Blog (Irregular Reports From the Front)

Ok, I realize that I’m extremely late to the party on this one, but I feel like I have to talk a little bit about the Maker Faire, which we finally went to for the first time this year. Although I’d heard of it for years from various friends, and was told that I’d enjoy it, I apparently wasn’t listening hard enough, because we never made the effort to go before this. I have to say, I’m so glad we went—I was tremendously inspired, even despite having to wrangle several hyper and curious kids at the same time. I will definitely be going back every year now, and hopefully even figuring out how to participate next time.

I wasn’t totally sure what specifically to expect from the Maker Faire, although I knew in general that it was a place for all kinds of DIY “maker” people (engineers, scientists, tinkerers, architects, geeks, artists, gardeners, crafters, etc.) and their projects. And it was that, but I think I didn’t quite expect the sheer volume of creative/fun/interesting/intelligent/kooky people, performances and hands-on activities that we found there (and we totally did not even get the chance to see it all—maybe only half of what was there, if that). It was like the Exploratorium and Burning Man and Cirque du Soleil and the Whole Earth Festival all got together and had a polyamorous love child. I found myself most drawn to the crafty/artistic/performance stuff (as opposed to the more “hard science” or green/organic type stuff), but all of it was interesting and presented in such a way that I wanted to try everything.

What I really “got” after having been there was that for everything we saw, from the young guys who had mashed up Minecraft with Kinect to the firebreathing steampunk dragonmobile, from to the motorized giant cupcakes to the Mentos-and-Diet-Coke guys’ performance, from the life-sized poseable articulated stick people that anyone could rearrange to the enormous inflatable color-changing nylon asparagus sculptures that anyone could hug (or punch), the point and the purpose seemed to be to infect other people with a sense of curiosity or wonder or playfulness. It was like thousands of people all asked themselves “what kind of cool stuff could I make that other people would like?” and then they all got together and brought their inventions and let other people play with them and taught anyone who was interested how they worked and encouraged others to try making them too. It was a magnificent collection of cultural creatives all flying their freak flags high and proud.

There was such a strong feeling of enthusiasm and creativity there, such an optimistic and positive energy, that I felt giddy at times. I remember saying to my companions that being around this level of collective creative energy gave me hope that as a species, we actually might someday be able to get together and truly solve our local and global problems. So I’m a total convert. I believe that making delightful and interesting things with care and attention, and more importantly, making delightful and interesting things in order to share with others, really does (and will) change the world.

I have been thinking a lot about memory lately. I’ve been doing some personal archeology in my own past, both as a form of research for the new novel, and as a part of the ongoing inquiry into issues of personal identity and self-(re)construction. I’m constantly amazed at how little I remember of my own life (let alone what was going on around me on a community, national or global level). I feel like the memories I do have are the equivalent of a small shoebox full of faded, oddly-colored photos, snapshots from this moment or that, not necessarily connected to each other and often unlabeled. Sometimes the snapshots are moving, like the Harry Potter kind, but they only capture a small moment, never an entire story. I’ll remember, say, contentedly walking across the UCSC campus on a macadam path under the redwood trees, listening to a Cat Stevens’ Greatest Hits tape on my Walkman. (Oy, did I just massively date myself or what? No matter. Onward.) But I don’t remember what I was wearing, where I was going, what the weather was, what the smells were, or why that moment was important. I just remember it.

Some moments are more important, and they are seared in my memory, yet still only snapshots: sitting in the stall of the school’s bathroom in 7^th grade, fearing that the stain in my underwear meant I’d had some sort of incontinence but then in a thunderclap of understanding realizing that I’d just gotten my first period. Climbing up the dusty, switchback dirt path up Masada in Israel at dawn (and twisting my ankle and getting to ride the tram back down). My first “real” (albeit casual) kiss under the mistletoe hanging in the doorway of our Drama classroom in high school. The moment the ground heaved like the ocean and trees bowed like dancers while I was standing in the doorway of a classroom on the Kresge campus, during the Loma Prieta earthquake. Losing my virginity in the back of a Volvo station wagon, in the cast parking lot/campground of the Renaissance Faire. Sitting in the doctor’s office on my 23^rd birthday, being told that the bad news was, it was cancer; the good news was, if there was any kind of cancer to get, this was the best one (and my response: “well happy fucking birthday”). Sitting at my desk in the house I shared with a friend in Santa Barbara, pouring intense emotion into typing back and forth on computer chat with Josh and finally coming out with “I love you” and feeling drunk on exhilaration and fear as I hit send. Our wedding day. The loss of three potential children. The birthing of my two sons. The morning of 9/11. The moment when a secret was revealed that changed my marriage.

It’s not that I have *no* memories, it’s just that they’re, well, snapshots. They’re brief. They’re incomplete. I question whether I’m remembering the events themselves or just the stories I have been told/told myself over the years *about* those events. Some things I feel I should remember are completely gone. World events, cultural milestones, family experiences. Everyday details, places, people. What kind of time did my brother and I spend together in middle school? What did I eat for lunch in high school? What did the outside of my last apartment in Santa Cruz look like? What was the first date like with the boyfriend I met through a personal ad? I feel like there is so much that is just irrevocably gone. Friends often play the game of “do you remember so-and-so?” with me, and almost always, the answer is no. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate or connect with the people around me at the time, it’s just that if they’re not still around, and they aren’t associated with one of the snapshots from the shoebox (or one of the stories I’ve told about the snapshots in the shoebox), well, they vanish. It’s a good thing I still keep family and friends around me from all the stages of my life, or I’d be constantly adrift, wondering where I’d been (and who with).

