Ears Still To The Lonely Wind — Mandala For Rabbit

Ears Still To The Lonely Wind — Mandala For Rabbit – 26/52, BlackBerry 52 – WEEK 26, July 10th, 2011, photo © 2011 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

Medium: Drawn by hand with a black Staedtler archival pigment ink Fineliner on Canson Mix Media XL Series 98lb drawing paper, collage paper. Colored & collaged with DecoColor Glossy Oil Base Paint Markers, Caran D’Ache NeoColor II Water Soluble Wax Crayons, Sharpie Medium Point Oil-Based Opaque Paint Markers, Lineco Archival PVA Adhesive, archival card stock paper. Gogyohka & haiga by QuoinMonkey. Photograph taken with a Samsung DROID.

It must be a plentiful year for Rabbit. I see her everywhere on my journeys across the Twin Cities. If you look to the spiritual aspects of Rabbit, she represents calling out Fear—looking it right in the eye. It is said that if we focus on people, places, and things we fear, we draw them closer to us. The very act of ruminating on what we are afraid of creates opportunities to learn the lessons conjured by those fears.

It’s a good time for me to pay attention to Rabbit. Lotus wrote the poem Becoming a Rabbit -26/52 for one of the BlackBerry 52 Jump-Offs in our collaboration. I pulled in a line from her poem that spoke to me, wrote a gogyohka, and scripted it around the edge of the circle that would become a haiga:

Sidewinding summer rain
plays hide and seek with the sky.
Rabbit holds her ground ---
blades of mint awash in shadow,
ears still to the lonely wind.

I want to carry my Rabbit fetish from New Mexico in my pocket for the rest of July; there are challenges ahead of me with outcomes out of my control. Is it on the dresser with the other animals? She was a gift from friends, hand carved, and sold at one of the pueblos. I have carried the balsa Rabbit for a long, long time. To help ease my fear.

Rabbit may signal:

• feeling frozen in place from trying to find resolution to a situation you are unable to resolve
• being too focused on the future, trying to control what has not yet taken form
• a need to write down your fears
• space to stop, rest, reevaluate
• time to wait for bigger, outside forces to move again
• opportunities to reframe the way you see your present set of circumstances
• the need to take a deep breath, burrow into a safe space, & release your fears

Lucky for me, Fear is a universal emotion. There is not a person on Earth that has not experienced Fear. I read it in the Writing Practices of friends. We talk about it over birthday dinners. I see it at the state, local, and federal government levels. I read about it in the news every day.

Naming my fears helps to dissipate anxiety I feel about things I can’t control. Rabbit helps me remember to breathe. And to listen for answers. Ears still to the lonely wind.

-posted on red Ravine, Sunday, July 10th, 2011, with gratitude to Lotus for the inspiration

Lotus and I will continue to respond to each other’s BlackBerry Jump-Off photos with text, photography, poetry (however we are inspired) for the 52 weeks of 2011. You can read more at BlackBerry 52 Collaboration. If you are inspired to join us, send us a link to your images, poetry, or prose and we’ll add them to our posts.

-related to posts: Flying Solo — Dragonfly In Yellow Rain, Shadow Of A Dragonfly, Dragonfly Wings — It Is Written In The Wind, Dragon Fight — June Mandalas, EarthHealer — Mandala For The Tortoise, ode to a crab (haiku & mandala), Eye Of The Dragon Tattoo

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PRACTICE – What is Holding Me Back? – 30min

I’m drinking a cup of French Roast in a black ceramic mug that I reheated in the microwave. I wasn’t thinking when I took the first sip. My tongue and the roof of my mouth are burned. I write anyway. No, red gums are not keeping me back. Nor pink, fleshy ripples on the roof of my mouth, nor the size of my gut, nor the overwhelm I feel on a Monday morning, a week after the last Intensive in New Mexico.

