I came across Gift from the Sea several years ago, when I was visiting our cousins in Sequim. Usually, when I am visiting friends or family, I only bring along reading material for the transportation part of the trip. Once ensconced in my guest room, I start roaming the bookshelves, awaiting that serendipitous moment when the things that interested my hosts will capture me as well. In many cases, the title that grabs me is something I've read before, or something that I've been meaning to read. Agatha Christie, An Omnivore's Dilemma, A Natural History of the Senses, Into the Wild.....you get the picture. But Gift from the Sea was a true serendipitous discovery. I picked it up because I was near the ocean, visiting a house that sat on a bluff over looking the Straits of Juan de Fuca. From the opening line, I was hooked.
Yes, I agree, the beach is the place for contemplation, renewal, simplifying. From Siddhartha to Alix Kates Shulman, people have gone to water to think, to empty their minds, to figure things out. Why not me? I am not a writer, a creator, a guru, a bodhisattva. I'm just a 20th century middle-class middle-aged white American female, but I can identify. I can empty my mind with the best of them.
But actually, I cannot. I almost resent people who can meditate, people who have enough self-hood to realize that time spent within is time well spent. I will sit cross-legged in the center of a labyrinth, hands upturned on my knees, eyes closed, listening to my thoughts, waiting for a thought-gift to take back out. And my mind distracts towards the shuffling feet of other pilgrims, I think about what I need to do next, I think about the time I am wasting.
So, I don't meditate. And, I have not had the energy to read, lately. The books are stacked up on my bedside table, and I do dip into them, but they are mainly an escape into the familiar, the methodology of my going-to-bed ritual. I read until the words blur and the book drops out of my nerveless hand. I jerk awake for a moment, set the book back, take off my glasses, turn off the bedside lamp, curl up, turn off my thoughts.
The other day, however, I picked out Gift from the Sea from my newly-organized bookshelves. It's a tiny book, so it sits in the overflow stack at the front of the spine-out non-fiction, easy to grab. I took it out to the shedroom for my night-time read, and I was hooked again. She writes about about the multiplicity of our lives, about the demands on our focus and being. Yes. I am the hub of the wheel, attention and energy focused outward. If I don't tend to the center, the spokes start wobbling, the wheel is unbalanced. There are days when I don't have the energy to tie a shoelace. Yes.
I want what she had, an island to escape to, a place to simplify the duties and demands, to true up my wheel. Where is my goddam island?!
Years ago I read an Madeline L'Engle book where the sensitive, wounded heroine escapes to a Greek island. She is surrounded by artists, fellow sensitives, who adore her and support her. It was typical L'Engle, escapist and self-indulgent. I used to identify with her heroines, but now all I can think is, what a whiny thing. Real people can't escape to islands. They have to deal with the abusive husband, work with him or leave him. They have to earn a living and do the laundry, paint the walls, walk the dog. They have to take care of business.
But isn't part of the business of life to attend to the core? Isn't there a way to find that space and time, to create that island?
I. Want. My. Goddam. Island.
Now.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Domestic Routines as Distraction
Recently I have been thinking of two books I re-read often in my dewey youth. I actually downloaded one of them: Rose in Bloom, by Louisa May Alcott (she who ruined me for life, taking the impressionable young creative and turning her into one who finds more value in serving others than serving her art, a la Jo March.) The other is Little Town on the Prairie, by Laura Ingalls Wilder (she whose family embodies all the pioneer traditions, from self-reliance to genocide.)
Today I figured out what they have in common. Besides depicting an idealized (i.e. simplified) version of family and society (and the female's place in it,) they also provide a blueprint for dealing with the pressures and trials of living in a less-than-ideal world. The technique is, in a word: distraction. And not just any distraction, but distraction via the domestic virtues.
Hence, when Laura's Ma and Pa take Mary off to college for the blind, leaving Laura in charge, she marshals her baby sisters into a week of spring cleaning. "It was amazing how dirty they got, cleaning a house that had seemed perfectly clean." When Rose's Uncle Alec is finally through the woods after his bout with malignant fever (and just what is that?), she and her aunts also fall into a spring cleaning frenzy, which leaves them afraid to move for fear of messing the shining order they have created. (Actually, it was probably the maids. But let's not quibble.)
So what is my problem? I got laid off a year ago. It was the perfect time to dive into de-cluttering activity, especially since it's something I have talked about for over 10 years. It would be useful: I need a space to work from home, I can't function in a mess, I want to create more spaces for airbnb rentals. It would be a distraction: I get tired of job-hunting routines, I get overwhelmed by financial woes, I get exhausted by emotional crises.
But, I am not made of the stern stuff of our fictional forebears. I can neither face nor focus on the large domestic activities. Instead, I putter in the kitchen, baking bread and pies and granola, spreading flour far and wide. I knit and watch Judge Judy, losing needles in the sofa cushions and piling balls of yarn in bowls and on surfaces. When I decide to organize the mountain of papers and books on my desk, I start folding boxes out of old calendars. Instead of de-cluttering, I am re-cluttering.
