SIMPLY WAIT

Sunday, June 11, 2006

THE ULTIMATE MYSTERY: Where have they gone?

. The Freezing Fog ., originally uploaded by 3amfromkyoto.

Frequent readers know my devotion to Polish Poets like Adam Zagajewski, and Czeslaw Milosz.

This poem by Milosz is one of my favorites. For me, it expresses the deepest mystery of all

ENCOUNTER

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they going, where are they going
The flash of hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles,
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

Vilnius, 1936

Jerzy Ficowski, another Polish poet, who chronicled the Holocaust and wrote movingly about the gypsies in his country, died this week.

When I visited a website to read more about him, I was startled by his face--especially the eyes.

It was almost as if an older version of my own Polish husband was staring back at me. Another mystery perhaps?

Friday, June 09, 2006

BECAUSE THEY BOW TO YOU WHEN THEY SAY GOOD-BYE

Reverence, originally uploaded by Raminsky.

Last Saturday night, we had several interesting dinner guests. One of the men traveled extensively in his work. It seemed exciting to me, but his voice was weary when he spoke of it. He had just returned from Korea--his fourth trip to that country this year.

"It's not the same as traveling for pleasure," he said when I expressed interest.

I thought about that. "But whatever the reason you're there, you're seeing, meeting, experiencing. If you travel that often, there must be places you've grown to love."

"Japan," he said immediately, the weariness dispelled from his voice.

And when I asked why, his eyes grew animated. "Because they bow to you when you say good-bye."

At that point, others entered the conversation, and it took a turn as conversations will. People wanted to know if he'd eaten live eel when he was in Korea.

But I continued to reflect on the comment he made about Japan long after the discussion was over. It occurred to me that we don't bow to each other nearly often enough. Not physically or spiritually. We don't acknowledge the sacred in every encounter, every conversation, every parting.

I thought, too, of my parents who always came out and stood in the driveway whenever a guest was leaving. They stood and watched until the visitor's car had totally disappeared from view. Now that my father is dead, my mother stands in the driveway alone.

When I am the guest, I want her to stay in the house. I'm afraid that she'll be bitten by mosquitoes in the summer or that she'll slip on the ice in the winter, that she'll forget to lock the door after I'm gone.

But she never listens when I tell her to go back inside.

"You never know when you might be seeing someone for the last time," she says.

I tell her not to be morbid; but then I understand: this is her way of bowing.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

GREAT DEAL ON WAITRESSING SHOES and MY OWN FAMILY MOTTO

There are two phrases that sends unsuspecting googlers (a word that suggests waddling duck-like creatures with excessively long necks, huge eyes, and oversized shopping bags) to my site on a daily basis. The first is "Waitressing Shoes." I doubt this overworked pair with the conspicuous hole in the bottom is what they're looking for, but hey, I appreciate the traffic.

Googlers also come looking for their "family motto." Lured by a post I wrote about the unwritten philosophy, the secret mantra that underlies every family, they show up nearly every day. Once again, my personal rant is not what they had in mind.

What they want is something official, the kind of thing that would appear on a coat- of-arms or a family crest. At first, I ignored them, but when the family motto folks continued to show up day after day, searching for the elusive phrase they could hang over the door and tell the world who they are, I decided they might be onto something.

I began to wonder how I'd gotten this far without knowing my own family motto. Maybe that was where everything had gone wrong. If only I knew the meaning of my name, the mission of my clan, my whole life might have turned out differently...

So I stretched out my neck, opened my eyes really wide, grabbed my tote bag, and started my own search. It wasn't Francis that I was searching for. No, what I wanted was the motto for my birth name.

Unfortunately, my name, which I shed at a young age through marriage, was the kind that provided infinite fodder for childhood teasing and adolescent self-consciousness. But now, after living more years without it than I did with it, I sometimes miss it. Not enough to take it back, of course, but enough to feel a certain tinge of regret when I hear it spoken aloud. And no, I'm not telling you what it is. (I didn't get married at nineteen for nothing.)

What I will tell you is my family motto: TRUE VIRTUE RELIES ON ITS OWN ARMS.

Hmm...Very interesting, though I can't say I like it much. In fact, I don't even get it. Does it mean my clan was stockpiling clubs and stones in case the neighbors dropped by? Or does it imply that the virtuous require no weapons? (I prefer the more philosophical reading, but somehow don't think that's what the clan had in mind.)

I think I'll stick to the motto that's currently over our door at home: PEACE TO ALL WHO ENTER HERE.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

THE WHITE PAGES

One thing a diary records with uncommon eloquence is its own end. After a friend's death a few years ago, I picked up her datebook and leafed through it. It was full of the appointments and memos to self and hastily scrawled phone numbers that daily life spawns. Full of the wildly slanted handwriting that was quite simply her. When I came upon the sudden and irrevocable whiteness of the pages she would never fill, her loss became tangible for the first time.

War is all about the white pages, the abrupt endings, the silence that echoes through decades. In this morning's New York Times there was a piece about the diary of Dang Thuy Tram, a young doctor who died on the battlefield in 1970. It was salvaged by an American veteran named Fred Whitehurst who saw Tram as "a sister and a teacher."

For thirty-five years, Whitehurst carefully preserved it. "Human to human," he said, "I fell in love with her."

Last year he located Tram's mother and returned the document to her.

"When I have the diary in my hand," the mother said, "I feel I am holding the soul of my daughter."

That statement made me think of the words we leave behind, both written and verbal. Are we, as we draft them--sometimes after much thought, but most often carelessly, creating that thing we call the soul?

Somehow it brought me back to a recent post by pohanginapete, who casts great light on any subject he considers. In this piece, he reflected on the now uncommon term "fountain pen".

I wondered: will the people who hold the words that flow from our "pens" in the future experience our fire and humanity as Whitehurst did when a translator first read Tram's diary to him? Will they feel that in some essential way, we are there "in front of them" as her mother did on opening the notebook?

If so, the pen is a powerful fountain indeed.

Monday, June 05, 2006

LOVE AND OTHER IMPOSSIBLE PURSUITS

William Wolf, the precocious five year old in Ayelet Waldman’s new novel has a lot on his mind. He worries about his lactose-free diet, about ice-skating without a helmet, or getting his feet wet in the park. He frets about getting into a pre-school that will put him on the track to Harvard so he won’t disappoint his high-achieving parents. But it is his unspoken anxieties that underlie and ultimately drive the novel. How does he remain loyal to his mother and still get along with his father’s sexy new wife, Emilia? How does he handle his stepmother’s lingering grief for the loss of her own baby--or her resentment toward him? How on earth is he ever going to have any fun?

