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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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Being a Grownup

giving to all her questions just one answer: 
In you, who were a child once–in you.

~ Maria Rainer Rilke, from “The Grownup”

Being a grownup means not doing it just because everyone else is doing it. It means recognizing that in truth we have little idea what anyone else is really doing or how they’re doing it. It means understanding that we all have so many selves, so many layers, so much that goes unknown and unseen.

Being a grownup means taking the pressure off.

Picture an open wound — blood that won’t stop. Yes, absolutely, applying steady pressure can be a necessary and even lifesaving measure until the paramedics arrive to take over.

But when you’re still applying all that pressure years later, long after the wound has closed and the ridgeline of scar has become simply part of the landscape of your body, of your days, that is when you can step away. Slowly left your hands and see the miracle of what has repaired itself over time. To be a grownup is to remove your hands. Don’t hide the scar; it is the topography of your soul now, mountainous here and cavernous there, with long stretches of nothing but sand, water, and sky.

Grow up and see that all along, you contained answers only you could discover and decipher.

They lived in you like so much starlight that had to travel for many years to reach your heart, your consciousness. Grow up, and learn delicate art of listening for these answers that appear when you least expect them, that don’t discriminate between cityscapes and lush forest and mountain stream, splendor and squalor.

The answers within you can slip out anywhere. Be aware.

Beware those who insist that for a sum, they’ll lead you somewhere you’ll never find on your own. No one else has the map of you. Run to those whose clues make you light up in recognition, cry with relief, or feel you’ve found your place on this earth.

Find the silences where you can hear your own voice echoing off the rocks. Whatever your element, spend as much time as you can there. And when you find yourself in exile — which you will, when you’re a grownup — trust that your longing will lead you home.

Have faith that you will get to return to the place where all of the answers greet you, like the beloveds you lost along the way. Grow up and see for yourself: You belong.