In this day and age, we have a million easy ways to capture memory and save it up for later. Back then, it didn’t occur to me to document my life with any regularity or detail, nor did I think I’d need (let alone want) to have those memory aids someday. We have shifted, our culture, to a constant broadcasting of ourselves and our experiences, and we leave an easily searchable/recoverable trail behind ourselves of emails, photos, online journals, status updates, tweets, and check-ins. I have a much more complete and regular record of what I’ve been up to in the last 10+ years since email, digital photography/video, computer journaling, blogging, Facebook and Twitter came into my life, but even still, that’s not enough. I hardly ever review my past journals or letters or emails (or updates or tweets), and I have so many photos now that it’s nearly impossible to just browse through them (even the physical photo albums I happen to have, which are not many, I rarely look through). I know that I *could* go back and look for anything that’s in my digital archives though, and that sort of comforts me. But what about the older stuff, things from our early married life, from grad school, from college, from high school? In addition to my memory snapshots, I do have some physical souvenirs and ephemera from all those periods in my life. I have bunches of saved cards, letters, notes, journals, etc, perhaps because I have long labored under the illusion that some day an archeologist or historian or maybe at least my children would want to know more about my early days--but I never look at them (though the older and more forgetful I get the more attractive starting to go through all that old stuff seems to me). It seems an overwhelming job to examine it all in an effort to remember the details.

Part of me wonders if I need to, if this constant obsession with personal documentation that is part of the early 21^st century is a good thing, if it gets in the way of the “normal” human experience and memory. Maybe there’s very good reason why I only remember so many things, or why some things remain important to me while others have mostly or completely faded away. Yet part of me still grieves over the unrecoverable loss of so many potentially helpful (or at least potentially comforting) details of memory. Isn’t knowing who I was then an important prerequisite to figuring out who I am now, or who I may someday be? I think so, which is why this recent spate of personal archeology and archival research into my own past that I’ve undertaken seems more interesting and more urgent now. I know there are patterns to be teased out that I didn’t always see (or some that were always there that I’ve forgotten about until recently), and this is maybe what I’m hoping to find when I look back through my memories or life souvenirs: some new (or newly understood) arrangement of explanatory details to hang an identity story on. I know I can construct an identity story even without “proof”...but the “proof”--the ability to examine and analyze my own historical record and say “Aha! See, I was always that way”--seems awfully attractive right now. Maybe in future posts I’ll be better able to articulate why.

I’ve heard it said that there are two types of writers: those who like writing, and those who like having written. I’m definitely one of those in the latter camp. I look forward to revisions, to having clumps of raw material to play with and tweak and reshape. The hard part, to me, is producing that raw material in the first place. The difficulty is not so much coming up with new ideas (which are usually plentiful and fun to play with), but that actual starting part, where all kinds of decisions must be made and then actual sentences produced and strung together into story. And it’s especially hard at the beginning of a new project, which is where I’m at right now. I’m actually in the midst of starting a lot of things now, it would be fair to say, but specifically I am talking about starting a new novel.

A new novel? Yep, here we go. I’ve committed to a particular project, and I’ve got a super rough outline and the first couple pages of actual words now. That’s a bigger deal than it seems, because not only do I prefer having written to the act of writing, but in general, starting is hard. Given that the previous novel (ok, the only one I’ve written, to date) took me approximately 7 years to complete (how biblical!), I’ve had to really screw my courage to the sticking point to get this one started. Because what if this new one takes me another 7 years, or at least some really damn long time, to finish? How am I gonna call myself a writer if I only produce a book every 7 years? That’s scary to contemplate. Now, to be fair, that first novel took so long for a number of reasons (not least of which was that I had a kid in the middle of writing it), and I fully expect the next one to go faster and be easier. That’s how it works, right? Practice, practice, practice, as I said last post. I learned a great deal by writing that first novel, and have a much better grasp now on what’s involved in the writing of novels (as opposed to the reading of novels, which I have definitely become an expert at if I do say so myself, or the marketing of novels, which I still don’t know nearly enough about.) I know I *can* write a novel now, and I know to expect “shitty first drafts” (as Anne Lamott would say) and not to get attached to the quality or quantity of initial output. I know how to create a writing practice for myself in order to get the work done (whether or not I actually stick to it, which is a whole other story). So I should be ready to go, right? I should be able to just start beavering away at this next project and in a year or so, it should be done.

Well, that’s the rosy vision. But why is it so hard to actually accomplish, especially the pushing out of that “shitty first draft?” Even though I’ve recently decided to commit more seriously to my writer identity, I’m still having motivation issues (which very well may be related to anxiety around said commitment), and not getting into any sort of BIC (Butt In Chair) production groove. I feel like I have an angel and a devil (or maybe a fairy and a dragon) on my shoulder, one saying “don’t be so hard on yourself: you can’t rush art, and you have to do what feels right to you in the moment,” and the other saying “you aren’t a writer if you don’t write, so stop fooling around and put your butt in the chair and make some words.” I’m sure I’m not the only one that feels like this when starting (let alone working away on or finishing) a new project. I know that it’s normal for motivation to come in waves, and for life to impinge. Maybe just putting out a public declaration of “I’ve started!” and “I’m gonna keep going!” will spur me to forge ahead even during those times when it’s hard to. After all, the goal is to wind up enjoying that feeling of “ahhhh, I’ve written, and it feels good.”