I resisted this novel at first--or more specifically, I resisted its protagonist, the self-absorbed Emilia who seduces William’s father away from William and his mother, Caroline and then refuses to open her heart to the child. I didn’t trust this woman with either William, whose care she repeatedly bungles or with Isabel, the baby whose death remains something of a mystery until the end of the novel.

But eventually Emilia won me over with her unflinching honesty. If the reader finds it hard to forgive some of her transgressions, she is even harder on herself. Undoubtedly, she speaks for many stepparents, struggling to love children not tied to them by the inclinations of biology. But what really redeems Emilia is that she keeps trying.

In the end, this novel is a love story--not between Emilia and her husband, who seems to spend most of his time at work, but between Emilia and William. Waldman uses Central Park, the scene of Emilia’s happiest childhood memories and the most painful reminders of her loss as a source of healing for both of them. Taking the fearful William by the hand, she drags him into the land of skinned knees and unpredictable adventure, of secret pacts and muddied jeans that is the true province of childhood--and of that messy, imperfect thing we call love.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

FIRST MEMORY

they call it television because brain-corrosive eye-candy manipulation machine didnt score well with the focus groups
Originally uploaded by fubuki.

I'm sitting on the floor. Maybe I'm two or three, but I feel younger. I feel like a baby with my back erect, and my legs bowed out in front of me, and I'm watching TV. My hair is short, and curls in the humid room; it's the beginning of the frizz that will haunt me for life, but I'm blissfully unaware of my it. I'm not aa bit worried about the dimply fat in my thighs either. Ah, life is good!

What I am concerned about and utterly engrossed by is the flickering TV screen before me. But in my memory, it's not only the images on TV that are colored in shades of gray. I'm black and white, too; and so is the room that surrounds me. We've been totally swallowed up by the world behind the screen.

Interestingly enough, the-me-that-was-to-come (self-conscious about her thighs and frequently frantic about her frizzy hair) would not turn out to be much of a TV watcher. Oh, I found it interesting enough. Still do on occasion. It's just that real life with it's books and gardens, its rivers and paintings and people and music is so much more so...

Not so for the frizzy-headed baby who's been trapped in the black and white TV however. In my memory, no one can break through her fascination. Though it's my memory, I only own a small piece of it. I see the baby; I see the room; I see the TV. What I don't see are the other people in the house, or even what's captured her attention on the screen.

But the greatest mystery of all is why this moment? Among all the sensory images in all the moments--why remember this one? Were the baby's parents arguing in the background? Had she just made some kind of baby-revelation about life? (If indeed babies have revelations.) Or was it really what she was watching on TV that made this moment so enduring? Had the baby gotten lost in the magic of story for this first time?

If we could rewrite the things we don't remember, then that's how I would describe this one: the nascent writer beneath her new frizz discovering story for the first time. But I won't. I'll leave that baby there in her black and white world staring at something she will share with no one.

Friday, June 02, 2006

SEE, THERE'S THIS LIAR WHO KEEPS A DIARY...

So last year we got the bad news that while women do not discriminate by gender when they buy a book, men pretty much stick to work by other men. Then recently I read that men are much better about blowing trumpets, tooting horns, and all the other phallic imagery that's used to describe self-promotion.

Unfortunately, my own case bears that out. Can't come up with a succinct pitch to save my life. If anyone asks me what my book is about, I stutter and stammer..."Um, well, it's kind of well...it's a suspense novel." On a really good day, I might add, "See there's this liar who keeps a diary..."

The obvious subtext is the polite assumption I learned as a little girl: Don't take up too much space. Don't be too loud. And never, ever talk too much about yourself.

Ted, on the other hand, can talk fluidly and with enthusiasm about the novel to anyone he meets--from old friends to captive strangers in the line at the grocery store. By the time he's finished, his listeners are convinced that they not only HAVE to buy my forthcoming book, they're ready to pre-order my unwritten next two.

In an effort to learn more market savvy, I took MJ Rose's excellent course, Buzzing Your Book. (Highly recommended to newbie authors, or those who plan to be. There's absolutely no one in the industry who knows more about creating buzz than MJ.) One thing we worked on developing one succinct line that encapsulates and intrigues. Even shrinking dandelions like me should be able to blurt one of those out.

I came up with these options:

a) psychological suspense for those who believe character is the deepest mystery of all

b) sophisticated suspense for those who believe the darkest mystery lies in the human heart

c) psychological suspense for anyone who can't resist a private diary, a locked door, or a closed heart

d) sophisticated suspense for anyone who ever read someone else's diary
and found something they never wanted to know

e) sophisticated suspense for the reader who cares more about why it happened than who did it.

I'd love to hear any and all opinions about which one works better, though if I run into you on the proverbial elevator, don't be surprised if I just mutter and look at my shoes, "Well, um, it's kind of a suspense novel..."

I was always such a polite little girl.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

HOLY VISITORS

USHPIZIN
Originally uploaded by Ben-Zion.

We've had a couple of DVDs from Netflix sitting around the house for a couple of weeks. After a while, an unwatched movie becomes like a job.

"Are we going to watch this thing or not?" Ted will say.

"Maybe tomorrow. I've got some reading to do tonight," I reply. (Ever the procrastinator when it comes to anything that begins to resemble work.)

So last night it was do or die. We were either going to check these films out, or we were going to admit defeat and send them back in their cheery red jackets, unwatched.

I read the description of the first, Ushpizin: ...a week in the life of two recently converted orthodox Jews preparing for a lavish Sukkot feast...

"Doesn't sound like much of a plot." Ted winced. "Did you order that?"(Blaming each other for poor movie choices is one of the sports we've developed in our marriage.)

"The reviews were really good," I said defensively, though I had added the film to my list so long ago, I could no longer remember why.

Ted wasn't buying. "What about the other one?"

The second film was French, subtitled, and sounded slightly more promising. We popped it in the DVD player, but within twenty minutes, it was playing to an empty theatre. Ted had drifted off to his computer; I was doing laundry.

"Looks like you're not too interested in the movie either..." he called from his office. Since this clunker was another one of my choices, it was two points for him. I could practically hear the swish.

"It's interesting, but I'm not in the mood," I said in lame defense, though I already knew I'd lost the game. "Maybe we should try ten minutes of the other one. If it's no good, I'll send them both back tomorrow."

"Five." Ted ambled reluctantly toward the couch.