Perhaps it's because, deep-down, I resent those role models and the effect they have had on my psyche? In that case, it's time to emulate Jane Eyre, whose tale I have re-read more than the others combined. When she learns of her accession to fortune, she steals Hannah away from St. John to clean down Moor House. Hannah is charmed to see how jovial she can be in a house turned topsy-turvey, and it is delightful to see, after a few days, how order is restored to the chaos they have created. (St. John stays away in horror.)
Of course, it would be easier if I had a sudden accession to fortune.
Today I figured out what they have in common. Besides depicting an idealized (i.e. simplified) version of family and society (and the female's place in it,) they also provide a blueprint for dealing with the pressures and trials of living in a less-than-ideal world. The technique is, in a word: distraction. And not just any distraction, but distraction via the domestic virtues.
Hence, when Laura's Ma and Pa take Mary off to college for the blind, leaving Laura in charge, she marshals her baby sisters into a week of spring cleaning. "It was amazing how dirty they got, cleaning a house that had seemed perfectly clean." When Rose's Uncle Alec is finally through the woods after his bout with malignant fever (and just what is that?), she and her aunts also fall into a spring cleaning frenzy, which leaves them afraid to move for fear of messing the shining order they have created. (Actually, it was probably the maids. But let's not quibble.)
So what is my problem? I got laid off a year ago. It was the perfect time to dive into de-cluttering activity, especially since it's something I have talked about for over 10 years. It would be useful: I need a space to work from home, I can't function in a mess, I want to create more spaces for airbnb rentals. It would be a distraction: I get tired of job-hunting routines, I get overwhelmed by financial woes, I get exhausted by emotional crises.
But, I am not made of the stern stuff of our fictional forebears. I can neither face nor focus on the large domestic activities. Instead, I putter in the kitchen, baking bread and pies and granola, spreading flour far and wide. I knit and watch Judge Judy, losing needles in the sofa cushions and piling balls of yarn in bowls and on surfaces. When I decide to organize the mountain of papers and books on my desk, I start folding boxes out of old calendars. Instead of de-cluttering, I am re-cluttering.
Perhaps it's because, deep-down, I resent those role models and the effect they have had on my psyche? In that case, it's time to emulate Jane Eyre, whose tale I have re-read more than the others combined. When she learns of her accession to fortune, she steals Hannah away from St. John to clean down Moor House. Hannah is charmed to see how jovial she can be in a house turned topsy-turvey, and it is delightful to see, after a few days, how order is restored to the chaos they have created. (St. John stays away in horror.)
Of course, it would be easier if I had a sudden accession to fortune.
Learning Languages
Yesterday S taught me Chinook.
More truthfully, she taught me Chinook and ASL.
Actually, she shared a few words with me and told me I was killing fairies when I translated into English. I have a stick and a stone on my kitchen counter now: they were the props. The Chinook word for Stick is....Stick. The Chinook word for Stone is Stoon (very Nordic or Old English. Apparently the original Chinook language has been heavily influenced by English.) The ASL gesture for stick is forefinger and thumb of each hand held an inch apart, in a pre-grasping position. The other fingers are balled loosely into the palm. The tips of the fingers point to each other and pull apart, creating or drawing a stick as they move. The ASL gesture for stone is two loose fists, thumb outside. The curled fingers of the dominant hand land lightly but firmly on top of the non-dominant hand: a stone on a surface.
S is learning the language from native speakers at PSU because it is in danger of being lost. She is a little frustrated because people don't really care about learning the ASL. I found the inclusion of ASL both distracting and compelling. It's distracting, because I'm so used to dividing mind and body when I am learning something, and when learning is integrated I find it difficult to figure out where to put my focus. Also, when I reach information overload, it's a total overload. I remember in college, I used to study and write in the lounge of the Fine Arts building. When I couldn't take it anymore, I would run around the building and look for friends to distract me. It was an either/or thing: turn off the mind, move the body. Move the body, turn off the mind. (Maybe this is why I can't talk during sex?)
However, including ASL in the process is compelling for the same reason it's distracting: because it draws on muscle memory as well as mental memory. You have so many more hooks to hang your learning upon. And, it's a familiar method. When I learn music or play an instrument, it's a full mind-body experience. I am integrating words and notes with specific physical motions. As with language, the mental/physical integration is vital to the finished product.
I had thought that this comparison was less applicable to the the vocal instrument, but at this year's choir retreat we learned* to increase resonance and lessen fatigue by standing loosely and letting the head balance on spinal column. It was a bizarre feeling, because I am so used to tensing physically when I work mentally: I clench my jaw and hunch forward. At the computer, I assume the goose-neck posture so common today. I don't see a flaw in the product, but there's a definite flaw in the process. I get so weary, and my body gets repetitive motion injuries.
