Oh Rita, thank you so much for sharing your joyful wins.
Here are mine: I'm reading a lot lately - five books since April started - which is always an indication that I'm struggling with something but the books have been good. (Claire Lombardo's The Most Fun We Ever Had is a highlight. She writes such beautiful human stories.) I'm not certain, but I'm thinking my struggle has something to do with V's impending graduation and Abe's getting his license and realizing that the job that I've poured myself into for the last 18 years is changing. I'm also knitting Abram a pair of socks. And cleaning while listening to my growing record collection. And calling my representatives because many of them are Republican and I like screaming into the wind, I guess. (I have a lot of sorrow in my joy right now, but that seems on theme with your post, too.)
Congratulations on the publication of your writing. You have worked hard at your craft and am glad you are having that recognized. I know I'm grateful for the art you are creating.
I love that you write "the job I've poured myself into for the last 18 years is changing." Not ending, but changing. When I was on that precipice, all I could see was ending, not changing. And yes, some things end--but the job is still there. This might seem subtle, but I think it bodes so well for you. I sure hope so. I'd love to know what else you've been reading. I am really going to have to try Most Fun again; I think I need to get further in it. I really appreciated Same As It Ever Was, so I suspect I wasn't in the right place for Most Fun when I started it.
Finally, thank you for making those phone calls. All my reps are Dems, which leaves me feeling powerless in some ways. It bolsters me to know of my friends in red places who are doing all they can to sway those who are holding power over all of us. Whenever I think of how it's always both/and (sorrow and joy together), I think of you.
Well that garden is so inviting, and something about the circle makes it even more so. It is a gathering place of plant energy, but calls something archetypal out of me like stone circles, covens around cauldrons, talk circles, campfires. No wonder your neighbors stop!
Your words here have the same effect- an invitation. That mutual aid you name so well has sustained and transformed me in this past year. Creating in community, in communion with the reality of the moment instead of some aspirational future perfect moment has de-mystified creativity and simply made it a necessity like food and sleep.
I have been absent more than I like for a few weeks, but as you describe above about your head injury and recovery, sometimes just the living through it is the creative part. You can always figure out what to “ do” with it later.
I am so thrilled for your acceptance and that someone else outside your circle saw and responded to the work you planted, tended, and let bloom. It is important to be seen and noticed outside our garden walls. That, too, is a connection to a larger conversation and story on another scale. And your work is part of that now.
You know I love all your ways with words, but this really stands out for me: "Creating in community, in communion with the reality of the moment instead of some aspirational future perfect moment has de-mystified creativity and simply made it a necessity like food and sleep." YES. I think I have finally accepted that it is just necessity for me. And like anything necessary, I can often get by on less than I think I need. I am so grateful to have you at my campfire, talk circle, cauldron. Whenever I'm having a period of less active creating, I remind myself that I'm living the things I will someday write about. I suppose at some point that won't be true, but I want to live as if it always will be. These days you are gathering will become such rich material to draw upon. (And thanks for the kind words about our wild garden!)
Rita, I enjoy your writing always. I often find a shard of a mirror in it, reflecting back a part of myself. I find a creative life to be a confoundingly difficult path, because it challenges so many parts of our humanity. Deep thinking coupled with action on the surface that should somehow reflect the inner world. What could possibly go wrong? I often think well f--k it. I'm tired. But I do catch up with myself enough to remember that this is why I'm here, after all.
Oh, Diana. I just love your honesty and candor. I so often think, "well f--k it. I'm tired" too! That needs to be part of the story we tell, too, doesn't it? It could be easy for me to read the things you share and think you are living a charmed creative existence (because so much of it is so appealing to me), but I know that no one really has that. It's always a mix. Thank you for helping me remember that.
Thanks so much for this super honest take on so many things that resonate with me. It's very tricky right now with the state you of the world. I ricochet between defiant Pollyanna ("I made date squares today!") and a weepy, cranky Eeyore-girl, wallowing in doom/so-many-better-writers-than-me scrolling. So I get this and art IS important. It's imperative to ignore that mean voice in one's head and focus on the particular sparkle that writing (sometimes!) brings. Many, many congratulations on your lit mag acceptance - that is huge! Hold it close. And this was great to read today x
This made me smile hard: "I ricochet between defiant Pollyanna ("I made date squares today!") and a weepy, cranky Eeyore-girl, wallowing in doom/so-many-better-writers-than-me scrolling." My inner Eeyore has a strong game! And when that one is taking over, I kinda hate all the people who are happy with their date squares (even though they are sometimes me, too). Thank you so much for the congrats and for being here and telling us how it is for you. That all really helps me keep Eeyore from taking over. 🙂
Love this, Rita. It is a tough time to write, given the reasons you eloquently state here. But like water, we humans will find our way. I'm slowly letting myself move back into writing about something other than the current crisis surrounding us. My joyful win is working on my grandbaby's quilt, due in June. And I have my first bouquet of lilacs from a small tree I planted a few years back, sitting in a vase in my sewing room. The room smells like heaven. I'll be there later today, allowing a rest from worrying and dreaming about that little baby in my arms.
