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Notes from the Body Shop

Image: Steinar Engeland

Today’s super sexy dispatch from the front lines of real life is brought to you from the body shop, where I’m having my trusty Toyota inspected. The sticker had a giant 7 on it, which means I’m approximately four months overdue for this grown-up task. The TV monitor tells me it’s 38 degrees outside. If I’d thought to bring my laptop, writing this would be a bit easier than pecking my phone keyboard, but when I left the house I hadn’t planned on coming here. You grab time when you can. Which should in no way be misconstrued for grabbing pussy when you can. Stop that shit.

Speaking of stopping, I got such a sweet note this morning. The person wrote that she feels orphaned without a writing community, and spends more time wondering if her writing is any good than she does actually writing. I nodded my head as I read, as she had named something so true.

Going it alone is sometimes the only way; getting super quiet, internal, and self-contained can do wonders for creative gestation. If anything, I vacillate this time of year between craving a cave of silent solitude and a communal table with a big pot of soup and a shared hunk of bread. The balance can be hard to find. But when it becomes true that we’re thinking a lot about writing but not actually writing, or we’re writing but being hyper-critical of ourselves, or we feel like the lone tree falling in the forest, or we can’t seem to maintain any momentum– these all point to the moment when to reach out for a hand in the dark is not a bad idea.

I had a coaching call this morning with a woman who wants to jump start her blog and revive her newsletter. She had some questions, which I sneakily turned into more questions (“very sophisticated,” as I told her, and we laughed). The best part of our conversation was hearing her excitement grow as she articulated how she wants her reader to feel, what qualities she imagines her writing conveying, and what kind of structures she knows work best for her. Just before we wrapped up, I asked her: “So what’s your plan?”

I felt my heart beating in my chest. I felt the chair beneath my seat and heard her voice across the miles as if she were sitting across from me over mugs of strong coffee. She took a breath and began: “My plan…” And I thought to myself, what a small miracle this is, that she has a plan! The plan will certainly change over time, as all plans must. But knowing your next step, now that is nothing to sneeze at.

There’s a time for having no idea what the next step is and expanding your ability to stay in that discomfort. And then there’s a time for reaching out, for saying hey, I could use help with this. Or huh, what if I tried x, y, or z.

Now, as a complete non sequitur, why is it that everything I write winds up sounding like Ecclesiastes? There’s a time for this and a time for that!

Maybe it’s because we’re always facing these choices: What is it time for in our writing and in our lives? Whether on a grand scale or a micro one, this seems to me to be one of the most continuous of life’s many questions. Getting the car inspected is a no-brainer, though even that has taken me months longer than perhaps it should have. I used to have a teacher who’d say everything happens right on time. We could parse that one out for the rest of our lives, or not. I’d rather just start and keep going.

Well, my car has passed its inspection for another year, so it’s time to wrap this up, pay my $35, and head home. There might have to be a wee nap in my near future. What’s in yours?

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Thoughts on Subtlety


Movement is life. Life is a process. Improve the quality of the process and you improve the quality of life itself.
~ Moshé Feldenkrais

Today I’m interested in subtlety. We go a million miles per hour — sometimes even when we think we’ve slowed down.

And I’m thinking about the nuns we saw at Whole Foods, with the beige habits and the little boy who was clearly theirs in some way. How Mani and I both wondered about their story, and as soon as we hit the parking lot, brought it up almost simultaneously.

I was going to ride on the bike path today, from Amherst to Northampton. I’ve never actually done this. But all day long, the rain kept coming. And so instead, I made myself brunch, read a book, and took a nap. Later, we went to TJ Maxx and bought spoons. That’s right, six teaspoons. And one condolence card.

Now I’m sitting exactly where I was sitting 24 hours ago, in the velvet chair I had custom-made for Mani for our anniversary last year. Do you sit “in” a chair or “on” a chair?

I joined Mani this morning for 40 minutes of Feldenkrais, a method of movement that (according to the website) “uses gentle, mindful movement to bring new awareness and possibility into every aspect of your life.” She found an online teacher named Alfons Grabher, whose YouTube videos are as instructive as they are engaging. He has an Austrian accent and such an awesome, quirky sense of humor. The best part was the subtlety of the movements, and how the emphasis is on exploration. The idea is that the body knows what to do — and it isn’t supposed to hurt. It doesn’t look like much is happening, and yet after just one session, I noticed more space in my rib cage and mobility in my shoulders.

Naturally, this struck me as a perfect parallel to the way I feel about writing and creativity in general; so much becomes available to us when we free ourselves from right-way, wrong-way, “should” and “supposed to,” and instead give ourselves to the discovery of what occurs naturally when we decide it doesn’t have to be painful and torturous. Writing, bodies; how we relate to one thing is how we relate to all the things.

What if you’re a writer and you don’t even know it yet? What if you stopped thinking you had to write a book or make money or be well-known as prerequisites for saying, “I am a writer”? What would shift for you if you really allowed everything, every small movement, every word, to count?

The forecast for tomorrow is clear and sunny, high of 78. I am going to give the bike ride a go. I expect my ass might hurt at the end of it (no pun intended). I intend to take it slow and to meet my wife on the other side of the river.

Moment by moment. Life is happening. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t reflect on how to make sure I’m contributing to repairing the damage we cause each other, rather than adding to it. I pray for humility. I recall these words, spoken at the end of every class taught by Emily Garrett, one of my earliest yoga teachers back in Burlington: “May peace in our minds, in our hearts, and in the world.”

The sun just came out against the bruised sky. It occurs to me, that subtlety could possibly save lives.