I’ve been spending a lot of time over the last few months in a process I’ve now come to call “Intentional Life Design.” (I’m pretty sure I didn’t make this phrase up, but it’s an apt one, so phrase, I claim you!).This is when I turn my focus on each part of my daily living: what I work on everyday (and when), how and when to encourage creative and relaxation and exercise time during the day, how our parenting or our household routines flow, how we organize our living space, how we nurture our marriage, how and when I interact with family and friends. The goal is to try to make sure that the ways each of these things occurs has been intentionally designed to be that way, rather than something we just put up with by default. I keep finding more and more areas in which Intentional Life Design applies, and trying to put my focus there.

Life in general is all about choice and intention right now--two things that sound easy (and desirable), but sometimes aren’t. I’m in the process of paring away all (or at least most) of the things in my life that aren’t necessary or desirable, so that I can reveal the true shape of what my ideal life will be (just like in the story of Michelangelo and the David sculpture--he said that in order to create it, he just chipped away all the parts of the marble block that weren’t David). I’m choosing to slow down, to take on less and do fewer things at once, but do each of them more consciously and intentionally. (This is a big step and a hard thing for a champion multi-tasker and gold medalist in the “Suck-it-up Olympics” to stick with!) I’m trying to be less driven by deadlines and by outside expectations, and more guided by my own inner rhythms and enthusiasms. Some days it feels great, like “woo-hoo, I’m on vacation!” kind of great, but some days it feels scary and anxiety-provoking, like “oh god what will people think of me if I do/don’t do that and how am I going to make a living, anyway?” Some days it feels like all I do is seesaw back and forth between both extremes, whacking hard into the ground on one side before breathlessly careening back up in the air towards the other, over and over.

I’ve had a post-it stuck to the dashboard of my car for a few months now that says:

Practice

Prioritizing

Pausing

This is a mini-mantra for me, a condensed version of several lessons all in one place.  On the one hand, I consider each word separately. I do need to remember that life is all about practice, about having a practice, about working on something until you get better at it. And I do need reminding that certain things are priorities, and certain things are not, and that priorities are necessarily fluid but that I’m the one who gets to determine them. (That’s not easy either, being the kind of person who is used to letting others’ priorities have greater weight than my own.) And I do need to pause, to stop and consider and intentionally choose what to do next.

On the other hand, I also consider these three words/concepts as a full sentence: I need to practice prioritizing pausing. So much of my life up until now has been about movement: rushing hither and yon, stretching and growing and working and learning. But quiet’s got something to say to me too, right now, much as I sometimes resist it. I need to acknowledge that my life is defined just as much by the quiet times as by the full times, just like a song is defined as much by the rests as by the notes of music. Sure, there’s a lot to admire about a well-executed sound or visual or action, but what’s harder is to notice and appreciate (and cultivate) the pause that proceeds and succeeds it. It has to be done intentionally. And that’s hard. So I have to prioritize it and practice it.

I’ve recently gotten new glasses. Not just new frames, but a whole new prescription. These days, I apparently need help seeing both far away and close up, so for the first time, I’ve switched to progressive lenses (which is a fancy kind of bifocals). The need for close up vision correction is something new (hello, 40s, what delightful new experiences you keep bringing me!), though I’ve been noticing that something is different for at least a year now.

So as I’ve been going through the new glasses process--going to the ophthalmologist, picking out frames, adjusting to wearing the progressive lenses--it has occurred to me (‘cause, you know, writer) that perhaps all this physical vision-related stuff is happening now for a reason, an “as above, so below” kind of reason. In other words, there’s a pretty damn obvious metaphor happening here that I want to call out. Let’s go metaphor diving, shall we?

In general, I’m at a stage in my life where things no longer look quite the same, where what previously seemed like clear assumptions and expectations have become fuzzier and harder to see. And I’ve finally gotten to the point where that fuzziness is no longer acceptable--I’m tired of adjusting, of compensating, of waiting for things to reveal themselves to me. I want to take more ownership of the process and see if I can make things clearer. I think that my recent resolve to finally go and get new glasses has been a physical manifestation of trying to own this process of soul-searching and identity work that I’ve been in the midst of. It’s not like now that I have new glasses I will suddenly “see the light” and know firmly and exactly what it is I’ve been put on this earth to do and be able to start doing it with great ease and satisfaction (and compensation)--but I am at least now taking another step and claiming responsibility for my own clarity.

Over the last nearly two years, I’ve been in a process of trying to look at things differently, change my perspective, and actively invest in seeing things both in the past and in the future in new and hopefully clearer ways. Yet all this time I have had the same glasses, which certainly got me better clarity, but not as much as I could have had. Those glasses helped me see far away, bring some of the big picture into sharper focus, and look farther down the path at the horizon. They were flattering frames, a complimentary color and shape for my face, but they made no particular statement (beyond “I don’t wear contacts”). They made me look professional, vaguely fashionable (I hope), but that’s about it.