That whole scene sounds like heaven! I am so happy for you. There is nothing like a baby to keep us in the present, is there? And to keep us hoping and working for a better future. I love picturing you with those flowers and fabric and dreams.
It was so lovely to see this new post land in my inbox, Rita. I've been thinking of you and hoping you were having a good time in Sweden. Congratulations on your soon-to-be published essay! That's wonderful news. I know I'm just a bystander, but even so I'd like to say how much I appreciate the nod you've given to your writing community. I'm similar to you in that I need a community (or at least one other person) in order to write. For a time I had that, but unfortunately that's now gone, and the result has been that my writing has stopped entirely. I admit I'm struggling, and have been for quite some time. I do still do a lot of knitting, which is keeping me mostly sane, but thoughts of the world being on fire (both literally and figuratively) are never far from the surface. When I was still working with words, I was able to drown out the worry and not think about it (I'd have two, three, four hours of reprieve!), but knitting doesn't have the same effect. (Of course there's also WAY more to worry about these days.)
You are never "just a bystander" to me, Marian. I consider you part of my writing community. You are one of the people I always think of when I write here, and you're one of the reasons I write. I've been part of a more formal writing community for the past year, and one of the things I appreciate about it is the grace everyone gives each other to come in and out as we are able to. Things are hard right now. Really hard. I am always so grateful to see your words here, just as I was grateful when you were sharing your writing in your own online space. But I know that it's a struggle for you, and whatever you can do is a gift. No obligation. Knitting is one of those things I've let go. I did knit a small scarf for one of my daughter's stuffed animals (a grandchild substitute) in December, but there's so much about knitting I don't know how to do and would need to learn for it to be more satisfying for me. I'm glad you have that to keep you sane.
Rita, this was just lovely, and I want to see pictures and read posts from that woman with a can of tomato soup for lunch who does creative things WHILE living a messy human life. Congratulations again on the publication! I am so thrilled for you. And this, "Art, by everyone at every level, matters." That really got me. It made me think of the spiritual idea that everything is sacred if we look at it that way, if we go in with the intention of sacredness. Thank you thank you, as always for sharing yourself with us. xo
Thank you so much, Jocelyn 🙂 Canned soup is part of my messy creative life, for sure! And thank you for the idea of seeing the sacred in everything. It helps me see how even the canned soup is, in a way. It's what I used to eat as a kid (Campbell's Chicken Noodle), and I keep a few cans on hand because sometimes when I'm feeling especially depleted, that's what I want. It connects me with feeling cared for as a child, and there is something sacred in that. Thank you for being here and helping me see this small thing (and a whole bunch of other ones) through a different lens.
Oh I Love that, the soup as sacred childhood caring. How incredible and loving, this thing you do for yourself. And you've in turn inspired me to think more deeply about the sacredness behind things--not just making them sacred in the moment, but how they might attach to something deeply meaningful from my past. I love how we can do this for each other! xoxoxo
Wow! I had a little heart leap when I saw your new post! Perhaps that's one answer to "who'd want to read what I have to write?" I could say ME TOO to so much you wrote here. I, too, started my Substack with a clear idea and big plans at a time I thought I was on stable footing, and life, shall we say, INTERVENED. So I've had similar feelings and doubts, and have had to find a well of humility and self-compassion. I'll just say this: I LOVE your writing, and not just because I identify. I love it because it's true and human. Humans being human!
This will probably sound corny, but it is comments like these that keep me going when I'm feeling knocked down and wonder about the writing I share here. I know how much it means to me to get that ME TOO feeling when I'm reading something that helps me know I'm not alone in some hard experience. Thank you for letting me know that I can be that writer for you. I'm so sorry life has been intervening with your footing. Boy, I can relate! Humans being human is both the best and worst thing sometimes, isn't it? I find the same qualities--true and human--in what you write, too. We're all just shining little lights for each other, aren't we?
I'm so stoked for your publication approval! Your writing is beautiful, and I'm so glad that's a pocket of joy for you. I think the question about whether or not it's worth it to write about a seemingly imperfect process is similar to the conversation about whether the mundane is interesting, or boring is interesting, or happiness is interesting. Just add imperfect to the list of things we wonder about, though isn't the central doubt, really, about whether or not we trust that we--our very selves--are interesting? I'm about halfway through re-reading In Praise of Navel Gazing by Melissa Febos, and I think all writers, but especially women/queer folks/people of color/neuro-diverse/anyone marginalized, should read it regularly, to remind ourselves, though you got there on your own, by saying that "Art, by everyone at every level, matters." Like so many of us, I've had a hard time staying connected to my writing in the way I'd like to be, but also like you, I've managed to write at least something at least once a week. I'm slowly making my way into an actual essay. I've written no words in a document, but I am starting to read books that make me think towards it, and take notes/jot down ideas. Does a brain good. But what you speak of, it isn't dissimilar from how I feel teaching in this political climate, too. Most days I feel like I am pushing a boulder up a hill, over and over again. I even bought, though haven't read yet, Camus's book The Myth of Sisyphus. But even as I feel the weight of that boulder (how do you teach people the importance of social institutions while those very institutions are being dismantled?), I also know that the only way forward is if more people know more. So, we keep going, teaching, making art, for both the macro reasons, but just as importantly, for the micro reasons, for the joy of looking at the beautiful art that is someone's yard while walking the dog.
