick of hearing "Sherry, Niles". And do not get me started on the Simpsons. Seriously, I gave up a third of the way through its current run.

Nowadays I limit my choices to television series that are under three seasons, with no more than twelve episodes each. Derry Girls fit the bill: three seasons, six thirty-minute-long episodes each (with an extra one for the finale). In addition, it was not an American production. I have always had a soft spot for foreign media, since I was in high school. While their heavy Irish accents forced me to put on subtitles halfway through the series, it was well worth it. These characters and their stories made me laugh, cry, and empathize with their triumphs and struggles. In the end, that is what I loved. I am exhausted with the world-ending plots of superhero movies, and the Machiavellian machinations that modern television writers feel the need to insert into every script. While the political struggles of Northern Ireland runs throughout the Derry Girls, for the most part, it is in the background (except for the last episode), and, more importantly, seen through the eyes of the characters. Otherwise, we are immersed in the lives and culture of regular people doing regular things.

What is so inspiring about experiencing this show? Well, it told a story, a good and simple one, about a place I have never been, with people I will never meet. And it did it well. Which is exactly what I want to do. Share my stories. They are not epic, or groundbreaking. The characters do not change the world. But they are interesting. Well, they are to me anyway. Watching this series, and enjoying it in the way that I did, reminded me how thrilling it can be to write something down and share it with the world.

So, thanks to a book recommendation and a foreign television series, on the second day of the new year, I am having another go at this thing called writing. And I am starting with this blog post.

Hopefully, over the course of the new year, many more will follow it, along with daily journal entries, and a draft of my first novel. 

We shall see...