My new glasses continue to help me see far away, big-picture stuff, but even yet more clearly. They also now help me to see close up, to look at little details, and more importantly to see things that are really close to me that might have been hard to look at before. The progressive lenses are certainly something I’ve had to get used to; I’ve lost some of my peripheral vision (I have to actually turn my head now to see things clearly--I have to really WANT to look at what’s hovering fuzzily around the edges) but I’ve also made up for that loss by a frankly astonishing new clarity in what is right in front of me. (It’s always the same; you never realize how much you were missing until you finally focus correctly). They’re much more intentional glasses: I can now see whatever I choose to look at much more clearly, but I have to actually choose to look at it directly for best results.

My new glasses not only act different, they look different: the new frames are bigger and bolder (at least one pair--I actually have TWO pairs now, a chunky, colorful plastic everyday pair for when I’m feeling more outrageous and bold, and a thinner, metal, more subtle colored alternate pair for when I want to look more upscale). I really wanted more obvious frames; I want (at least sometimes) to be more obvious about the kind of identity shifts I’m making. The funny thing is, over the last few weeks as I’ve worn the glasses around, almost no one has noticed that I’ve changed frames until I’ve told them. (Or if they have noticed, it hasn’t inspired commentary.) I’m not sure if this has a direct metaphorical application or not...maybe it just means that shifts that I think are obvious and meaningful are only so to me, not to other people, so I really should stop worrying about what other people think. Apparently whatever I’m doing now is sufficiently right and appropriate so that no one is concerned enough to call me on it. Actually the only one that did notice right away was Eli--he looked at me the day I got home with them and said something like “hey, mom, you got new glasses! I don’t mean to say this in a mean way, ‘cause I think they’re cool, but they’re kind of nerdy.” (Which totally made me laugh because a) he’s right on, and b) as I told him, nerdy is something that’s more than ok by me.)

So I’m still adjusting to the new glasses (and to the new me)--sometimes I get headaches or disorientation still, though I’m assured these will pass. But even with the inevitable headaches and disorientation that accompany this process, it’s great to have such an obvious reminder, right there on my face every day, that it’s time for exploring new perspectives now, time to look at things more intentionally and close up. Time to commit to seeing clearly.

When I first started this newest version of Parentheticals, I called myself a “Transmedia Storyteller”. I was in love with the newly-discovered word “transmedia”, because it seemed to fit well with my desire to not be pinned down to any one storytelling form or place. After all, I reasoned, look at all the places I’d been using my storytelling superpowers over the years: elaborate pass-back-and-forth notes to friends, formal fiction writing, fan fiction, ‘zines, academic papers and theses, teaching, survival guides, blogs, web copywriting...and that’s just the textual stuff (I might also include photography, video, painting, scrapbooking, etc). But recently the term “transmedia” has come to stand in for a whole new art form (or some would say, marketing toolbox), and there have been a multitude of opinions as to what constitutes “real” transmedia and what is just the latest marketing buzzword, and all of a sudden the term doesn’t seem so fun to play with anymore, and the risk of being misunderstood greater.

So I have been thinking about what new term I could use to replace “transmedia”. (I’m sure there are plenty; in fact I reserve the right to change it every couple weeks or at least as often as the mood strikes me.) The one that appealed to me first was “solipsistic”. Officially, solipsistic means “the view or theory that self is the only object of real knowledge or the only thing that is real,” but it also has connotations of selfishness or “extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one's feelings, desires, etc.; egoistic self-absorption.” I’m fond of alliteration, so that may be why it popped up in the first place, but I also do relate to the connotations of navel-gazing (isn’t that basically what a personal blog is?). I flinch at the “extreme” part of “extreme preoccupation”, but honestly, part of my personal journey has been realizing that I actually need to spend just as much if not more time looking in and at myself (and learning from that), as I do looking out and at others (not to mention at groups and systems). That’s been kind of a radical realization for me. Look at myself? Talk about myself? How assumptive! How selfish!

It’s hard to overcome the fear of being called “selfish”. As a woman, as an often outwardly-focused extrovert, as a Jew, as a mom, as someone raised with positive ideals of charity and service to others, and especially as someone who spent a whole lot of time in higher academia (and after) being mentally and emotionally whacked around by realizations of my own privilege(s), it’s risky to declare “no, hold on, I want to be selfish for awhile, and value my own story and life experience as having something to teach me, and possibly even others.”

But I know there are many truths and epiphanies to be mined from my own experience, and I have to believe that my own experience and life is just as valuable and valid as anyone else’s. Like it or not, the truth is that when I look at it clearly, drawing from my own specific, unique story is at the heart of most every kind of good storytelling I have ever done--and isn’t it at the heart of all storytelling?

One of the big life-lessons I’m in the process of learning (over and over) is that one’s own experience, one’s own story, *is* what is real. It’s all that is real. It’s all that we have; contained within it is all that we need. Life is story; life is art--and each of us an artist. And the more each of us can stand clearly and firmly in the center of our own real and unique stories and own them--with curiosity and compassion, but without judgment or expectations--the more powerful we are, and the more we are each able to appreciate and respect other people’s uniqueness. And once we get there, to that clear, stable, solid centered place, why then, then we can bring our beautifully varied and flavored uniquenesses together into kickass, creative, collaborative, solve-all-the-world’s-problems kind of teams. We are all different (yes, I get reminded of _Life of Brian_ whenever I say that), and we all have something specific and unique that we are able--some might even say required--to contribute to a bigger perspective. If we can’t know the individual parts, how can we ever know the whole? And knowing the whole is a good goal, in my opinion.