As it turned out, five minutes was all it took for us to be mesmerized by Shuli Rand's terrific portrayal of Moshe, and his obvious passion for the subject. (He wrote the screenplay as well.) Ushpizin is a film about religious faith--not the dogmatic, self-righteous kind, but the sort that is all about passion for God.

Like any intoxicated lover, Moshe thinks about his deity constantly; he and his wife, Malli, pray incessantly from their whole being. Whether in the kitchen or on the street, they sing to God, clap their hands, and raise their voices in love or grief as they struggle to make sense of their lives--and to do the right thing.

Having no money to celebrate the Sukkot, they pray that they will be given what they need to honor God properly on the holiday. And they are. Not only do they receive a gift large enough to cover an eleborate feast, they are surprised by unexpected guests.

Serving guests on a holiday is considered a great grace, so Moshe and Malli rejoice, determined to treat their Ushpizin or "holy visitors" as such. The only problem is that their Yussef and Eliyau are two escaped convicts, bent on exploiting their hosts.

The film (and beyond it, life) asks the question: Are believers like Moshe and Malli, who serve their vulgar and obstreperous guests with joy and generosity the fools and suckers Yussef and Eliyau believe them to be? Or are they full of holy wisdom?

The two oily guests eat the impoverished couple out of house and home, demand the last of their money, and ultimately disrupt both the Hasidic neighborhood and the marriage.

When Moshe turns to his rabbi for advice, he is told, "No matter what, don't get angry."

For the most part, Moshe, though eminently human, does not. He weeps and struggles and clenches his fist, but he continues to pray and to love. The reward he receives in the end seems contrived--and unnecessary.

For me, the central truth of the film was that Moshe and Malli had something that no one, not even a pair of determined con men, could take away from them. It was a gift so rare and beautiful that just watching it could make you weep.

What greater reward could they hope to gain?

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

A to Z Meme

I've been tagged by mb for another meme.

accent: When I'm in my hometown, I lapse into a Boston accent; at other times, people have thought I'm Irish. But mostly, I'm as neutral as a newscaster from Nebraska. (Nice alliteration, huh?)

booze: pale wine in the winter, dark beer in the summer

chore I hate: cleaning the tub--or the fridge. The oven, too, though at least, it no longer involves those noxious fumes. And the microwave when people forget to use a paper towel....Am I only allowed to hate one chore?

dogs/cats: one aging shepherd/lab mix, a jack russell, and two cats.

essential electronics: computer, stereo, and my digital camera, if that counts

favorite perfume/cologne: anything that smells really clean

gold/silver: probably silver, but jewelry isn't my passion

hometown: Brockton, Massachusetts, former "shoe city of the world". Also home to legendary boxers Rocky Marciano and Marvin Hagler

insomnia: If it were an Olympic sport, I'd be a gold medalist.

job title: Writer. Always have been, though this is the first year I got to write it on my tax form.

kids: four

living arrangements: Live in a house with people I love and lots of plants and animals.

most admired trait: Willingness to learn

number of sexual partners: Does anyone really answer this one?

overnight hospital stays: Every time I go near the place, I leave with a baby.

phobia: Public speaking! (Oh my god, how will I ever give readings?)

quote: "No fear. No envy. No meanness." — Liam Clancy

religion: According to a quiz I recently took on Stephanie Anagnoson's blog, I'm a mix of Bhakta, which is a pure lover of God, and a philosopher type.

siblings: Just me and an army of imaginary friends.

time I usually wake up: Late. Old waitressing habits die hard.

unusual talent: I can do more sit-ups than anyone I know, even if I never practice.

vegetable I refuse to eat: Don't much like beets, but I wouldn't turn down a bowl of borscht with sour cream.

worst habit: Disorganized. Lazy, too. Grumpy when overtired. Prone to melodramama. Which is considered "worst" depends on who you ask.

x-rays: lots of dental

yummy foods I make: Start with tomatoes, garlic and cayenne...and take it from there. Also make a great chocolate cake with cream cheese icing.

zodiac sign: Leo

Now for my taggees: How about getting some men involved: Perfect Virgo maybe? Fred Garber? Floots? (If I picked on you last time, you are exempt.) P.A Moed, Marilyn, Jordan Rosenfeld, and anyone else who'd like to share their bad habits and number of sex partners on the world wide web...have at it.

HUNTING AND GATHERING

I found this thought provoking post on Clare Dudman's blog a few days ago and have been talking about it ever since. Apparently, they have a series on the BBC, which she refers to as "The Happiness Programmes".

In the episode she discusses, they focus on consumerism, the path so many of us take in the quest for happiness, only to find ourselves lost in deep woods, or trapped in a house that is gradually being taken over by a dangerous proliferation of STUFF.

However, according to Dudman's piece, we're hardwired to go out and bring stuff back--just like I'm driven to suit up in my waitressing gear and pick up a tray in the spring. It's as old and primal as the hunter-gatherer instinct, except like a lot of our instincts, it's been screwed up by our distance from nature, and the genius of advertisers.

So yeah, I read this and I was thinking about it for days. Every time, I went to pick something up in a store, I asked myself, "Do I really need this? Or is my over-civilized hunter-gatherer instinct just homing in on the wrong prey?

I was thinking about it at work the other day, too. At the end of the shift, we bag up the leftovers to take home. It's an amazingly satisfying activity--even though half of my carefully wrapped kill rots in my fridge after I get it home.

The other night I got two pieces of chicken parmesan (which were promptly eaten by my son), a quart of minestrone (lunch the following day) and an oatmeal cookie, which someone had left behind on the table. (My mother gobbled that up with her tea when she stopped by.)

While we were packing up our spoils, I decided to share a little bit of the happiness programmes with my co-workers.

"You know why we're doing this?" I asked.

"Because we didn't get any dinner, and we're planning to wolf this when we get home,"
one intrepid co-worker ventured.

But I was already shaking my head, smartypants style. "Nope. Because it satisfies the hunter-gatherer instinct."

"Maybe that's why you're taking it home. I'm doing it cause I'm hungry," my pragmatic co-worker replied as he packed his dinner into a plastic bag.

But we had been overheard by another worker, who laughed out loud. "So that's what you're thinking about while you walk around the dining room with a dreamy look on your face? Hunting and gathering?"

Yup. That's what I'm thinking about.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?

Last November when my agent called with the news that she had sold my novel, one of the first things I did was build a small pyre and burn my waitressing shoes. According to the pedometer I wore to work, I put on an average of 5-10 miles every shift four to five days a week in the season that stretches from May to October. In other words, those were some hammered shoes.