I remember in the zendo, we were to write something on a piece of paper and put it on the altar for the week. Something we wanted to let go of. When I walked over to grab a piece off the pile of cut and stacked used paper, on it was a poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca:

“I remember what’s in front of you.” – Baca poem

In the silence, I thought it was so profound. Like Natalie telling us to follow the person behind us. Now I can only think of following the person behind me as the writers that came before me. I stand strong on their backs. And they watch mine.

What is holding me back? Me. I like Baca’s words. Because they remind me that other people can see me and where I am going much more clearly than I can see myself. We are all in this together. Whether we are writers or astronauts. We all live on this planet. Though we sometimes travel to others.

I feel like I am on the edge of something, a steep precipice, some cliffhanger on Mount Hood. I’ve been hearing a lot about Mount Hood lately. Climbers falling and rescued. They take great risks, great leaps of faith, because they love climbing. That’s what I have to do as a writer. My life is not in danger but my character is hung out there to dry, for all to see.

I’ve still got some of those old wooden clothes hangers my mother used to use to hang wet clean laundry on three strings of clothes line. I use them to clip Rice Krispies and Doritos packages closed so they don’t get stale. I used to love the smell of sundried clothes when I would take them down, fold them, and stack them in the plastic turquoise laundry basket with hundreds of cut vents in the sides.

There is nothing like the smell of clean laundry. Unless it’s the smell of the first mowed grass in early spring. Or the scent of fireflies in a summer pickle jar of emerald cuttings.

But what is holding me back? Fear. I’m afraid I will fail. And I will only succeed if I am fearless of failure. That’s what my teacher says. And I believe her. But I have to find out for myself, don’t I? Yes. I have to make my own mistakes.

To be honest, I have no idea what is holding me back. I feel like I am moving forward. I don’t exactly know the plan. But I have a loose outline of the year ahead, structured around writing. I want to start work on my memoir and I have an outline that came to me in a dream five years ago. Can you believe that? A dream. Not much has changed on the outline. I’ve decided to let the book unfold – I want to let the story tell me. When I go back to the places I will write about, I want to listen. And write down what I hear. Like we did at Ghost Ranch, writing haiku in the steaming sun.

I have a plan for my writing and consulting business. I have a plan to teach. I have a plan to start my first memoir. Maybe there will be many. I was reading last night that Haven Kimmel is on her second memoir, a sequel. I like the idea of that. Mabel Dodge Luhan did that, too, wrote a series of memoirs. Were there four? It doesn’t matter how good they are. What matters is that I get them out. I can do the editing later. I have to make time and money to travel, research, get the words down on paper, the first draft.

It’s going to take years. In the meantime, I practice. There is nothing holding me back but me. Everything is in place. Because, slowly, over the last 6 years, I took risks at looking dumb and exposed and allowed myself to show me to other writers in my life. I have a big writing community. I do writing practice nearly every day. I have strong writing bones. I didn’t always have those things. Not that long ago, I only had me. I know how to teach other writers to practice and create community. Those are not the things that are stopping me.

It is fear. The same fear arises every time I finish a piece. I gear up to write, I am lost in the process of writing, I am feeling great joy, that writing euphoria every writer knows. I am done, I edit, it’s ready – then the let down. After every high of writing comes the big let down that it’s done. And the next piece awaits me.

I have to stay strong and steady in the middle of the pendulous wave. I can picture it on a graph, x/y coordinates, like a big tsunami, aftershock, and then falling down to bone level, kind of like the even wave I saw at the Science Museum of Minnesota the week before I left for Taos.

There was a 30 foot long rectangular tank with a continuous wave, perfectly even at the top, undulating from one end of the tank to the next. There was also a vertical tornado chamber in which a spray of fog whipped itself into a frenzy when you spun a wheel. I do all those things when I write. And then it’s over.

What keeps me back is knowing that when I finish one piece, or a practice, the next calls out to me. Eventually, I have to get up the gumption to keep going. No matter what. Even when I am afraid. Even when every bone in my body is telling me I can’t write. I keep going.

Because somewhere, some other strong, tired, worn out writer is saying, “I remember what’s in front of you.”