I think, therefore, that I will reclaim the term “solipsistic”, rescue it from its faintly negative whiff of selfishness (and what’s so wrong about selfishness, anyway? Like everything else, it surely has its light as well as dark sides--I’ll be championing the light side, of course). I will be assumptive. I will assume that solipsism is a good thing, and that who I am and what I have experienced is important and worth sharing. I will couple positive selfishness with empathy and desire for connection, and see where that gets me. Hopefully it’ll get me to one of those kickass collaborative teams at some point...but first up: “know thyself”. Solipsism rules.

Today I went to my yearly oncology checkup (for those new to this relatively old story, the short version is this: diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma on the day of my 23^rd birthday, treated successfully with surgery and radiation therapy, learned many interesting things during the journey from health to illness and back to health.) Overall it was a very short, easy appointment, with a doctor I respect and like a lot, and as it has happened for many, many years now (I’m coming up on 19 years in remission), I was given a hearty “you look healthy and good” and sent on my way. (Though the one disquieting note was when I asked the doctor when the likely time frame was for secondary cancers to start showing up, and she said “twenty years”. Doh. Better be religious about those mammograms.)

Though it was pretty much all good and I felt (and still am feeling) particularly grateful and happy to be alive (as one naturally does when reminded of a time when mortality was most keenly felt), I just somehow can’t put today’s appointment in the trashcan of forgetfulness without acknowledging how it felt.

How did it feel? Well as always when I have these appointments (or any other major medical experience), it brought up a layered, chunky lasagna of feelings and memories about the whole “cancer experience”. (Yeah, I could have used a different metaphor, maybe a sweeter one like cake or a geological one or something, but there’s something I like about comparing a medical experience to a labor-intensive Italian dinner. So sue me.)

So what was today’s, you’ll excuse the expression, cancer checkup lasagna made of? Here’s a few ingredients (in no particular order of importance):

- complacency, and then self-recrimination about said complacency

- relief at the quickness and simplicity of this year’s appointment--no extra x-rays, tests, or new information to process

- anxiety (because there’s always the chance that something unexpected will come up)

- fear that this time there would be a lump or a bump that I missed that the doctor would find and point out to me

- comfort in the familiarity of the place and situation and the happy attitude of the doctor

- sadness and a little bit of guilt that came with the awareness of my own privileged remission status amongst all the other patients waiting to see their doctors

- pride and pleasure that my body was still strong and functioning decently

- wistfulness--a little bit of missing a particular time of my life that, even though scary, was really good for prioritizing and feeling a certain clarity of intention

- an uncomfortable nostalgia-ish feeling, like an alumni coming back to her old school--sort of wanting to still belong, but not really (this I think was just a leftover re-triggered bit of the inevitable grieving that comes after losing an identity, even a stigmatized one like “cancer patient”)

And then of course the binding sauce, if you will, that touched all the layers: memories of past exams, tests, procedures, convalescences, disappointments, victories, bodily changes, epiphanies and attitude shifts, all smooshed up together and fragmented but apparently still quite full of flavor (at least for me). I’m not going to go into detail here--there’s a book full that wants to come out someday but this is not the time or the place.

I know I’ve come such a long way, and am such a different person now than that young-twenties self. So much has happened, I’ve learned so much, and evolved, and so many new identities have been added and layered over that “cancer survivor” one. And yet that was in so many ways a defining identity/part of my life, one that I am *still* dealing with and trying to put in context. The identity hasn’t left me, I just don’t visit it very often.

I suppose the question hanging in the air at the end of this post has to be, can I ever stop visiting it?

(Do I want to?)

I’m thinking a lot lately about rhythm. Not the direct kind (though it’s been awhile since I picked up a drum, and I miss that too), but the more metaphorical kind--the rhythm of my days, the rhythm of my life. I’m definitely in the midst of a rhythmic change right now, and the beat is shifting, transforming from something familiar to something not-quite-clear.

Perhaps a metaphor will help. (In my world, metaphors always help. Heck, they’re the only way I ever understand anything in the first place.) Let’s talk about rhythm in the context of a drum circle. (Which, if you’ve never experienced, you should. All teasing aside, there’s a reason why all those new-agey types love ‘em--there is a tremendous fun and power there, and much to be learned from participating with others in that way. But I digress.)

There’s always a time, in a drum circle, where everything is a little confusing--the previous jam is starting to break apart, or there’s been a break and everyone is just starting up again. There’s noise, but no direction: people are noodling with different things, often with great enthusiasm, but a central beat hasn’t emerged or been agreed to. Things might still sound ok, but the energy, the rhythm, is more scattered than aligned. The way this moves forward is that people start paying closer attention to each other, to the various beats going on, and something always emerges that catches everyone’s attention. People acquiesce to that  foundational rhythm, and start participating in it, and the jam coalesces, the energy settles (or jumps up, depending). It’s only after that that individuals in the circle can start taking turns improvising around the foundational rhythm, and playing with the shape and nuance of the jam itself.