Anyway, the burning of those black shoes wasn't supposed to be merely ceremonial. It was supposed to trigger the end of my waitressing career. Only it didn't.

A month ago, when "the season" hit, some primal urge drove me back. Think of birds flying south in the winter, cats slithering off to die in the woods....that kind of hardwired animal instinct. When the captain called with my schedule, I found myself mysteriously ironing shirts, digging out aprons and nametag and punch card.

The only trouble is, I don't have any waitressing shoes. And I'm not buying another pair. Not ever. (At least, I hope I'm not.) So I showed up in this old pair of Sketchers from the back of my closet. Very un-regulation.

So far I'm getting away with it. And if someone calls me on it? Maybe I'll remember that acrid November smoke, and I'll finally get it: I don't have to do this anymore. Maybe it's all about the shoes, after all.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

3 WISHES

Fairy Tales by Eugenio Recuenco, originally uploaded by We Love You, Really!.

In fairy tales, wishes always come in threes. I wonder why? Are the genies and fairy godmothers trying to tell us that there only three things truly worth wishing for? Is the offer a test? Wish well and you will be happy for life. Flunk the exam and you will be forever banished from the land of fairies and gnomes.

It reminds me of another three. Edgar Allen Poe said there were three things in life that the human being needed to thrive. It's a great wish list, and one that has been with me since I first read it.

1. Someone to love
2. Work you care about
3. Outdoor life

Yes, I could be happy with that, but I would also want health, and a place to live, and a peaceful planet...and then I would want the people I love to have work they care about and someone to love and...well, you get the idea.

So why only three? Maybe because the genie knows that we fairy tale people are a greedy lot. Once he starts performing on command, we'll never stop rubbing the lamp...So okay, I accept. It's three.

1. I wish that I would wish for things that bring real happiness and good.

2. I wish that I would wish as passionately for others as I do for myself.

3. I wish that I would smile when I wish and keep smiling whether my wish came true or not.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

THE 400 CHALLENGE

Laughter 10c, originally uploaded by geor·gia.

One thing I learned from yesterday's post and the ensuing comments is that Kids pretty much own the joys of:

*Running for pure pleasure
*Climbing
*Cannonballing into cold water on a hot day
*Playing dress up (without needing to shop for designer clothes and matching accessories.)
*Catching fireflies in jars
*Jump rope
*Hopscotch
*Skipping (tell the truth, when was the last time you saw an adult skip? Not that I'd particularly want to see it, but still...)
*Playing make-believe and having no one question whether you plagiarized the characters or the dialogue.
*Putting on a real baseball uniform and having your family watch you play--not because you're a superstar, just because it's fun.

And what do we adults get in return for the time we've put in on this planet:

*The right to go to a bar and pay five bucks for a watery beer anytime we want.

*The right to sprawl on the couch in front of the TV at the end of the day--at least, as long as none of the kids' shows are on.

*Credit cards! That's right, we can go into the store and buy anything we want, kids. So there. Bet you'd like to try that one.

*Credit card bills. Oy vey. Apparently, if you can't afford it today, you're probably not going to be able to afford it tomorrow either? Who'd have thunk?

*Nagging phone calls from some very dogged folks employed by the credit card companies. Seems they want their money and they want it now.

*Caller I.D. Now we're talking.

*Ever mounting late fees and fines.

*Another trip to the bar for more watery beer where you can stare at another TV, and practice Scarlett O'Hara's philosophy: I'll think about it tomorrow.

*The chance to worry about global warming, distant wars, rising interest rates and lowering pay scales--and the increasing sense that you can't do much about it.

*All washed down with more watery beer on credit. What a deal!

No seriously, it's not that bad. I love being an adult. I don't have to eat my vegetables, if I don't want to. (The strange thing is, I do.) No one gets to be "the boss of me"--err, except of course, my boss. And no one ever tells me to clean my room. Now that I"m the mom, I get to clean all the rooms while everyone else is running, playing make-believe, and get this--laughing.

That's right. It seems that while no one was looking, the little buggers took control of laughter, too! According to this source, most kids find something worth laughing about more than 400 times a day while we adults manage only about fifteen grudging hee-haws in the same time period.

Well, this is where I draw the line. Today I'm going to walk around with a little notebook and put a mark in it every time I laugh--and I'm not going to stop till I reach 400. I'll laugh at the guy from the credit card company when he calls on the phone; and when someone dumps a back pack or a pair of socks or a half-eaten grilled cheese in the middle of the living room, I'll laugh at that, too.

I'll laugh at spilled milk and bad news that I can't do anything about.
I'll giggle about the characters who aren't cooperating in my latest novel, and my own reluctance to sit still and get the work done.
I'll laugh until the dogs bark back and the cats run for cover.
The only thing I won't do is tell knock-knock jokes. After all, we adults have our dignity.

(Oh crap, just noticed it's already noon, and I haven't laughed once yet. I've clearly got some serious laughing to do.)

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Running

photo by Jake Lukac

All morning, I've been looking for a quote about running from the novel that is currently keeping me up at night: Joanne Harris's GENTLEMEN AND PLAYERS. It's a suspense novel about a dangerous game of wits between an aging Latin teacher at a private school for boys, and a bitter young prole who is determined to get revenge against the place that has excluded and humiliated him.

But it also pits the sixty-five year old Roy Straitley against the most merciless adversary of all: old age and obsolescence. In the quote about running (which I couldn't find) Straitley observes that boys always run; he wonders when he stopped.

After I read the elusive passage a couple of nights ago, I dreamed of running all night. Not the kind of running adults most often do--dutiful for-your-health jogs through the neighborhood, or driven, never-enough-time scrambles. No, my dream running was the kind done by boys, as Straitley observed--and by girls, too. Pure exuberant movement, simply because you absolutely can't wait to get to the other side of the room or the other side of the field.

When I awakened in the morning, I immediately fingered a little white scar that I've had since I was four. I know it's impossible, but I swear I remember running up and down our narrow knotty-pined kitchen, running joyfully and repetitively simply because I was so happy to be inside my body, so happy to possess legs and breath and life. On the day I got the scar, I'd run so fast that my hand plunged through the front window, in a small but memorable explosion of glass and blood.

Like so much else, my scar is faded now so I painted it red so you could see it. Painted it red so I would remember Roy Straitley's questions: Wasn't it wonderful to run just for the sheer pleasure of it? And why did we ever stop?