It’s scary to think I might have forgotten. Yesterday I cried. On Friday, I felt a great joy at the largeness of my life. Saturday I was tired and feeling under the weather. Sunday I slept most of the day. Monday is solemn. So I take the next right step. What’s in front of me. Just like this writing practice. And the ritual of French Roast. And now my morning shower.

Monday, February 19^th, 2007

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PRACTICE – Essay – Breaking Through – 30min

I finally broke through. Out of all that anxiety, fear, whatever you want to call it. It was after Liz and I went to see Jean Shinoda Bolen, the Jungian psychologist, writer, feminist, at Amazon Bookstore last Friday. After that evening, everything cracked open.

It wasn’t so much what she said – as what she reminded me of – to go back and tap places of strength. And give what I have away. It will come back to me in countless measure. I don’t have to be so fearful.

It’s good. Because I was beginning to wonder what kind of writer I was if I couldn’t even get a draft down on paper for an essay. I’d better get used to this. It’s going to happen – writer’s block. It’s strange because this is the second year I’ve written on demand for other people. Last year I worked on two book projects and a bevy of presentation pieces. People want to pay writers for this kind of work because they want a fresh angle in the case of the presentation pieces, and another set of eyes, organizational skills, and editing on the books.

I had worked steadily, pushing my way through all that. Then when it came to writing my own essay – stuck. I couldn’t even get out of the gate. It was really getting me down on Saturday. Some ideas running through the mind. But then I wouldn’t write them down. It’s like a form of self sabotage. Finally, I sat down to write a piece for the blog on Sunday and out poured the essay. Boy, was I relieved. Liz was making smoothies in the kitchen and I tap, tap, tapped away for an hour.

I kept working all day yesterday. I got up to work on my consulting and writing projects and got sidetracked by looking at the essay again. I decided to give in, made a conscious decision. I called Liz and bookended, told her I was going to take the day, Monday, to work on my essay. Then Tuesday, I would do my business work, and Wednesday, go back to my 27 hour a week bread and butter job through Friday of this week. I called in this morning and told them my plan.

I ended up bumping the whole week forward so I could take a solid day to write yesterday. And write I did. I worked on the essay until Liz walked through the door at 5pm. And it was even hard to pull myself away then. She was hardly in the door before I was reading it out loud to her. She took time for me. She laughed in the right parts. She’s one of the people who is most supportive of my writing – and me taking space for my writing.

The reading out loud reminded me what John Williams, author of Stoner, said about finished pieces. He said in an interview with Dan Wakefield that what helps a writer most is to have her piece read out loud to her – without comment. You can see right away where the gaps are.

I’ve been doing this quite a while now. And it works. I read my first draft out loud to myself. Then to another trusted person. I make changes, write the second and third drafts. Then I usually reverse it, ask Liz if she will read the piece out loud to me. The gaps stand out like the jagged spaces between my crooked front teeth.

Yesterday, I worked on editing a little more while Liz shook off the day, changed out of her work clothes, and put something on for dinner. Then I realized my eyes were completely fried. And the day long writing high was over. The doubt started to pour in. I wondered if what I had spent the last 6 hours solid doing was even any good. This is how my mind works. Full bore into a piece – riding high – then all that doubt and self loathing.

Maybe it’s part of the writing process. And I will battle with it the rest of my life. If a piece is short enough, I know when it’s tight, crisp, and flowing. This essay is about 6000 words. I plan to hone it down to less than that. I might take some parts out, crop others. I know it won’t get any longer. I’ve said what I want to say, made my points with what I have. If anything, I’ve got too much, am trying to pull in too many different ideas. And that will be the next edit.

What do I really want to say? Have I said it? Do these other parts fit in? Or are they another essay? All good questions. I want to learn to write tighter. I can tell where the essay is tight and where it starts to ramble. I’m getting better at editing. I’m still learning how to completely whack off paragraphs or sentences or parts where I like what I’ve written but know it doesn’t fit into this piece.