I feel like I’m at that “everything is a little confusing” point in my life right now. My “who am I and what am I here for” identities are still shifting--I’m letting go or at least significantly modifying some of the previous identities I held, but I’m not totally clear yet on what new ones are replacing them. (Actually, I think this is the subject of another post.) And because of this, a lot of the rhythms I was used to are starting to fade away. I’m not working 9-5, or even pretending to by running an office where other people mostly do. I don’t have regular work-related meetings any more, and most meetings I do have are more to do with beginning to build something new (hi, Co-ignite!) than with managing ongoing Archer Web Solutions projects or networking for new AWS business. I’ve lost (temporarily I hope) my “Butt-In-Chair” morning writing practice and any sort of writing deadlines beyond super-fuzzy self-imposed ones. The kids are older and need a different kind of parenting now (though admittedly their school schedule is still the most rhythmic part of my life, which is helpful at least as a counterpoint.)

The days are still remarkably full--I still often have that overwhelm feeling of having too much to do and too little time--but they’re not predictable, not rhythmic. There’s still lots of noise, but no clear foundational rhythm to build on and play with, other than the largest one of the seasons and the regular seasonal rituals that come with them (which I still enjoy and am grateful for).

And yet...if I can just trust my own metaphor here, and keep listening for the beat, I know things will begin to coalesce. Things already are coalescing. I have managed to pare down the activity priorities in my life right now down to five:

1) People. Being present and spending time with people dear to me (family, friends). This includes the daily, attentive work of conscious parenting, conscious marriage-building, and conscious relationship maintenance.

2) Home. Co-creating a comfortable and supportive home for myself and my family. Yeah, I guess that has to include housework. But it will be shared.

3) Archer Web Solutions. Maintaining Archer Web Solutions at a much smaller, more manageable level, where we only work with the clients we already have and those few new ones whose causes and intentions align with our own.

4) Co-ignite. Co-creating the new and improved Co-ignite and using this a springboard to make my own contribution towards changing the world for the better, while also getting financial compensation for the contribution that I bring.

5) Art. Personal creative projects, including writing, painting, music and whatever else I darn well please that gives me inspiration, allows me to communicate, and distills meaning (for myself and others).

The real challenge now is to figure out how to set an appropriate and satisfying rhythm that incorporates all five of these things (and not to muddy the rhythm by adding any more things if possible), while also knowing that each of these will inevitably fluctuate in amount of time and attention needed or wanted. Because yes, the drum circle works best when someone steps up and sets the beat, just like an organization or project works best with a clear leader (an open, respectful and collaborative leader, but a leader nonetheless).

So the lessons here are:

- Listen. Continue to give myself enough quiet so that I can focus on these main rhythm elements that are just starting up.

- Step up and lead the beat. Find and commit to *some* sort of regular daily/weekly rhythm that incorporates all 5 of my priorities.

-Trust the process. Know that eventually things will settle down, and that when that happens I’ll get my chance to start creatively playing around with things--I don’t have to fear being locked in to any given rhythm either.

Might as well start blogging again with a bang, rather than a dribble. I’ve just had a couple of really interesting, deep experiences that need to be processed for posterity; they’re too important to just let float away down the river of memory.

What happened? Well, twice over the last couple weeks, I stood guard over a dead body.

Wha...?

Ok, let me back up.

A few months ago, during the high holidays, I was really struck by a testimonial that a congregant stood up and gave (and the accompanying sermon by the Rabbi) about a congregant who had recently died, and how those close to her had gathered to wash her body and prepare her for burial (in Jewish tradition, this is called “tahara”). The experience sounded like it had been full of grief but yet also full of meaning and holiness, and transformative through its raw closeness to death, which is one of those core experiences in which we get an opportunity to glimpse what truly matters.

I was really struck by that story, and by the Rabbi’s insitence that raw experiences like that could be incredible teachers and guides on our own spiritual pathways. He invited anyone who was interested to come to a class that he was putting together on Jewish traditions of the mitzvot (commandments) of Bikur Cholim (visiting the sick) and Nichum Avelim (comforting mourners). I signed up.

When I went to the class I found that in addition to talking about visiting the sick and comforting mourners, what we were also talking about was putting together a Chevra Kadisha (burial society), which was a new thing for our synagogue. A Chevra Kadisha helps to ritually prepare bodies for burial, both by washing and dressing the deceased before the burial (a process called tahara), and by “standing guard” over the body between tahara and the funeral (a process called shemira or sh’mira). We had an amazing teacher come and teach us about tahara, and even had a field trip where we visited a Jewish mortuary in Lafayette in order to “practice” tahara on a dummy. I was really drawn to the idea of being a witness as well as a participant in this transitory time.

Now on with the story. Last week I got a call from the Rabbi, who told me that the day before, there had been an unexpected death of Stuart, a young father in our congregation. He needed someone that day to come act as a shomeret (guard) for Stuart’s body at the mortuary in San Francisco--was I able and willing to come? Yes, I said, and a couple hours later, after rearranging my schedule and changing my clothes, there I was at Mt. Sinai (a Jewish mortuary), showing up for my first official shemira with no idea what I was supposed to be doing but ready to do it anyway. I had looked up Stuart’s obituary, and the directions to the mortuary, but that’s all I knew. You’re supposed to read psalms, the Rabbi’s assistant had told me. Ask for Helen.