I wish you could see me nodding my head the whole way through reading this mini-essay. Yes and yes and yes and yes. I wonder if the central doubt isn't about whether or not we're interesting, but about whether or not we matter. Maybe it is safer to wonder if we are interesting than it is to wonder if we matter? Which speaks to your question about teaching, too. I like to think that if I were still teaching, this political climate would make it feel more important--would so much more clearly matter than it did earlier--but a big part of why I left was feeling that my efforts no longer mattered in the way they once did. I felt unable to create good and reduce harm enough, and I can see how that might be more true today. It is so hard to bail with a small cup when water is flooding over the side of the rowboat. And isn't that feeling that we aren't enough at the heart of feeling that we aren't interesting or don't matter? I know I've let feelings of "not enough" keep me from doing anything, especially if doing was a struggle. Now I'm off to see if Navel Gazing is available through the library...And I'm so glad to be writing and thinking about the questions with you. I can't wait to see your essay, whenever that can happen.
I’m not on my computer and my ideas got cut off! More head nods in return. Little bucket in the ocean. I just said to a colleague friend yesterday that I have to accept how different teaching is now (I started PT in 2000, FT in 2010), and that some of the joy (from say, how it felt even a decade ago) won’t be recovered, which is in no small part why I have a writing practice now. And a puppy! Filling the meaning bucket in other ways.
Funny how I asked in my last SCHOOL snippet, after stating we all just want to matter, what does it feel like, to know you do? Enough. Interesting. Do we matter. It’s definitely about that. A philosophical question tied to writing (living). That’s why I think Febos’ essay is a back pocket one (and like hundreds of Jeannine’s posts). Because she/they remind us how, very, very much, we do matter. And that’s why Camus wrote a book about Sisyphus being a myth (though I wonder how long that one will stare at me from my bookshelf?).
Here’s a version of it, though all the essays in Body Work are excellent.
I spent a lot of time in Bellingham when I was growing up, and still have some extended family there. I think that's practically Canada. Will you be close to there?
My brother and sis-in-law live in Sequim now, which I just checked is just a little South and West of Bellingham. We haven’t seen their house or town yet (they used to live closer to Seattle). It looks beautiful there!
Oh, I didn't see most of this before--thanks for resending. Teaching is absolutely different since Covid (here at least). It was so hard for me to be in an outside the classroom position, working to uphold systems that felt too broken. After I retired, I took a part time teaching position, and that was so much better. I still think our systems are pretty broken, but I used to ask myself all the time what it would do if everyone who cared left. I get the idea that sometimes things need to fall apart before we can get to something better--but what about the kids in the system right now? The buckets matter. Maybe the ocean will still flood, but maybe also the bucket will keep a few from drowning. And that matters. *steps off soapbox* I really appreciate that you are still in there, doing what you can.
I always get a little grin when I see you've posted because I know I'm going to come away with a nugget of wisdom for my pocket. I loved your post recently about how some days you can't be part of the revolution, in fact you can't do much at all and THAT IS PERFECTLY FINE. I mentally pull that out of my pocket a lot lately. This post has a lot of juicy stuff too...like being patient with yourself, small attainable goals, and your garden!! Thank you for the pic, I needed some spring in my eyes. Glorious colors.
Congrats on the essay being published! Well deserved. I love to celebrate the wins of wise women.
And thanks for including the Chuck Wendig piece. Oof. That shit is truthy.
Aw, dang, Eileen! You just gave me a little grin. 🙂 You know, I have the same response when you post. I know I'm going to laugh and delight in clever writing, which lets some sneaker-punch of truth get in through the back door. I don't know how you do it, really, but I'm always grateful that you can and do.
I didn't realize how much I needed some spring in my eyes until it showed up. When I left for Sweden there were only a few small hints of it, and two weeks later when I got back: BAM. It was good to see how quickly things can change a lot in a good way.
And Chuck is the best for writing truthy shit. Sometimes it guts me, but in a way that is good. Even as it makes me feel bad.
Love this: “the big bullet point components of the small creative life I’ve actually been living”
Always wanting the Pinterest image stops so many people from ever embracing the realities of a creative life or practice. Many of us work in the margins — enjoying that and doing what we have to outside of them. I wish we didn’t put so much credence in the idea that a special room or studio or magical attic is required to make art/write/create. Thank you for sharing how you are real-world creating at the table. I work from a living room chair (and the table is a catch-all of its own).
That the Pinterest image (which is very cool and fitting for what you intended) has an extra hand only adds to the nuance of the image (and what it stands for here).