*******************************************

Saturday, May 13, 2006

SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS: The Books I would Write

I took this photograph at a defunct cranberry bog near my home where we often walk our dogs. Though it is spring, there are corners of the bog that have succumbed to a spooky eternal winter. The trees are silver with death, their branches devoid of buds. We keep the dogs away from those areas. In past years, the wild quacking of the ducks who returned every year, would drive the animals into a frenzy. This year we've only seen one. When we've visited the bog this year, the solitary duck is silent.

If I could, I would write a book that could make a reader SEE the formerly riotous colors of the place, the scarlet fields, the incredible lush green of the ducks' necks, and HEAR the competing barks made by ducks and dogs.

I would write a book that would make you so hungry for colors like that you would search the world trying to replicate them.

I would write a book that asked questions about the abandoned bicycle in the photograph.
Who owned it, and where did they ride it? How did it end up here? Are they still looking for it, or have they outgrown and forgotten it?

I would write a book that would make you care deeply about questions that never concerned you before.

I would write a book that would keep you up at night, desperate for answers.

I would write a book that would make you thrill at the newness of spring, bicycles, hope; and weep at what is lost forever.

I would write a book that would make you examine one small patch of ground with the the passion and exactitude that my dogs scour the bog with their noses.

If I could, I would write a book that would make you peer into the murky waters, and see yourself.

I would write a book that would make you watch the sky, waiting for the ducks to return and the trees to recapture their green splendor.

So, can you see the duck?

Thursday, May 11, 2006

10 THOUGHTS ON RESOLUTION

The Winter of Our (Dis)content, originally uploaded by Sol Dust Love.

1. First the definition: Dictionary.com calls it the state of being resolved. Don't you hate it when they do that? The second definition is better: firm determination.

2. Or as William James said, "If you care enough for a result, you will most certainly attain it."

3. Most of the resolutions I made when I was younger involved DOING (and numbers): run 3 miles a day. Write 30 pages a week. Submit your work to 10 new places. Now my resolutions focus more on BEING: Be kinder. Be more aware. Be the Peace you want to see in the world.

4. I often thought I failed at my resolutions, but looking back, I see that they pointed me to the place where I am now.

5. Real progress is frequently incremental, and sometimes takes years to see.

5. Keep resolving anyway.

6. I resolved to write a novel and to sell it, and I did.

7. It might not have happened that way. Sometimes Resolution needs to marry Luck.

8. Physically, resolution is the runner's art. Sometimes it's a sprint, but more often, a marathon.

9. Resolutions before bed keep me awake. For me, resolution is morning's virtue; the evening is for gratitude.

10. If your van is stuck in the snow (see photo from flickr) all the Resolution in the world probably won't get it out of that rut. In this world, you need friends.

Next week: GENEROSITY

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

WOODY GETS SERIOUS

Woody Allen's latest film, Match Point, which I caught last night on DVD, is bookended by two quotes about the nature of luck. In the first voice over, we are told than being lucky is more important than being good. The film ends with the birth of a child, who is toasted with a similar wish: that he will grow to be a lucky man, rather than a great one.

But the theme of this story in which ambition and sexual desire turn deadly, concerns something more venal than luck. Like many of Allen's characters, Chris Wilton, an Irish striver who marries into the British aristocracy, seems to have been created to prove a point: Getting what you want is more important than being good. It is a theme that threads through much of Allen's recent work; and how you feel about that premise will most likely decide your opinion of Match Point.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

13 THOUGHTS ABOUT ORDER

Type Tray Coffee Table - 15, originally uploaded by nep.

1. This photograph, found on flickr, perfectly illustrates the key components of Order: sorting, containing, and throwing away. (Outside all these neat compartments lies the vast world of things that have been eliminated.)

2. I'd give myself a B in sorting, a B- in throwing away, but I get a D (at best) in containing. In my life, thoughts, objects, and emotions frequently overflow their containers.

3. Meditation helps, but sometimes I have trouble finding a "time container" for that.

4. Time and the things that fill it are the most important variables that need sorting in the pursuit of Order.

5. I get more done if I plan my day in the morning, and write the plan down.

6. I was going to give myself an extra week, because my rooms and my files and my life are still out of order. But life being a "come as you are" party, I figured I'd do just that. So here I am--still a mess, but maybe a little less so.

7. Creating Order isn't something you do all at once when the guest is at the door. It infuses everything you do, or it doesn't exist at all.

8. Creating Order from chaos is what writers do all day. Maybe that's why I have trouble with order in other areas of life...

9. Nah. That's just an excuse.

10. If I organize my study for the next day's writing before I go to bed, I sleep better.

11. Order is a close friend of last week's virtue, Equanimity. The more Order I create, the more balanced I feel.

12. My life will never, ever be as neat as the tray in the photograph.

13. The pure truth: I wouldn't want it to be. Too many stories are found in the things that lie outside any tidy domain.

Next Week's Virtue: RESOLUTION

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

This is important to all of us:

ME AND MY BOOKS

I'm always so excited when I visit one of my favorite blogs and find that I've been passed a meme baton--not because I'm very good at doing them, because I'm not. No, I just love the feeling of being included, being part of a community. It brings back the joy I felt when I was chosen for someone's softball or basketball team. (Unfortunately, given my lack of athletic ability, the person who chose me often lived to regret it.)

Anyway, despite my good intentions, I often never get around to finishing the memes. Something I feel like I absolutely must write right now forces its way to the head of the line, or I break it into pieces and only finish half my assignment. In other words, I tend to cheat--just like I did in those childhood softball games whenever I got a chance.

This particular meme, however, looked like a lot of fun. It involved going through an interesting list of books, crossing out the ones you've never read, bolding the ones you have, etc. I really wanted to do it. But just as I had trouble hitting a softball straight, I also occasionally run into technical difficulties. Computer cross outs are simply something I don't know how to do. So once again, I did it my own way.

Thank (and apologies) to P.A. Moed and Debra Broughton who brought me into the game. Hope you don't mind that (once again) I broke a few rules.

The 3 most influential books in my life:

(I know, I know; it's an absolutely impossible question, but here's a stab at it)
1. Crossing the River by Czeslaw Milosz
2. Little Women: I wanted to be kind like Beth, treacherously beautiful like Amy, wise and loving like Marmee, but of course, most of all, I wanted to be a writer like Jo. This book encapsulated all my girlish aspirations.
3. Les Miserables: I read it out loud to my two oldest sons when they were about eight and ten.
I can still remember the three of us weeping on my bed at the death of Jean Valjean.

