Awe

I am privileged to know many talented writers and poets, and I am frequently inspired, moved, and humbled when I read their work. But only twice in my life have I thought that I might as well give up writing because I could never create something so beautiful, and so perfect, as what I was listening to at that moment in time. The first time that happened Mark Doty was reading from his memoir Heaven's Coast and I was in the audience, crying as I listened.

The second time was in a fiction workshop at the first Lambda Literary Foundation Writers' Retreat, when a young man named Justin Torres read his work.

Mark Doty, of course, is famous, and deservedly so. Justin Torres is at the start of what I anticipate will be a stellar career. I could happily endorse dozens of books but you really need to read Justin's debut novel, We the Animals. And prepare to be awed.

Speaking Truth

In the BBC production of Jane Eyre starring Toby Stephens and Ruth Wilson, Mr. Rochester, who is hosting a house party of upper class people, asks Jane if all of his guests abandoned him, what she would do. Rochester posed the question because he has a secret wife hidden away in a tower. Jane, of course, assures him she'll stand by him. My clutter is the crazy spouse that I don't talk about and almost no one has ever seen. And my inner voice predicted dire consequences if anyone ever found out about it. It told me my family and friends would be horrified; would never speak to me again.

So I was more than a little nervous posting the link to Brooks Palmer's blog entry for August 5. It was a kind of coming out.

I was moved by the positive responses--public and private--I received. I realized that when you speak your truth, when you allow people to see who you are, with all your vulnerabilities and imperfections, the result can  be wonderful. You can be embraced instead of shunned.

Two friends of mine recently had similar experiences speaking their particular truths, and received similar responses.

I think the time has come for all of us to begin speaking our truths. Not just for ourselves, but for the world at large. There are people out there trying to hold everything down; we need to counteract that so things can be lifted up instead. When we speak our truths, we all benefit.

As for my inner voice--last week someone gave me a gift by describing that voice as one of those toys that kids drag along behind them, like a quacking duck. I loved that image and have been savoring it since then. It made me laugh, and offered me a way of conceptualizing the voice as background noise as opposed to an authoritative judge. And it offered the tantalizing possibility that one day I might be able to let go of the string and leave the voice behind.

Enough

Yesterday I had a clutter busting session with Brooks Palmer. I've read several books about de-cluttering, but I responded to Brooks' insistence on treating ourselves with gentleness throughout the process. It's so easy to take the path of self-hatred and despair. "How did I let this happen? There's so much of it. Why bother?" Brooks arrived and we began with one bag. Some papers were easy to let go--e.g., old to-do lists, but others had to be kept, such as financial papers. At one point I found myself holding a print-out of a quotation. I subscribe to several "Quotes of the Day" and "Quotes of the Week" e-mail lists, and I've printed some of them out, kept the e-mails in my in-box, thought about writing them into a blank journal--all "just in case" (three dangerous little words to a pack rat) I want to dip back into them at some point.

Brooks said, "You have enough quotes, Carol. You don't need anymore. You already have that knowledge. It's like you've graduated but you're still going to classes."

I realized he was right. I felt it inside, jus the way I feel it inside when I read one of those quotes and get this internal nod. It's all available to me within; I just have to access it. We've all forgotten what we know; we need to remember.

See http://brooks-palmer.blogspot.com for his view of our session. It's a little scary, posting this link, but--what the hell.

Who loves ya, baby?

Several years ago, having lived in a studio apartment since 1976, I began thinking about a house. Or maybe I should say dreaming about a house, because the experience had that quality--nothing real, nothing solid--just a kind of wistful longing. After all, I'd grown up in a house--a brick Cape Cod with a full basement, kitchen, dining room, living room with a fireplace, three bedrooms, one bath and a screened porch on the second floor. On New Year's Day of whatever year it was, at a friends' annual open house party, I remarked, "I've been thinking about a house," much in the same way I might have said, "I've been thinking about going on a safari." My friend responded, "Do you know how much work a house is? You can't even take care of an apartment, let alone a house. You're too old for a house." And so it went on, throughout the day.

Riding on the train back to Manhattan that night, I was stunned that someone I'd thought of as non-judgmental had such a low opinion of me. But there was another, quieter part of me that thought, "I'll show her."

At some point I read an article about geothermal heating and cooling, and thought that if I was going to do something like that, it might be easier to install it first and then build a house as opposed to fitting it in with an existing house. And that's when my journey really began. That's when I started to think about building a home.

Kojak's trademark line came to mind the other day--"Who loves ya, baby?" Because when I announced that I'd bought land, I got some very different responses.

My mother, on the surface, appeared to be supportive, though, as I might have expected, she was focusing on everything that could go wrong. And even as she was telling me, "You're smart; I'm sure you know what you're doing," what I heard was, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Over dinner, my neighbor told me how many times his uncle's basement had been flooded by a nearby stream. "I'm not going to have a basement," I said, but he was already talking about the dangers of pine trees. "Pine trees are very flammable; they go up like a torch. I'd cut them down and plant maple trees instead."

But my friends were very excited for me. Lisa wrote that if I had pines I'd have owls.

Owls!

Who loves ya, baby? The ones who encourage you to realize your dreams--no matter how old you are.

Who loves ya, baby?

Several years ago, having lived in a studio apartment since 1976, I began thinking about a house. Or maybe I should say dreaming about a house, because the experience had that quality--nothing real, nothing solid--just a kind of wistful longing. After all, I'd grown up in a house--a brick Cape Cod with a full basement, kitchen, dining room, living room with a fireplace, three bedrooms, one bath and a screened porch on the second floor. On New Year's Day of whatever year it was, at a friends' annual open house party, I remarked, "I've been thinking about a house," much in the same way I might have said, "I've been thinking about going on a safari." My friend responded, "Do you know how much work a house is? You can't even take care of an apartment, let alone a house. You're too old for a house." And so it went on, throughout the day.

Riding on the train back to Manhattan that night, I was stunned that someone I'd thought of as non-judgmental had such a low opinion of me. But there was another, quieter part of me that thought, "I'll show her."

At some point I read an article about geothermal heating and cooling, and thought that if I was going to do something like that, it might be easier to install it first and then build a house as opposed to fitting it in with an existing house. And that's when my journey really began. That's when I started to think about building a home.

Kojak's trademark line came to mind the other day--"Who loves ya, baby?" Because when I announced that I'd bought land, I got some very different responses.

My mother, on the surface, appeared to be supportive, though, as I might have expected, she was focusing on everything that could go wrong. And even as she was telling me, "You're smart; I'm sure you know what you're doing," what I heard was, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Over dinner, my neighbor told me how many times his uncle's basement had been flooded by a nearby stream. "I'm not going to have a basement," I said, but he was already talking about the dangers of pine trees. "Pine trees are very flammable; they go up like a torch. I'd cut them down and plant maple trees instead."

But my friends were very excited for me. Lisa wrote that if I had pines I'd have owls.

Owls!

Who loves ya, baby? The ones who encourage you to realize your dreams--no matter how old you are.