OMG. The third hand! I didn't see it. Effing AI. I usually use images from human photographers, using Unsplash or Pexels, but I went to Pinterest for this one. Should have known! But also, yes: fitting. Perhaps we can blame Virginia Woolf for our ideas about needing a separate, special room to create in. She wasn't wrong, but also...she wasn't entirely right, either. Glad to know I'm not the only one with such a table. I finally cleared ours yesterday, to make room for three people to eat dinner on it. Of course, that meant just shifting most of the stuff to the coffee table. Low standards for the win 🙂
What a stellar post and first up, congrats on the literary journal acceptance.
You ask about creative endeavour and honestly, tidy house or not, I think we all create every day. We create meals, garden, we paint, write, embroider, crochet, knit, journal, make artists' books. All of that is what propels our personal little ship through whatever turbulent waters life sends us. It's the wind in our sails.
It's certainly the wind in mine and long may it blow.
I agree! (Although, it's not every day for me. Not over the past year, anyway.) I hope your wind blows for a very long time. Thank you for the congrats and for the note. I so appreciate both.
Thank you for sharing this personal essay. I feel exactly the same and I feel so much better knowing that there are others out there who struggle with what is expected versus what we want to be doing. It’s messy, however one day at a time we will get there. Have a beautiful day 💗
A beautiful day to you, too. 🌞 I think just about every person I know who feels compelled to create struggles with what is expected versus what we want to be doing. It was so much harder for me during the years when I was raising children and working full-time. I think maybe that's why I thought it was going to be wonderfully, magically easier. It *is* easier, and I don't want to downplay or discount that, but there are still challenges. Some new ones. Yes, messy. And yes, one day at a time. Thanks so much for your words.
Rita. I loved this essay; it spoke to me at every level. I am also in a season of injury and healing and it can feel very dark. Also my creative offering can feel insignificant when the world is on fire. I get that. Yet is all I have to offer right now, in the bits and spurts you speak of. Your bullet point lessons: I recognized my own process these last few months and especially since my low back injury in late Feb. with an MRI now showing a severe degenerative disc disease and slow healing. I can walk, stand, rest flat on my back in bed without pain but for six weeks now I’ve become a woman who cannot sit and cannot bend without resulting back spasms. So when you speak of a small creative life that is what I’ve had to come to terms with: no hours-long novel writing sessions but a creative nonfiction writing exercise at least once a week with Jeannine Ouellette’s community that keeps me tethered to my writing, my core self. And to community. And of course writing weekly posts on Substack which give me such joy. My expectations are lower, I am kinder toward myself. Do I want to see my completed novel that I’m pitching to agents published? With all my heart. Do I want to return to my just-begun new novel project? Very much so. But I am listening to my body. And it is saying in no uncertain terms: Slow down. Do what you can but do not abandon care of body and your main job of healing. Have faith in the abundance of time, creativity. Thank you for this, Rita. I feel such kinship with you. Be well💗
I've been following your journey through your Substack, and I am so sorry for the back pain! I know how debilitating it can be, and how very painful. I'm glad you are finding a way to have some peace with it all, and yes--your body is telling you what it needs. (Wouldn't it be great if our bodies could use nicer voices? I know in my case, in the past, I haven't listened much to my body's nice voice. My bad.) I've had many weeks where a WITD exercises is all I could do (through School), but it counts as something! And I'm seeing how that regular practice can add up to something bigger. It's been really good for me to see that. It helps with having faith in abundance. Sending good wishes for your back, your healing, your finished book, and your WIP. 💚
Rita, I'm so glad I found you here, through @Amy Brown's restacking. (Not sure at all about how to tag on Substack.) Congratulations on your publication, Rita, can't wait to read it! Your comment here, "My small creative life hadn’t looked or felt the way I thought and hoped it would, and so I hadn’t seen it for what it was," really spoke to me...my take away is to remember how easy it is to fix our gaze on where we thought we'd be, which can be so diminishing. And, the reminder that there is holiness in creating art throughout the messiness of life. BTW, I love your garden!
Thank you for the garden love! It's kind of a ragtag labor of love, but I always love a little messiness. 🙂 Thanks also for giving me words that I needed to hear about my ice skating endeavors; I need to "remember how easy it is to fix our gaze on where we thought we'd be, which can be so diminishing." I've returned to it this week after about 6 weeks away, and was having some feelings yesterday about how much I've regressed since I fell. There's holiness in still being able to skate at all.
Oh Rita, thank you so much for sharing your joyful wins.
Here are mine: I'm reading a lot lately - five books since April started - which is always an indication that I'm struggling with something but the books have been good. (Claire Lombardo's The Most Fun We Ever Had is a highlight. She writes such beautiful human stories.) I'm not certain, but I'm thinking my struggle has something to do with V's impending graduation and Abe's getting his license and realizing that the job that I've poured myself into for the last 18 years is changing. I'm also knitting Abram a pair of socks. And cleaning while listening to my growing record collection. And calling my representatives because many of them are Republican and I like screaming into the wind, I guess. (I have a lot of sorrow in my joy right now, but that seems on theme with your post, too.)