3 books I've read more than once:

1.The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence. A small, spiritual classic with a message I need to hear again and again.
2. Crime and Punishment: I can still remember reading it on the subway in Boston when I was eighteen. I was so engrossed in Raskolnikov's world, I missed my stop and traveled to the end of the line.
3. Pride and Prejudice: No one is murdered, no international conspiracy or deadly virus is involved, but this is the novel that comes to mind when I hear the word "thrilling".

3 great books that I personally hated:

1. Moby Dick: Endless details about whaling, and not a woman in sight. I must have taken at least 3 courses in college that required this particular epic.
2. Didn't much like The Scarlet Letter either, though Hester Prynne, cast away from respectable society and living with that horrible A across her chest, remains a vivid character in my mind.
3. Beowolf! I'm sure it's a wonderful story, and maybe if it wasn't force fed on me when I was eighteen, I might have been more appreciative. Maybe someday I'll try it again. On second thought, who am I kidding?

3 "Pure Pleasures":

1. Gone with the Wind: It may not be pc, but Margaret Mitchell's Civil War novel has some of the most memorable characters in commercial fiction, a terrific plot, and a philosophy I've employed a few times myself. (I'll think about that tomorrow...)
2. Green Eggs and Ham: I used to beg my kids to let me read it just one more time. I can still hear their little voices: "Please, Mom; can't we read something different tonight?"
3. The Valley of the Dolls: At fifteen, I learned everything I ever needed to know about plastic surgery, traitorous Hollywood men, and pharmaceutical pick-me-ups and let-me-downs from the glamourous Jacqueline Suzanne. Wasn't there also a man with a sculpted jaw and a name something like Lion involved in the story?

3 great books I should have read, but haven't--not yet:

1. Don Quixote: I'm a little afraid of this one. Something tells me I might relate to the character whose name has become synonymous with cockeyed optimism a little too much.
2. War and Peace: In the volume I have, there is so much dense writing packed onto a page, that I better read it soon before I'm too blind to see it. But truthfully, that may have been what's deterred me thus far.
3. To the Lighthouse: I loved A Room of Her Own, and the diaries, but have always been intimidated by Virginia Woolf's fiction. Sometime, in this lifetime, though I'm not quite sure when, I mean to overcome that particular fear.

3 books I recently ordered:

1. The Accidental by Ali Smith
2. Pere Goriot by Balzac (Inspired by Irina)
3. Woody Guthrie: A Life by Joe Klein (Regular readers know about my obsession...)

Now I get to choose my own team. So click on the links and play the game properly, try it my way, or invent your own version:
Kerstin?
mb?
Robin Grantham?
Amishlaw?
RDL?
floots?
Anybody?

Friday, April 28, 2006

THE STORY OF TWO WRITERS

One of the first books I truly loved as a child was was The Secret of the Old Clock, the opening volume in the Nancy Drew series. Eventually, like millions of young girls spanning three generations, I would consume all thirty titles. Even now the sight of the worn covers, or the yellowed pen and ink illustrations inside brings on a wave of childhood nostalgia. In an instant, I’m back in my narrow bed huddled beneath a blanket and a small circle of light. There are pink roses on the wallpaper, and my parents are long asleep. At that hour, it feels like there's no one in the world but me and Nancy Drew.

Soon after, I would linger beneath the covers with books like Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, and The Secret Garden, but I first experienced the deep communion between reader and fictional character with the famous girl detective.

In concept, Nancy Drew was created by a millionaire book packager named Edward Stratemeyer, who paid a young journalist $125 a book for volumes 1 - 7. Eventually the price escalated to a whopping $500. But a strange thing happened between the concept and the final product: the writer created a real character, a spunky young heroine who triumphed over the dangers and the complexities of modern life with flair and intelligence. In doing so, she spoke to millions of girls as they prepared to navigate the most mysterious world of all: adolescence.

I guess there wasn't so much curiosity about authors at that time; I never wondered much about Carolyn Keene. Nor were her age, her photograph, or the size of her advances used to trump up sales. The packaging of Stratemeyer's series was limited to the books. It did not extend to the author.

Meanwhile, Mildred Wirt Benson, the woman who brought Nancy to life for $125 and wrote all the best books in the series, quietly went about her life--and kept typing. When she was finally recognized at age of eighty-five, Benson was revealed to be a person much like Nancy herself: a determined optimist who learned to fly a plane in her sixties, and would continue to write for Toledo Times until her death at ninety-six. She left behind more than 130 novels--most written under pseudonyms and for a fee. Benson harbored no illusions that her novels would endure for the ages; and when she was finally identified, she found the adulation of her fans a mixed blessing.

Kaavya Viswanathan, who has grown notorious for the plagiarized passages in her novel How Opal Mehta Got Kissed...in the past week, seems to have struck a different kind of deal with her book packagers. It wasn't so much her writing skills they were after; it was her persona. Her status as a teen prodigy and student at Harvard was skillfully hyped to create buzz around the novel.

Until this week, Viswanathan seemed like the luckiest of writers. At seventeen, without ever agonizing over a single query letter or even needing to complete her novel, she secured a top notch agent and a half-million dollar publishing deal. Legions of talented writers who've spent years of their lives and a fortune in postage trying to attract the attention of the publishing industry, could only shake their heads in bemused frustration--or bitter envy.

Now everything has come into question-- from the the the exact nature of Viswanathan's authorship to the size of her advance. But the greatest question of all concerns the capricious nature of luck. Kaavya Viswananathan's novel may be reissued; and driven by its notoriety, it may sell even better than predicted. But it now seems that the grossly underpaid Mildred Wirt Benson, who spent most of her life in anonymity, may have gotten the better deal.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

13 THOUGHTS ON EQUANIMITY

Java Kai, Kapa'a (Kauai), originally uploaded by dgans.

1. Equanimity doesn't know the difference between good news and bad news. They both have the potential to disrupt balance.

2. The past weeks have been full of exciting developments; there's been much to toast and celebrate. I've been happy, thrilled one day--and then the next day moody and petulant. Why? I’m getting what I want, right? Ah, the mysteries of Equanimity...

2. As yogis and dancers know, equanimity begins in the physical. Is it possible to have cerebral or emotional balance without first developing the physical side?

3. Equanimity is a "light" virtue. Wear it too heavily, push too hard to attain it, and you lose it.

4. In yoga, when practicing the tree, you focus on one point in front of you to keep your equilibrium. It works in life situations as well.

