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Sometimes there are just no words, so we must borrow from others.

together on that ship

I spent the past week in the Pacific Northwest, visiting my friend Shea and some family living in Washington. I don't think I realized just how much my mind and spirit needed not only a vacation, but some beautifully isolated time with nature, my thoughts, and people I love. I found myself reminded of some of Robert Pirsig's thoughts from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a fantastic book which truly altered the course of my life and I encourage any and all to read. At any rate. He says, " The only Zen you can find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring up there." Suffice it to say, I uncovered plenty of zen this trip, looking out onto still blue water and clear mountains, San Juan Islands, and strips of sand filled with shards of beach glass for Shea to collect.

While on Orcas Island Shea took me into Darvill's, her favorite bookstore. We spent a lot of time in book stores. I am truly weak in the presence of those things. I picked up a copy of Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I'd heard various reports of the book over the years and while in college a professor recommended the work on several occasions. The book is about writing and being a successful writer; we all know I struggle with even calling myself such a thing and I think for years I'd felt like I wasn't allowed to read Lamott's work. Because I didn't consider myself a writer. What a fool I was. I purchased the book at Darvill's, the quaint local book store, which in itself is an act I can feel good about. And I began reading a work that has come to me at the most ideal moment in my life... as I'm caught up with my own words, sorting out thoughts and ideals and my own book (If I can really call it that). Yet Lamott's instructions are not merely ones for writing but for life as well.

I came across this passage the other day and had to share:

"Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship."


And while I'm slightly saddened to be back East and back home, I'm happy to have found my zen and found these words. Maybe now I can take a few literary steps forward, with a little more confidence and a little more calm.

Musical Aside:

A friend introduced me to Blitzen Trapper. If you take a road trip through the fields and farms and mountains of the San Juans, you must play this song with the windows down. And if not, you must still play it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqtlcHiSHTE

twelve Ethiopian goats

I first discovered Jack Gilbert my sophmore year of college. My friend Yoko was enrolled in a Poetry Workshop and I had the delightful privilege of sitting in the hallway of the performing arts center, listening to poetry read aloud each week. Among the many poems we dissected and pondered together was this one. I re-read it now and remember my dear friend. I remember falling in love with Jack Gilbert. And I remember sitting barefoot in the dancer's hallway feeling at ease with poetry. With words. I am in love with words. They have this power to which I am completely vulnerable. After all, as Confucius said, "words are the voice of the heart."

The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

The Tallest Man

A sweet and gentle soul has introduced me to The Tallest Man on Earth. For the past hour I've been curled up with a cup of tea floating through lyrics that feel as though they've been borrowed from the deep recesses of my mind, early Bob Dylan, and a few E.E. Cummings poems. It is truly a wonder when another's words allow you to feel a little more at home in the world. A little more nestled inside the comfort of a safe space. This feels like a musical sanctuary of sorts. "The Gardener" in particular has been running through my head much of the day. And how appropriate that this version be recorded for a Seattle radio station since I'm heading west on Wednesday! But even more so, it feels like a kind welcome to Spring. So friends, please listen and enjoy. And to that kind soul who got the Tallest Man and I acquainted, I thank you.

"Paper Airplane"

It's a rainy Saturday and I'm sitting on the floor of my living room working on other blog posts. But I can't seem to get my mind to settle or nestle into the thoughts fluttering about. And then I discover this song, which seems kind of fitting given the rain. And it's a post I can feel good about in the moment. This music video is a little much, even for me, but I think the song is quite lovely. So I thought I'd share.

Thank You

Today a co-worker said, "You're a writer."

And somewhere in between my severe blushing and awkward, embarrassed mumblings of a response, I thought to myself, 'well, I guess I am.'

This co-worker hardly knew me, beyond what he could see or perhaps discern from a couple dozen conversations spread over a couple dozen days. Yet there he was, calling me this thing. A writer.

He had looked me up. Read my blog. And I was in awe.

That anyone would take the time to explore what I had to say is a concept far beyond me. It's incredible.

And I guess as a blogger you go into this thing knowing that the grand aim is for other people, somewhere out in the ether, to read what you write (well, type). But it never seems to change the fact that somewhere inside you think, maybe no one actually is.

And then someone you know, someone who's perhaps closer to you than you might have originally thought, goes and does this. They go and read your blog. And then call you a writer. To your face!

(I typically say, 'sometimes I write things,' but rarely do I call myself a writer.)

You almost have no choice but to accept the label they've placed upon you. You have no choice but to agree, because well, they're right.

So, thank you, you sweet few sitting at your computers reading my words. I don't know what I did to deserve your following or precious attention. But for as long as you're willing to read, I'll be here to write.

And let us remember what William Faulkner said:

Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it's the only way you can do anything really good.

Irrelevant Aside: I officially hear an ice cream truck outside my door and want nothing more than to rush outside with a handful of coins to buy one of those striped rocket shaped Popsicles! Amazing.