Congratulations on the publication of your writing. You have worked hard at your craft and am glad you are having that recognized. I know I'm grateful for the art you are creating.
I love that you write "the job I've poured myself into for the last 18 years is changing." Not ending, but changing. When I was on that precipice, all I could see was ending, not changing. And yes, some things end--but the job is still there. This might seem subtle, but I think it bodes so well for you. I sure hope so. I'd love to know what else you've been reading. I am really going to have to try Most Fun again; I think I need to get further in it. I really appreciated Same As It Ever Was, so I suspect I wasn't in the right place for Most Fun when I started it.
Finally, thank you for making those phone calls. All my reps are Dems, which leaves me feeling powerless in some ways. It bolsters me to know of my friends in red places who are doing all they can to sway those who are holding power over all of us. Whenever I think of how it's always both/and (sorrow and joy together), I think of you.
Well that garden is so inviting, and something about the circle makes it even more so. It is a gathering place of plant energy, but calls something archetypal out of me like stone circles, covens around cauldrons, talk circles, campfires. No wonder your neighbors stop!
Your words here have the same effect- an invitation. That mutual aid you name so well has sustained and transformed me in this past year. Creating in community, in communion with the reality of the moment instead of some aspirational future perfect moment has de-mystified creativity and simply made it a necessity like food and sleep.
I have been absent more than I like for a few weeks, but as you describe above about your head injury and recovery, sometimes just the living through it is the creative part. You can always figure out what to “ do” with it later.
I am so thrilled for your acceptance and that someone else outside your circle saw and responded to the work you planted, tended, and let bloom. It is important to be seen and noticed outside our garden walls. That, too, is a connection to a larger conversation and story on another scale. And your work is part of that now.
This is so lovely- thank you!
You know I love all your ways with words, but this really stands out for me: "Creating in community, in communion with the reality of the moment instead of some aspirational future perfect moment has de-mystified creativity and simply made it a necessity like food and sleep." YES. I think I have finally accepted that it is just necessity for me. And like anything necessary, I can often get by on less than I think I need. I am so grateful to have you at my campfire, talk circle, cauldron. Whenever I'm having a period of less active creating, I remind myself that I'm living the things I will someday write about. I suppose at some point that won't be true, but I want to live as if it always will be. These days you are gathering will become such rich material to draw upon. (And thanks for the kind words about our wild garden!)
❤️❤️❤️❤️
Rita, I enjoy your writing always. I often find a shard of a mirror in it, reflecting back a part of myself. I find a creative life to be a confoundingly difficult path, because it challenges so many parts of our humanity. Deep thinking coupled with action on the surface that should somehow reflect the inner world. What could possibly go wrong? I often think well f--k it. I'm tired. But I do catch up with myself enough to remember that this is why I'm here, after all.
Thank you for your writing. 🧡
Oh, Diana. I just love your honesty and candor. I so often think, "well f--k it. I'm tired" too! That needs to be part of the story we tell, too, doesn't it? It could be easy for me to read the things you share and think you are living a charmed creative existence (because so much of it is so appealing to me), but I know that no one really has that. It's always a mix. Thank you for helping me remember that.
Thanks so much for this super honest take on so many things that resonate with me. It's very tricky right now with the state you of the world. I ricochet between defiant Pollyanna ("I made date squares today!") and a weepy, cranky Eeyore-girl, wallowing in doom/so-many-better-writers-than-me scrolling. So I get this and art IS important. It's imperative to ignore that mean voice in one's head and focus on the particular sparkle that writing (sometimes!) brings. Many, many congratulations on your lit mag acceptance - that is huge! Hold it close. And this was great to read today x
This made me smile hard: "I ricochet between defiant Pollyanna ("I made date squares today!") and a weepy, cranky Eeyore-girl, wallowing in doom/so-many-better-writers-than-me scrolling." My inner Eeyore has a strong game! And when that one is taking over, I kinda hate all the people who are happy with their date squares (even though they are sometimes me, too). Thank you so much for the congrats and for being here and telling us how it is for you. That all really helps me keep Eeyore from taking over. 🙂
I just finished my last homemade cacao-almond-date treat and will need to make more this weekend :)
Plus, got an Eeyore on my desk at work!
Those are my two poles- defiant Pollyanna and weepy cranky Eeyore! I see you, and your ribboned tail, oh kindred spirit! 🎀
Appreciate the solidarity!
Love this, Rita. It is a tough time to write, given the reasons you eloquently state here. But like water, we humans will find our way. I'm slowly letting myself move back into writing about something other than the current crisis surrounding us. My joyful win is working on my grandbaby's quilt, due in June. And I have my first bouquet of lilacs from a small tree I planted a few years back, sitting in a vase in my sewing room. The room smells like heaven. I'll be there later today, allowing a rest from worrying and dreaming about that little baby in my arms.
That whole scene sounds like heaven! I am so happy for you. There is nothing like a baby to keep us in the present, is there? And to keep us hoping and working for a better future. I love picturing you with those flowers and fabric and dreams.