5. I need to be a tree more often.

6. Sometimes I think about what I'm going to say while other people are talking. That disrupts the equanimity of speech, the rightful balance between listening and speaking.

7. After two weeks of concerted effort, I got a little better at this. In return, I not only heard more, I felt more, I experienced more compassion.

7. Sometimes I sit at my desk too much. I forget to clean the house. I forget to go to the grocery store, or weed the garden, or walk down the street in the sunlight. Not good for equanimity.

8. I now have a kitchen timer next to my
computer. If I sit and write, write and sit too long, it goes off: bzzzz! Time to get up and see the day!

9. I waitressed a shift this week. It reminded me of the lessons in equanimity I've learned through my long career. There is the balance needed to hold a tray, to keep the pace of a meal flowing smoothly, but also the balance between serving, and accepting and respecting the service of others.

10. Some of the people I was waiting on didn't care about equanimity. They wanted what they wanted--now!

11. I mentally promised myself that I would never be one of those people who see what they want so vividly that they stop seeing anything else.

12. Drinking wine, as pleasant as it might be, is not always conducive to equanimity. Every few months I seem to be reminded of this again.

13. I found this quote from the little book Benedict's Way, which seems to describe true equanimity:

"No matter what kind of ruins you stand in, keep moving, keep doing what you must do, keep showing up every day."

Next week: My bugaboo--and Ben's: Order

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

THE PAPER CLOSET: A short true story

Pause, originally uploaded by gori-jp.

...whoever remembers their childhood best
is the winner,
if there are any winners.

--Yehuda Amichai (from 1924)

If Amichai is right, it seems like I'm NOT a winner. The six years I spent in elementary school, for instance, have eclipsed into a few brief scenes and some sharp memories of physical objects: the old paper cutter that looked like it might easily lop off a finger if you weren't careful, the crank pencil sharpener we needed permission to use, the hooks where we hung our coats in the hallway.

The school I attended was a fortress- like building in an old mill town. It has since been converted to an office building. Surrounding it was not the sprawling state of the art playground equipment and well-tended ball fields contemporary schools have, but a scrappy dirt yard. It was the place where I first grappled with the accumulated knowledge of the human race, where I formed passionate childhood friendships, and learned the secret rules and hierarchies that govern any closed society. But I retain only three truly vivid memories. I will share one.

It concerns my third grade teacher. Mrs. M.was perhaps the truly dolorous human beings I've ever encountered. Everything about her suggested a great heaviness. From the oppressive flatness with which she read a poem or recited the time tables to the underwater slowness that characterized her movements, Mrs. M. oozed gloom. Even her shoes were black and heavy.

On the day of my vivid memory, I needed permission to go to the girl's room. However, Mrs. M. was busy in the paper closet. Another anachronism, the paper closet was a pantry sized space where fragrant paper in various shapes,weights, and colors was stored in neat stacks on the shelves. Until that day, it was one of my favorite places. I squirmed in my seat while Mrs. M. remained in the closet with the door closed.

Only the threat of her morose countenance kept us quiet in our seats.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, I burst into the closet. There I came face to face with my teacher just as she was bringing a small bottle to her lips. Though I was not a very sophisticated child, I immediately understood what I had seen; and worse, Mrs. M. knew that I had. Her face deepened to an even more threatening shade of purple.

It can't have been more than a few seconds that we stood there trapped in the confines of that small space and our own awkward knowing. But illustrating one of the great mysteries of time, those few seconds have stretched into years. I took in every broken capillary on her mottled cheeks; I absorbed the deep misery in her green eyes. In that moment in the paper closet, I had inadvertently crossed the border between the semi-protected world of childhood into the wild geography of adult rage and pain.

"Get out!" Mrs. M. cried in her throaty voice, with a wave of her hand. "You heard me; go!"

"The girl's room...I have to go to the girls' room," I stammered, trying to restore the classroom to a place of predictable rules where I never had to contemplate Mrs. M's life as anything other than a teacher. Trying to take back what I had seen.

"Just go!" Mrs. M. repeated with a savagery that finally broke through her heaviness.

I ran all the way to the girls' room, ignoring the rules about walking in the hallway, and traveling only with the requisite permission slip in hand.

I lingered in the stall long beyond the acceptable time, but when I returned Mrs. M. said nothing. Somehow I had known she wouldn't. Instead, she turned her back and faced the black board, never to look deeply at me again.

I, too, would spend the rest of the year avoiding the dark emotions that colored her skin and filled her eyes.

As an adult, of course, I look on the woman in the paper closet with sorrow--and with empathy. I've never been trapped by the need for a furtive sip, but I have lived long enough to know my own variations of her anguish. I wonder if she feared I would tell someone. If she perhaps, worried for her job. Somehow I don't think so. Somehow, I think that as we confronted each other in the paper closet, she, looked at me deeply, too; and what she saw was the soul of a fascinated observer. One who would store the memory up and turn it over in her mind until she could understand it.

If she'd known what I did--even then--she would have also seen that someday, somewhere, I would write about it.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

13 THOUGHTS ON COURAGE

keys of virtue, originally uploaded by keysofvirtue.

In my admittedly half-hearted, but better-than-nothing attempt to imitate Ben Franklin and work on one virtue a week, I've dedicated the last seven days to courage.

This is what I learned:

1. I feel least courageous when I wake up in the middle of the night or after a nap. The world feels shadowy and unpredictable and treacherous at times like that.

2. Maybe I should take less naps.

3. I feel most courageous during the bright hours of the day when I'm actively doing something. Working. Walking. Singing along with Woody Guthrie or Aretha Franklin.

4. Maybe I should spend less time thinking and more time doing. And I DEFINITELY need more music in my life.

5. I am not called upon to save lives in my ordinary days. Courage for me is in little things: speaking up and saying what I really think, making the phone call I've been putting off, tackling an intimidating chore.

6. Courage sounds very lofty, but often it's a fool's virtue--not being afraid to be one, that is.

7. Most of our fears are based on a crazy misperception. We think we're immortal! If we were, every loss, every mistake WOULD be as monumental as we think it is.

8. A few times this week, I got a chance to share that good news with a frightened friend or family member: Whatever you're upset about, don't worry; it's temporary. YOU'RE temporary. I am too! Yippee!

9. Mostly, it helped; sometimes people just thought I was more crazy than they already believed. But because I was being foolishly courageous, I said it anyway.

10. Writing's temporary, too, though sometimes I start thinking that it's big and permanent and important; and then it saps my courage.

11. I refuse to be afraid of anything as small and antlike as words scuttling across a computer screen! I absolutely refuse.