So I arrived at the mortuary with my copy of our reform prayerbook (hoping there were some psalms in there--I’d never checked), and walked in what I hoped was the front door and asked the first person I saw for Helen. They fetched her promptly and then Helen, who was a lovely, gracious middle-aged woman in a dark grey suit, welcomed me kindly and showed me into the chapel room. The chapel room was a smallish room right inside the main entrance full of dark wood and black leather furnishings, where presumably family gathered before or after funerals. The room was empty--I had expected Stuart to be there, but Helen told me he was upstairs in the refrigerator, right above us. She told me there were drinks and chocolate there if I needed them, made sure I knew the deceased’s name (I got the sense from here that saying the deceased’s name was important as a part of the process), and gave me a bunch of different prayerbooks and books about the mourning process from their library. Some people like to read out loud, she said, and some people just sit quietly. There aren’t any specific prayers, but you might like some of these. Then she left me sitting on one of the black leather couches, surrounded by books.

I felt very small and shy, uncertain and off-balance in the way that I get whenever I’m in a brand-new situation. And this situation was brand-new in so many ways: I’d never been a shomeret before, I’d never been to Mt. Sinai before (I’d hardly ever been to a mortuary of any kind), I’d never really looked at psalms as a group before, I’d never known this person who now was no more. I really wanted to do the right thing, but I had to feel my way into it, because there was no one there to guide me except a variety of books.

It was quiet there, and somber, and easy to slip into a state of reflective calm. I paged through the books Helen had given me, and I thought about the transition from life to death and to the traditions we humans (and specifically we Jews) had put together to give the transition meaning. I thought about what I assumed I should be doing in my role as shomeret--guarding, accompanying, witnessing, providing a friendly, comforting presence to a confused and sorrowing spirit. I read bits out loud from some of the books, both in English and in Hebrew whenever the book had transliterations (I don’t read or speak Hebrew, which I have to say also contributed to my overall sense of “what if I’m not doing this right?). I sang a little when I found something I recognized or remembered (Oseh Shalom, Shema). I made sure to say Stuart’s name from time to time--I guess out of a desire both to personalize the process, and to ground it in some sort of reality. Mostly I tried to stay open, and present, and focused on the transitional moment I was in, without getting distracted by my own anxieties around mourning or “doing it right”.

I spent about 4 hours sitting in the chapel room, thinking about Stuart and about dying and mourning. Helen checked in on me a couple of times, and at the end of my shift, Rachel (another member of our new Chevra Kadisha) arrived, looking very somber in all black (it hadn’t occurred to me to wear all black, although I had changed my casual clothes before I’d left for Mt. Sinai into something dressier, out of a desire to show respect). As soon as Rachel and I saw each other we hugged, which in hindsight was a great way for me to begin the transition out of my solitary and somber headspace back into “ordinary” life. She sat on the couch with me and I showed her all the books I’d been reading, and pointed out to her what I thought had been helpful or interesting. After that we hugged again and I left, walking out of the mortuary right onto the bustling city street to my car.

Everything seemed very big and alive and full of movement. Partly this was the fact that I was in the city (I’m used to being a country mouse on the other side of the bay), but definitely it was also having spent the previous 4 hours in a completely different way of being. I kept the radio off, and looked around me while I drove. As I left the city and crossed back into more familiar territory, the experience receded and I felt relatively back to normal.

Afterwards, that day and over the next few days, I told a few people about what I’d done (mostly because I like me a good shock headline like “hey guess what I did today? I spent the day in a mortuary”), but overall I had a hard time talking about the whole experience. I didn’t want to say anything about it on social media (it just felt too weird), and I didn’t really run into too many other people I could tell about it without seriously disrupting whatever else I was supposed to be doing at the time. So I didn’t really get a chance to process the experience much.

Then, just as that died down, there was another request (over email this time): a congregant’s mother (Kay) had died, and the family had requested both tahara and shemira. I wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to try the tahara this time, but volunteered to take a shomeret shift at Mt. Tam Cemetery late in the afternoon after the tahara had been done.

I arrived at Mt. Tam Cemetery a little before 4pm. I’d never been there before, but had relatively clear directions from the woman who’d been coordinating us as to where to go--which turned out to be a small room in the mausoleum. The room had a couple of couches, some somber decorations, and right in the middle of the room, a coffin covered with a blue and silver drape that had a Star of David on top. There was also a lit yartzheit candle on one end of the coffin. Inside, presumably, was Kay.

I was met by Gail, the shomeret who’d been there before me. She had a copy of the Tanakh that one of the other shomrim had left (good thing, since this time I hadn’t brought anything with me), and told me that she’d been going through various psalms and reading them to Kay, but that she’d “skipped over a lot of them that seemed overly violent or bloody.” She said she’d just been talking to Kay, and reassuring her that someone was there watching over her. That really resonated with me, especially since Kay was so obviously right there in the room with us, not like before when the actual body we were guarding was somewhere inaccessible.

Gail didn’t stay long, and then it was just me and Kay in the cold, cold room. (I had not thought ahead to the fact that since I was in a mausoleum, and they were keeping an unpreserved body there overnight, it would be close to refrigerated in there. Next time, I will definitely bring layers.)

I read psalms to Kay, sang a little (one thing I will say for a mausoleum is that there are great acoustics), and talked to her a little (but not too much--I wanted to stay as quiet and attentive as possible). I straightened the drape over her coffin. I still felt shy and uncertain, but again determined to just sink into the moment. I tried, like Gail, to project a sense of reassurance and caring. There’s a theory that right after death, the soul is confused and upset (because they are reliving their entire life, the good, bad and inbetween), so it lingers around the familiar body for a while until it gets the strength to make the final transition. Whether or not this is actually true, I don’t know--but it felt meaningful to me, so I wanted to make sure that if Kay was still hanging around, she felt protected and cared for. It felt good to me to bring a sort of “mama” energy to the room.