Thank you, Rita. They are pretty sweet moments. I'm very grateful.
It was so lovely to see this new post land in my inbox, Rita. I've been thinking of you and hoping you were having a good time in Sweden. Congratulations on your soon-to-be published essay! That's wonderful news. I know I'm just a bystander, but even so I'd like to say how much I appreciate the nod you've given to your writing community. I'm similar to you in that I need a community (or at least one other person) in order to write. For a time I had that, but unfortunately that's now gone, and the result has been that my writing has stopped entirely. I admit I'm struggling, and have been for quite some time. I do still do a lot of knitting, which is keeping me mostly sane, but thoughts of the world being on fire (both literally and figuratively) are never far from the surface. When I was still working with words, I was able to drown out the worry and not think about it (I'd have two, three, four hours of reprieve!), but knitting doesn't have the same effect. (Of course there's also WAY more to worry about these days.)
You are never "just a bystander" to me, Marian. I consider you part of my writing community. You are one of the people I always think of when I write here, and you're one of the reasons I write. I've been part of a more formal writing community for the past year, and one of the things I appreciate about it is the grace everyone gives each other to come in and out as we are able to. Things are hard right now. Really hard. I am always so grateful to see your words here, just as I was grateful when you were sharing your writing in your own online space. But I know that it's a struggle for you, and whatever you can do is a gift. No obligation. Knitting is one of those things I've let go. I did knit a small scarf for one of my daughter's stuffed animals (a grandchild substitute) in December, but there's so much about knitting I don't know how to do and would need to learn for it to be more satisfying for me. I'm glad you have that to keep you sane.
Rita, this was just lovely, and I want to see pictures and read posts from that woman with a can of tomato soup for lunch who does creative things WHILE living a messy human life. Congratulations again on the publication! I am so thrilled for you. And this, "Art, by everyone at every level, matters." That really got me. It made me think of the spiritual idea that everything is sacred if we look at it that way, if we go in with the intention of sacredness. Thank you thank you, as always for sharing yourself with us. xo
Thank you so much, Jocelyn 🙂 Canned soup is part of my messy creative life, for sure! And thank you for the idea of seeing the sacred in everything. It helps me see how even the canned soup is, in a way. It's what I used to eat as a kid (Campbell's Chicken Noodle), and I keep a few cans on hand because sometimes when I'm feeling especially depleted, that's what I want. It connects me with feeling cared for as a child, and there is something sacred in that. Thank you for being here and helping me see this small thing (and a whole bunch of other ones) through a different lens.
Oh I Love that, the soup as sacred childhood caring. How incredible and loving, this thing you do for yourself. And you've in turn inspired me to think more deeply about the sacredness behind things--not just making them sacred in the moment, but how they might attach to something deeply meaningful from my past. I love how we can do this for each other! xoxoxo
Me too! And that's the power of sharing our words (and joy!), right?
Yes!
Wow! I had a little heart leap when I saw your new post! Perhaps that's one answer to "who'd want to read what I have to write?" I could say ME TOO to so much you wrote here. I, too, started my Substack with a clear idea and big plans at a time I thought I was on stable footing, and life, shall we say, INTERVENED. So I've had similar feelings and doubts, and have had to find a well of humility and self-compassion. I'll just say this: I LOVE your writing, and not just because I identify. I love it because it's true and human. Humans being human!
This will probably sound corny, but it is comments like these that keep me going when I'm feeling knocked down and wonder about the writing I share here. I know how much it means to me to get that ME TOO feeling when I'm reading something that helps me know I'm not alone in some hard experience. Thank you for letting me know that I can be that writer for you. I'm so sorry life has been intervening with your footing. Boy, I can relate! Humans being human is both the best and worst thing sometimes, isn't it? I find the same qualities--true and human--in what you write, too. We're all just shining little lights for each other, aren't we?
I'm so stoked for your publication approval! Your writing is beautiful, and I'm so glad that's a pocket of joy for you. I think the question about whether or not it's worth it to write about a seemingly imperfect process is similar to the conversation about whether the mundane is interesting, or boring is interesting, or happiness is interesting. Just add imperfect to the list of things we wonder about, though isn't the central doubt, really, about whether or not we trust that we--our very selves--are interesting? I'm about halfway through re-reading In Praise of Navel Gazing by Melissa Febos, and I think all writers, but especially women/queer folks/people of color/neuro-diverse/anyone marginalized, should read it regularly, to remind ourselves, though you got there on your own, by saying that "Art, by everyone at every level, matters." Like so many of us, I've had a hard time staying connected to my writing in the way I'd like to be, but also like you, I've managed to write at least something at least once a week. I'm slowly making my way into an actual essay. I've written no words in a document, but I am starting to read books that make me think towards it, and take notes/jot down ideas. Does a brain good. But what you speak of, it isn't dissimilar from how I feel teaching in this political climate, too. Most days I feel like I am pushing a boulder up a hill, over and over again. I even bought, though haven't read yet, Camus's book The Myth of Sisyphus. But even as I feel the weight of that boulder (how do you teach people the importance of social institutions while those very institutions are being dismantled?), I also know that the only way forward is if more people know more. So, we keep going, teaching, making art, for both the macro reasons, but just as importantly, for the micro reasons, for the joy of looking at the beautiful art that is someone's yard while walking the dog.