12. Most days when I wake up, I lie in bed and think about things for a while. Sometimes I write a poem in my mind, but mostly, I just run a lot of petty things
and shadow thoughts through my head. It would be more courageous to jump up and face the day.

13. Tomorrow I will jump.

Next week: Equanimity

Sunday, April 09, 2006

ON WRITERS AND AMBITION

Take a Girl Like You, originally uploaded by Paula Wirth.

On the back page of yesterday's New York Times Book Review, Joseph Finder brings a refreshing candor to the dirty little subject of ambition. Serious writers, it seems, aren't supposed to have any. They labor for art alone; they write "for themselves," eschewing even the desire for an audience. And if they have any hope of making--err, excuse me for uttering the word, money, well they've obviously not attained the necessary purity. Maybe five or ten more years of fasting on contributor's copies and Ramen noodles will do the trick.

In fact, Finder points out, the true literary scribe is so averse to the crass desire for success that ambition has even been banished as a fictional subject in contemporary literature. Today's ambition free novelists struggle with sex, with the legacy of defective parents, with the endless struggles of the Self; but the yearning for power or worldly recognition as a plot device is as dead as the ill-fated striver in Sister Carrie.

Sorry, but I don't buy it. Maybe my experience is different. Maybe it's just that I don't know any editors or professors of Creative Writing or until recently, even any other writers, who might have helped me network my way to publication. But in my experience, achieving publication in even a literary magazine with a print run of 500, is damn hard work.

Without ambition, would anyone spend a fortune in postage and time putting together dozens--or even hundreds--of packets of prose or poetry and complete with a carefully worded cover letter and an SASE. Would they endure the dozens--or hundreds-- of anonymous rejections--for every publication in a "good" journal? Would they take out loans it might take years to repay to cover the cost of an MFA program?

Like most writers, I write because I'm mysteriously impelled to do so and have been since childhood. If I was never published anywhere, I would probably continue--simply because I have no idea how to stop. But writing only for myself has never been my goal. I write to share who I am and what I know, what I've seen and heard and felt; I write to resurrect the lost and to give flesh and voice to the ghosts who often take up residence in my study.

I also write with the hope of earning a living that will prevent me from ever having to hoist another waitress tray. Until the sale of my first novel last November, it looked like I might end up slinging hash until I drop. And really, I couldn't have complained. I was so obsessed with writing that I never consider another career. I tossed everything I had on the table; and if I lost, I could have blamed no one but myself.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

BEN'S 13 VIRTUES--And mine

About 20 years ago, I read about Ben Franklin's famous effort to develop his character by working on the 13 virtues he considered most important. I was immediately enthralled by his system. It had charts! It had lists! It had Ben's endorsement! The way I figured it a guy who was so smart about the healthful properties of apples and the wonders of the lending library, had to know something about character development.

Immediately, I copied Ben's list into my notebook, imitating his weekly chart system. The idea was to work on one virtue a week, recording offenses against it, until you had cycled through all thirteen. Then, assuming perfection remained elusive, you began again.

The project turned out to be shortlived and sporadic like most of my runaway enthusiasms. (Undoubtedly, I needed--and still need-- more of what Ben called Resolution.) But every now and then I would return to the notebook and begin again--not on the virtue I was supposed to be working on because I quickly lost my place, but on the one I thought I needed most.

I doubt I became a better person. I'm not even sure Ben did, but then again, he was pretty amazing long before he began his personal self-improvement crusade. Only recently did I find my old notebook, complete with Ben's noble list and my incomplete charts. I think what amazed me was how "dated" many of his virtues sound now. Time may eventually bring them cycling back, just like Ben's 13 week program did, but not too many people want to hear about Temperance or Frugality or Chastity these days.

Anyway, I thought I'd give the 13 Virtue system a try again. Only this time I'll create my own list, reserving the right to borrow a few of my favorites from the master. And if any commenters or bloggers comes up with their own, I'll borrow from you, too. This is one case where even plagiarism is a virtue. Anyone care to join me? It could even be a meme: what are the 13 character traits you would most like to possess?

BEN'S 13:

1. Temperance: Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.
2. Silence: Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.
3. Order: Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.
4. Resolution: Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.
5.Frugality: Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing.
6. Industry: Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
7. Sincerity: Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
8.Justice: Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty. 9.Moderation: Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve. 10. Cleanliness: Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation.
11. Tranquility: Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
12. Chastity: Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.
13. Humility: Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

And Mine:

1. Courage. Dare, do, and let nothing hold you back.
2. Equanimity: Balance, confidence, and calm. Practice until it is your natural milieu.
3. Order: Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.
4. Resolution: Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.
5. Generosity: In material things, in words, in spirit.
6. Industry: Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
7. Sincerity: Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
8.Justice: Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty.
9.Benevolence: Love always.
10. Optimism: Focus on what is good and beautiful.
11. Tranquility: Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
12. Discipline: Resolution in action
13. Selflessness: "If you want to be unhappy, think of yourself. If you want to be happy, think of others." It's as simple and enigmatic as that.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

"The Precious Life"

John McGahern was considered Ireland's preeminent novelist, and his work was frequently as shadowed and moody as his native land is said to be. Still, light was his true topic--the light that unexpectedly slashes through the clouds, mercilessly revealing everything we attempt to hide. Somehow he made even the harshest exposure beautiful.

His final work, a memoir entitled All Will Be Well, focused on the pivotal event of his life, the death of his mother from cancer when he was ten. In the memoir, he conveys how the experience of being deeply and well loved, however briefly, remains with a person for life, providing a hidden ballast, a private refuge that nothing can destroy.

On March 30th, McGahern, too, succumbed to the disease that had taken his mother 61 years earlier. He leaves behind a unique and luminous body of work. The slender novel, Amongst Women, is considered by many to be his masterpiece, though I'm particularly grateful for his short fiction.

He also left behind some irresistible quotes, including this one from The Guardian:

"The best of life is life lived quietly, where nothing happens but our calm journey through the day, where change is imperceptible and the precious life is everything."

But it is this bit from the obit in the New York Times, which I've been carrying around in my pocket to read aloud to anyone willing to listen:

"Acknowledging that many readers found his work pessimistic, if not depressing, he offered this: 'My favorite optimist,' he said, 'was an American who jumped off the Empire State Building, and as he passed the 42nd floor, the window washers heard him say, 'So far, so good.'"

It's a great joke, but on bad days, it also seems like an apt description of the way a lot of serious global problems are being addressed: Don't look down!