Writing is so process oriented. It’s different than art that way. Art is process oriented, too. But there are visual points along the way where you can check in with other students, get feedback, know if you are headed down the wrong path. Or in the case of photography, I tried a lot of alternative photographic processes like cyanotyping, mural printing, and brushing developer on slabs of red clay from Georgia that I formed into tiles. So I often had to go back to the drawing board if my formulas didn’t work. I could see it visually – back to the drawing board.

Writing? A whole different animal. The abstracts are playing out all in the mind. And my mind can try to kill me. I do my best writing when I have uninterrupted periods, 4-7 hours where I write and edit solid. Then I need to step away and come back to it a few days later. This is something I’ve learned from writing on demand for a year – write intensely. Step away. That’s my process. I’m not one for two hours here, two hours there. It doesn’t work for me.

That’s why I planned my weeks around taking a whole day to write, usually Fridays. Those are supposed to be the days where I structure in my creative time. But the tail end of this year, it hasn’t worked that way. My 27 hour a week bread and butter job falls in the middle of the week over three days, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. So I work 9 hour days and don’t feel like doing much when I get home. Mondays are the day I work on my writing and consulting business. And most weeks, I find I need two days to do this when I filter in the administrative and invoicing pieces.

Guess where that leaves my Friday creative day? Down the toilet. This week I decided to take the day anyway, though I couldn’t really afford it, and get the first draft of my essay done. If that’s all I show up in Taos with, I’ll be happy. But I’m sure I will try to do at least one more draft. I want to start collecting pieces I can submit to magazines. It doesn’t even matter if I get rejected at this point. I just want to get my work out there, floating around in the world. That’s why I write.

It’s gray in Minneapolis. I’m on my second cup of coffee. I missed practicing the last few days. But I elected to work on my essay instead. I also did a lot of work on taking my business to the next level. I’ve met with three people about next steps. And now I have a plan, an income plan, a writing plan. It’s good to have a plan. Clarity should replace vagueness if I’m doing things to take care of myself.

Writer’s block scares me. I can practice all I want. But there are times when I am going to not know what I want a finished piece to be about. I won’t even have a structure. In the end, I have to honor the process. That’s why I refuse to put all my eggs in one basket. I want at least three different avenues available to me to pull income in while I work to be a self-supporting writer.

Life never goes as planned. And that goes double for the writer’s life. I envy the yellow finch that has returned to the feeder outside the winter steamed window. I’m watching her peck her beak into the small holes, grubbing little pieces of thistle, bobbing her head to take them in, bits spewing out the sides of her microscopic tongue. Then she dives in for more and lets the remains of the day fall to the deck, letting go of what drops.

I’m not that good at letting go.

But over time, I see the value in chop, chop, chop. This will be the third day I haven’t been out of the house. Liz has gone to work. I’m sitting on the couch doing my writing practice. Then I will shower and get to work on my business. But I’m being pulled to check out the essay one more time. It’s a dangerous ploy. I know I’ll get sucked in. I can think of worse things than to be knee deep in an essay about change, and being stuck, and writing, and tapping the past but living in the present. But I need to stay disciplined. I have to pull myself out after one peek.

Do you agree? Okay [sigh] reluctantly, I agree. One peek. Then to work. Someone’s got to make the money around here. If I had my druthers, I’d work on my essay all morning, head outside in the afternoon, scrape the ice off the deck and my car, and head over to St. Paul to walk the labyrinth. But I don’t get my way. It’s my work day.

I hate growing up.

Tuesday, January 23rd, 2007

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PRACTICE — Essay – Dreaming – 15min

I am in la la land this morning. I had such a hard time getting up. The darkness wanted to hold me. I’ve been in hibernate mode. A few weeks now. Maybe since Christmas. The days are short. The nights long.

When I think of writing an essay, I draw a blank. I scare myself. What kind of writer am I if I never finish anything? Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten how to say anything worthwhile. Practices of dribble about the details of the day. But practice keeps me writing. Practice keeps me sane. I am glad that I practice. Practice keeps me connected to other writers.

Writers who struggle, too. Every writer struggles. Comments from famous writers allude to that struggle, time and time again. Still, I believe it’s a worthwhile song. Why else would I still be singing?