I wish you could see me nodding my head the whole way through reading this mini-essay. Yes and yes and yes and yes. I wonder if the central doubt isn't about whether or not we're interesting, but about whether or not we matter. Maybe it is safer to wonder if we are interesting than it is to wonder if we matter? Which speaks to your question about teaching, too. I like to think that if I were still teaching, this political climate would make it feel more important--would so much more clearly matter than it did earlier--but a big part of why I left was feeling that my efforts no longer mattered in the way they once did. I felt unable to create good and reduce harm enough, and I can see how that might be more true today. It is so hard to bail with a small cup when water is flooding over the side of the rowboat. And isn't that feeling that we aren't enough at the heart of feeling that we aren't interesting or don't matter? I know I've let feelings of "not enough" keep me from doing anything, especially if doing was a struggle. Now I'm off to see if Navel Gazing is available through the library...And I'm so glad to be writing and thinking about the questions with you. I can't wait to see your essay, whenever that can happen.
I’m not on my computer and my ideas got cut off! More head nods in return. Little bucket in the ocean. I just said to a colleague friend yesterday that I have to accept how different teaching is now (I started PT in 2000, FT in 2010), and that some of the joy (from say, how it felt even a decade ago) won’t be recovered, which is in no small part why I have a writing practice now. And a puppy! Filling the meaning bucket in other ways.
Funny how I asked in my last SCHOOL snippet, after stating we all just want to matter, what does it feel like, to know you do? Enough. Interesting. Do we matter. It’s definitely about that. A philosophical question tied to writing (living). That’s why I think Febos’ essay is a back pocket one (and like hundreds of Jeannine’s posts). Because she/they remind us how, very, very much, we do matter. And that’s why Camus wrote a book about Sisyphus being a myth (though I wonder how long that one will stare at me from my bookshelf?).
Here’s a version of it, though all the essays in Body Work are excellent.
https://www.pw.org/content/the_heartwork_writing_about_trauma_as_a_subversive_act
Also, when my wife & I retire and move to the PNW, can we hang out?
Thank you, and YES! You should probably come visit in the meantime. 😊
Yes! We are coming to WA this summer, but will be practically in Canada so too far north of you, but we will be back to the area—often— to explore 😊
I spent a lot of time in Bellingham when I was growing up, and still have some extended family there. I think that's practically Canada. Will you be close to there?
My brother and sis-in-law live in Sequim now, which I just checked is just a little South and West of Bellingham. We haven’t seen their house or town yet (they used to live closer to Seattle). It looks beautiful there!
Oh, I didn't see most of this before--thanks for resending. Teaching is absolutely different since Covid (here at least). It was so hard for me to be in an outside the classroom position, working to uphold systems that felt too broken. After I retired, I took a part time teaching position, and that was so much better. I still think our systems are pretty broken, but I used to ask myself all the time what it would do if everyone who cared left. I get the idea that sometimes things need to fall apart before we can get to something better--but what about the kids in the system right now? The buckets matter. Maybe the ocean will still flood, but maybe also the bucket will keep a few from drowning. And that matters. *steps off soapbox* I really appreciate that you are still in there, doing what you can.
I’ll keep on being a bucket. It’s the only thing I’m good at! Ha. But for real, I appreciate your appreciation. It’s nice to be seen.
Buckets of the world, unite! 👊🏻
I always get a little grin when I see you've posted because I know I'm going to come away with a nugget of wisdom for my pocket. I loved your post recently about how some days you can't be part of the revolution, in fact you can't do much at all and THAT IS PERFECTLY FINE. I mentally pull that out of my pocket a lot lately. This post has a lot of juicy stuff too...like being patient with yourself, small attainable goals, and your garden!! Thank you for the pic, I needed some spring in my eyes. Glorious colors.
Congrats on the essay being published! Well deserved. I love to celebrate the wins of wise women.
And thanks for including the Chuck Wendig piece. Oof. That shit is truthy.
Aw, dang, Eileen! You just gave me a little grin. 🙂 You know, I have the same response when you post. I know I'm going to laugh and delight in clever writing, which lets some sneaker-punch of truth get in through the back door. I don't know how you do it, really, but I'm always grateful that you can and do.
I didn't realize how much I needed some spring in my eyes until it showed up. When I left for Sweden there were only a few small hints of it, and two weeks later when I got back: BAM. It was good to see how quickly things can change a lot in a good way.
And Chuck is the best for writing truthy shit. Sometimes it guts me, but in a way that is good. Even as it makes me feel bad.