Still, it also seems necessary to separate mind and body, to focus on specific areas of the process. I plan to practice my newly-acquired viola da gamba (thanks, D and Reed College for arranging the rental!), and part of that practice will be a monotonous string-crossing exercise, purely for the sake of increasing muscle memory. The goal is to learn to hit the right string as I play. You need to be able to watch the music, not the bow, after all.
We have this conundrum, a version of the mind-body problem. Language and music are both communication tools. To learn them, we have to practice them. To get good, we can't just, as S says, throw a lot of processor space at them. To practice, we need to separate mind and body. To get good, we need to integrate. And, in the final analysis, we need to integrate with other people, which is probably why communication must be taught physically and learned from another person. If you learn from a book, or from old pictures (which is how many old instruments are reconstructed), you miss out on that integration. And, you probably miss out on some key information. So, how do you combine physical and mental, repetitive and generative techniques?
A favorite poem (The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart) and a compelling play (The Language Archive) both touch on these thoughts. But, in the meantime, I've already forgotten how to say, "What is This?" A final conundrum to puzzle over: do I try to learn many new things because I want to broaden my connections and do my part to keep culture(s) alive, or do I just want to avoid the tedious practice required to actually be good at a few?
*Body mapping techniques taught by Cynthia McGladrey
More truthfully, she taught me Chinook and ASL.
Actually, she shared a few words with me and told me I was killing fairies when I translated into English. I have a stick and a stone on my kitchen counter now: they were the props. The Chinook word for Stick is....Stick. The Chinook word for Stone is Stoon (very Nordic or Old English. Apparently the original Chinook language has been heavily influenced by English.) The ASL gesture for stick is forefinger and thumb of each hand held an inch apart, in a pre-grasping position. The other fingers are balled loosely into the palm. The tips of the fingers point to each other and pull apart, creating or drawing a stick as they move. The ASL gesture for stone is two loose fists, thumb outside. The curled fingers of the dominant hand land lightly but firmly on top of the non-dominant hand: a stone on a surface.
S is learning the language from native speakers at PSU because it is in danger of being lost. She is a little frustrated because people don't really care about learning the ASL. I found the inclusion of ASL both distracting and compelling. It's distracting, because I'm so used to dividing mind and body when I am learning something, and when learning is integrated I find it difficult to figure out where to put my focus. Also, when I reach information overload, it's a total overload. I remember in college, I used to study and write in the lounge of the Fine Arts building. When I couldn't take it anymore, I would run around the building and look for friends to distract me. It was an either/or thing: turn off the mind, move the body. Move the body, turn off the mind. (Maybe this is why I can't talk during sex?)
However, including ASL in the process is compelling for the same reason it's distracting: because it draws on muscle memory as well as mental memory. You have so many more hooks to hang your learning upon. And, it's a familiar method. When I learn music or play an instrument, it's a full mind-body experience. I am integrating words and notes with specific physical motions. As with language, the mental/physical integration is vital to the finished product.
I had thought that this comparison was less applicable to the the vocal instrument, but at this year's choir retreat we learned* to increase resonance and lessen fatigue by standing loosely and letting the head balance on spinal column. It was a bizarre feeling, because I am so used to tensing physically when I work mentally: I clench my jaw and hunch forward. At the computer, I assume the goose-neck posture so common today. I don't see a flaw in the product, but there's a definite flaw in the process. I get so weary, and my body gets repetitive motion injuries.
Still, it also seems necessary to separate mind and body, to focus on specific areas of the process. I plan to practice my newly-acquired viola da gamba (thanks, D and Reed College for arranging the rental!), and part of that practice will be a monotonous string-crossing exercise, purely for the sake of increasing muscle memory. The goal is to learn to hit the right string as I play. You need to be able to watch the music, not the bow, after all.
We have this conundrum, a version of the mind-body problem. Language and music are both communication tools. To learn them, we have to practice them. To get good, we can't just, as S says, throw a lot of processor space at them. To practice, we need to separate mind and body. To get good, we need to integrate. And, in the final analysis, we need to integrate with other people, which is probably why communication must be taught physically and learned from another person. If you learn from a book, or from old pictures (which is how many old instruments are reconstructed), you miss out on that integration. And, you probably miss out on some key information. So, how do you combine physical and mental, repetitive and generative techniques?
A favorite poem (The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart) and a compelling play (The Language Archive) both touch on these thoughts. But, in the meantime, I've already forgotten how to say, "What is This?" A final conundrum to puzzle over: do I try to learn many new things because I want to broaden my connections and do my part to keep culture(s) alive, or do I just want to avoid the tedious practice required to actually be good at a few?
*Body mapping techniques taught by Cynthia McGladrey
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