Liz and I suffered through the beginning of the 6th season of American Idol last night, mostly because it was in Minneapolis. I remember when the gang of 3 were here and the downtown streets like Hennepin Avenue were crowded with those following dreams. You have to admire their tenacity. Or stupidity. As Liz and I covered our ears a few times, scrunched up our faces and laughed into each other eyes, we wondered who had told some of these people they could sing.

Sometimes I get that feeling about the writing. Like I write in a big vacuum. Because practice, by nature, and the rules, as guidelines, create safety in not commenting, the world would not know if I could write or not. And neither would I. It’s mostly a matter of trust. Faith.

I look back over the last 2 or 3 years – the time I won that contest all the way up until now. I have sent out maybe 2 finished pieces since then. A person in my other writing group thinks I got scared by that little bit of success. And perhaps I did. It was the first thing I ever submitted anywhere. And it was successful by most writing standards. But maybe it sucked me back into my shell.

I did have that stint of going to coffee shops and reading out loud at Open Mic with other fledgling writers. That was good for confidence. And I had that radio show on KFAI with two writers, one I never see anymore. I was actually pretty good on that. I talked about being a writer. But then I just stopped with the out there stuff. Why?

I’m thinking about the time it takes to write. Not just time. Alone time. And I know that living with someone means I have to be hypervigilant about taking alone time to write. If Liz and I are around the same space, unless I say that I’m going to write, her energy will mingle with mine. Sometimes that is distracting. And sometimes it’s supportive.

It’s learning the difference that is my challenge at the moment. And how to get enough space for writing. It’s up to me to take it. Not her. I’m scared to take it. It’s so comfortable being partnered. A Cancer, I am most comfortable in relationships, though I was alone for 14 years. I don’t miss living alone. I love living with Liz, partnering, setting up a home together. I only miss all the space to write that I had created around myself when I lived alone.

But you know what? I hated living there at the end. The place made me lethargic. And I didn’t write anyway. I fretted about how much junk there was around me and my lack of motivation to change it. And I spent a lot of gas, time, and money going back and forth out to Liz’s. Or her coming to my house. I don’t have that anymore.

I fret about different things now – there are still unpacked boxes in the bedroom. When will I go through them? And when should I start looking for a studio space?

I think another small space that Liz and I share rent on will help the smallness of the space we live in now. It’s cozy. And quiet. And I love the house. But it needs one more room. A writing room.

The truth is you do have to hole up to write. And you can’t stop and start. You need to be able to keep going when you are on a roll, at least until you get to a good place to stop. It’s not realistic to have all the time in the world. Unless you are independently wealthy. Most of us have to work.

But the carving of space – carving it out, up, around the writing – that takes courage. And guts.  You have to want it pretty bad. And drop everything to write. Knowing it’s not going to give you everything. No, it’s not. But it sure gives a lot.

I have a lot of fear around writing this essay. And I don’t know why. I am fearless in almost every area of my life right now. I roll swiftly along in the blog work. I’m putting a lot of energy into my business and relationship. My recovery is going well. But this damned essay? Why am I letting it get the best of me?

It’s become my Achilles heel. And I am letting it. At some point, I will also let it turn. The energy. But it might be too late to get it done before the first week of February. I’m going to carve out some time this weekend to seriously see if I have anything to offer in terms of an essay. I will tell Liz I am going to work on it. And I will honor my commitment to myself.

Saturday is almost shot. Friday I have to do client work. That leaves Saturday night. Maybe that’s a good ploy. Liz has to study anyway. Maybe I can pull an all night thing – work my tail off, get as far as I can. What do I have to lose?

My dignity. Or some idea that I can’t write. Okay, I’m humble. I’m willing to sacrifice those two things for a day. Pride doesn’t help in the great effort to write. And neither does ego. I have to leave them swimming at the bottom of the spittoon at the door. That’s a good place to start. A spittoon. That gives me an idea. Okay. I’m off.

Tuesday, January 23rd, 2007

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