Connectedness in a Crazy World

Connectedness is a relevant topic these days. From the overwhelming strands of connectedness through Facebook, to the Christmas letter you occasionally get from a friend who lives on the other side of the world, we sit on an interpersonal spiderweb of our own creation. I have friends and relatives who never get in touch. I wouldn't know if they're dead or alive if I didn't occasionally call them. These aren't people who are trying to dump me. I know that would seem to be the obvious conclusion, but we are interested in each other and there is affection between us in every case. I think old habits die hard and people are overly busy and fundamentally lazy. 

Then there is the connectedness of a different type. Nature, for instance. I feel a reassuring bond with the world (or earth, if you will) when I'm outdoors. Just going outside of my house and looking at the trees, the moon, the bats and birds, gives me a little jolt of connection and I'm better for doing so.

Writing is a connection to something bigger than myself. I'm a groveling neophyte standing before the alter of language, but at least I'm in the sanctuary.

Reading is a common way of feeling like part of a group. I wish we had a secret handshake so it wasn't necessary to always be carrying around a book. People who read see people who don't read as a very large and sad group. 

Family provides so much of your identity and connectedness you couldn't scare away with a shotgun. Entire nonfiction sections of the library seem dedicated to the trauma of family, but fiction is ripe with familial trauma as well as the beauty of a good family. Enough said.

Reading That Resonates

 I found a wonderful literary magazine titled West Marin Review that is based in Pt. Reyes Station in California. The quality is excellent, but what I was most attracted to was the cross-section of writers and artists who appeared in the journal. All walks of life were represented, from children to the aged.  This publication is created using 99% volunteer effort.

A personal story, What Would Buddha Do? by resident Elizabeth Whitney, immediately captured my attention.

There are things I read because I need the information, and things I read and think, This is good writing. I'm enjoying it. But the best writing is the kind synchs with something already inside. When this happens, I can forget the act of reading and enter the flow of the story. It's a rare union when the writer and reader can connect on this level.

The nonfiction piece What Would Buddha Do? had that effect on me. Whitney is a concise, clear writer, as she should be as a self-proclaimed "lifelong journalist".

The story is about a house-sitter who seems sane and competent when hired. The two women share an interest in many of the same philosophies and books and seem compatible. All is well when Whitney leaves. She returns to find a delusional house-sitter who believes she is going to continue to live in the house. As the woman descends into "full-on psychological disintegration" Whitney writes, "The right question is: What would a psychiatric nurse do?"

I've had similar encounters and always find it difficult to set up boundaries. It can take some time to find out just who you're really dealing with when it comes to mental illness. I err on the side of compassion then, as the turnips start tumbling off the truck, come to regret my decisions. It took me a long time to realize that a big dose of rational thinking is a ridiculous plan for reaching out to someone whose brain is just not set up to work that way. Professional help is almost always beyond the reach of people who are "sliding down society's flagpole". In short, we've created a mess, devastating to those who can't even take care of themselves on even a basic level.

My complaint with the piece (doesn't every writer know this moment is coming?") is that the story doesn't have much of a conclusion. Whitney surprised me by offering the house-sitter a "reprieve" with "rules and an end date". The last two paragraphs are mostly broad generalizations. What interested me was the personal interaction and the conundrum of not arriving at a resolution to the situation. Sometimes there is no happy ending.

We read fiction and nonfiction alike to learn more about life, and how to approach the challenges both positive and negative.  Sometimes all we learn is that the world can be a grey, screwed-up place.

An Almost Productive Day

It's around the 4 o'clock hour. I worked around the house this morning, finished making revisions on a short story (that is going to get sent out-come hell or high water), and had coffee with some fellow writers. Now I'm home and fighting off sleepiness. I can be so very tired in the afternoon, yet lay awake for hours in the middle of the night.

I came home from having coffee with a few more authors to add to my must read list. I will never be able to read every book that is on my wish list. I will someday die with the list unfinished, and I'll have to feel guilty about it since it's doubtful one can read in the afterlife.

There's a brief article by Leo Babauta in my email today. He writes a blog I enjoy reading. The title of today's post was "Why You Should Write Daily".  The trouble with advice geared toward helping procrastinating writers to write is that it's all obvious and it has all been said before. Many times. His piece is very well-written and everything he says is true, but the first point under "How to Write Daily" is" (1) Commit to writing daily. Good grief! Who hasn't thought of that one already?

The point is, sort of,  you will write daily when you decide to do it. No one can talk you into doing something that seems so optional, so arbitrary, unless you've already made up your mind to do it. It's a goal I reach for every day and I fail most days. Between blogging, journaling, letters, and fiction, I think I can say, technically, that I write every day. But what I want to write is fiction. I want to finish my book. I want to send out the short stories so I can feel like I've done this thing just for my own personal gratification. The entire process of writing, including being in writing groups and having coffee with like-minded people, is part of what makes me whole.

I'm not making dinner tonight. Not cooking is a huge time saver I wish I could be comfortable with. I weigh too much anyway so why not start having cereal for dinner? But I digress....

New writing space 

Portland, Oregon