Like Gail, I found a lot of psalms that didn’t feel quite right or appropriate, so I skipped around a lot, and only read the ones out loud that felt right. I also spent some time just reading the Tanakh (I found myself caught up in the story of Samuel and Saul, but never finished). I was interrupted a couple of times by Jon, the manager at Mt. Tam, who was closing up for the evening and wanted to make sure I had the key and knew where everything was. It felt a little strange to keep having to bring myself out of the quiet, attentive space to social interaction with a stranger around logistics, but it was over quickly.

Julia came to relieve me at around 6pm, and I passed on what I could to her about the logistics and what I’d been doing. We chatted for a few minutes about other things, but that started to feel weird to me with Kay right there in the room, so I took my leave. It was dark when I left, which felt sort of appropriate, and eased the transition back into the “real world”.

I didn’t think too much about the experience over the next few days, probably because it needed a chance to sink in. There was a Chevra Kadisha meeting a couple of days later though, and we all got a chance to talk about what our experiences with both Stuart and Kay had been. I found myself feeling really passionate about wanting to be better educated as to the “what” of the rituals--what *were* we actually supposed to be doing while we were sitting with someone? I would have liked to have more of a plan or a toolbox or to have known what the traditional and/or our own group expectations were. But I also wanted to know the “why” of the rituals (for example, why psalms? What was the meaning there, and how could I/we relate to it?) I really wanted to be able to collaborate with other people and find my individual as well as our collective meaning around shemira.

How does it feel now, about a week or so later? I feel really honored and humble and incredibly grateful for being given the chance to witness and accompany this important, universal transition. I feel like I am truly being of service and giving love in a way that I haven’t felt in other situations. I feel like it’s given me an opportunity to stretch and grow my own spirituality and connection with what is real and what is beyond what we can know with our senses. I feel, well, okay, transformed in some way I don’t even quite understand yet. I feel like I sort of relate to the word “holy” a little better now.

I feel like I want to do it again.

Resolutions for 2011:

Looking back on last year’s resolutions, I think I did pretty well, but the interesting thing is that I don’t feel like my resolutions have changed much, if at all. I might have a few more specifics around writing projects, for example, but the things I said I wanted from 2010 are the same ones I want to dedicate myself to in 2011. So let me review them again here, with commentary and some slight modifications:

-First and foremost, I resolve to practice radical self-love in 2010. Not just your ordinary, garden-variety getting enough sleep and eating less crap, I’m talking about transformational, dynamic-changing self-love. I will prioritize my own self’s needs and desires at least as often as I prioritize others’. (Wow, this was a hard one. I think I did better at this during 2010, but it still is important for 2011. So I’ll keep this top of the list and resolve to keep practicing radical self-love in 2011.)

-I will make space for writing, reading, art and long walks. These are not luxuries to be fit in amongst the cracks of “real” life. These *are* real life. (This is still true. I did practice this, and I can and will still practice it more. Especially the long walks part.)

-I will finish revising my novel. I will send it out to agents and publishers. I will start the next novel. (I did finish the revisions and start the next novel. I sent it out to one publisher, but I need to create query letters and send it out to agents and publishers. I am also going to try to stick with a regular writing practice so that the next novel will happen faster and more easily than the last.)

-I will listen to more music, more often. Recorded and live. (This I did, and want to continue into 2011.)

-I will take more pictures and share them. Albums maybe even. (I took lots and lots of pictures, but have not been so good with the sharing and album making. I definitely want to make the organizing and sharing of pictures a priority in 2011.)

-I will nurture my connections with my writerly tribe. I will go to cons, keep up friendships, read LJ, comment on posts, and be a better participant in my critique group. (I have had mixed results on this resolution. I have continued my connection with my closest circle of writer buddies, and I did go to one con, but I have not participated much in my writer tribe social network. I still want to. I will be going to three cons this year, hopefully, and I will also try to be better about at least connecting on social media.)

-I will nurture my connections with my true friends and those people in my life who are precious to me. I will pick up the phone more often and just call people. (I’ve done some of this, but I can always do more. This goes on the list for practicing further in 2011.)

-I will spend special time with each member of my family, and with my family all together. (I’ve done this, but I can always do more. This goes on the list for practicing further in 2011 too. I think it’s a perpetual one.)

-I will be mindful and present while I am with my children. I will appreciate them for who they are and where they’re at, and continue to tell them how much I love them as often as possible. (I’ve done this, but I can always do more. This goes on the list for practicing further in 2011 too. I think it’s a perpetual one.)

-I will collaborate with my true companion to make our marriage strong, healthy and joyful. (I’ve done this, but I can always do more. This goes on the list for practicing further in 2011 too. I think it’s a perpetual one.)

-I will continue to ask myself the hard questions about purpose and priorities and continue to take the answers as they come without judgment or fear. (This too is something that is ongoing. I think it always will be part of my practice, but hopefully some clarification and answers will begin to show up in 2011.)

I don’t think I really have any new resolutions to add to this list, other than what I’ve already said. It looks like mainly I will be continuing to refine my life practice, along with a healthy helping of self-discovery. And I’ll try to put at least some of it down in writing, in some form, for posterity. Here’s hoping for a relatively smooth--while no doubt always interesting--ride!