Love this: “the big bullet point components of the small creative life I’ve actually been living”
Always wanting the Pinterest image stops so many people from ever embracing the realities of a creative life or practice. Many of us work in the margins — enjoying that and doing what we have to outside of them. I wish we didn’t put so much credence in the idea that a special room or studio or magical attic is required to make art/write/create. Thank you for sharing how you are real-world creating at the table. I work from a living room chair (and the table is a catch-all of its own).
That the Pinterest image (which is very cool and fitting for what you intended) has an extra hand only adds to the nuance of the image (and what it stands for here).
OMG. The third hand! I didn't see it. Effing AI. I usually use images from human photographers, using Unsplash or Pexels, but I went to Pinterest for this one. Should have known! But also, yes: fitting. Perhaps we can blame Virginia Woolf for our ideas about needing a separate, special room to create in. She wasn't wrong, but also...she wasn't entirely right, either. Glad to know I'm not the only one with such a table. I finally cleared ours yesterday, to make room for three people to eat dinner on it. Of course, that meant just shifting most of the stuff to the coffee table. Low standards for the win 🙂
Your actual and metaphoric gardens are beautiful!!!
Thank you, Peg! Now I'm seeing how the actual garden is a metaphor...going to tuck that away for a possible future essay.
What a stellar post and first up, congrats on the literary journal acceptance.
You ask about creative endeavour and honestly, tidy house or not, I think we all create every day. We create meals, garden, we paint, write, embroider, crochet, knit, journal, make artists' books. All of that is what propels our personal little ship through whatever turbulent waters life sends us. It's the wind in our sails.
It's certainly the wind in mine and long may it blow.
I agree! (Although, it's not every day for me. Not over the past year, anyway.) I hope your wind blows for a very long time. Thank you for the congrats and for the note. I so appreciate both.
Thank you for sharing this personal essay. I feel exactly the same and I feel so much better knowing that there are others out there who struggle with what is expected versus what we want to be doing. It’s messy, however one day at a time we will get there. Have a beautiful day 💗
A beautiful day to you, too. 🌞 I think just about every person I know who feels compelled to create struggles with what is expected versus what we want to be doing. It was so much harder for me during the years when I was raising children and working full-time. I think maybe that's why I thought it was going to be wonderfully, magically easier. It *is* easier, and I don't want to downplay or discount that, but there are still challenges. Some new ones. Yes, messy. And yes, one day at a time. Thanks so much for your words.
Rita. I loved this essay; it spoke to me at every level. I am also in a season of injury and healing and it can feel very dark. Also my creative offering can feel insignificant when the world is on fire. I get that. Yet is all I have to offer right now, in the bits and spurts you speak of. Your bullet point lessons: I recognized my own process these last few months and especially since my low back injury in late Feb. with an MRI now showing a severe degenerative disc disease and slow healing. I can walk, stand, rest flat on my back in bed without pain but for six weeks now I’ve become a woman who cannot sit and cannot bend without resulting back spasms. So when you speak of a small creative life that is what I’ve had to come to terms with: no hours-long novel writing sessions but a creative nonfiction writing exercise at least once a week with Jeannine Ouellette’s community that keeps me tethered to my writing, my core self. And to community. And of course writing weekly posts on Substack which give me such joy. My expectations are lower, I am kinder toward myself. Do I want to see my completed novel that I’m pitching to agents published? With all my heart. Do I want to return to my just-begun new novel project? Very much so. But I am listening to my body. And it is saying in no uncertain terms: Slow down. Do what you can but do not abandon care of body and your main job of healing. Have faith in the abundance of time, creativity. Thank you for this, Rita. I feel such kinship with you. Be well💗
I've been following your journey through your Substack, and I am so sorry for the back pain! I know how debilitating it can be, and how very painful. I'm glad you are finding a way to have some peace with it all, and yes--your body is telling you what it needs. (Wouldn't it be great if our bodies could use nicer voices? I know in my case, in the past, I haven't listened much to my body's nice voice. My bad.) I've had many weeks where a WITD exercises is all I could do (through School), but it counts as something! And I'm seeing how that regular practice can add up to something bigger. It's been really good for me to see that. It helps with having faith in abundance. Sending good wishes for your back, your healing, your finished book, and your WIP. 💚
Rita, I'm so glad I found you here, through @Amy Brown's restacking. (Not sure at all about how to tag on Substack.) Congratulations on your publication, Rita, can't wait to read it! Your comment here, "My small creative life hadn’t looked or felt the way I thought and hoped it would, and so I hadn’t seen it for what it was," really spoke to me...my take away is to remember how easy it is to fix our gaze on where we thought we'd be, which can be so diminishing. And, the reminder that there is holiness in creating art throughout the messiness of life. BTW, I love your garden!
Thank you for the garden love! It's kind of a ragtag labor of love, but I always love a little messiness. 🙂 Thanks also for giving me words that I needed to hear about my ice skating endeavors; I need to "remember how easy it is to fix our gaze on where we thought we'd be, which can be so diminishing." I've returned to it this week after about 6 weeks away, and was having some feelings yesterday about how much I've regressed since I fell. There's holiness in still being able to skate at all.