And a slightly early end to a month of gifts: The Gift of Stillness

Too often in life, we avoid changing the path we're on because of possible rattlesnakes. (Side note: In this case, I did stay on the path, because I don't have a death wish, but I didn't see any rattlesnakes. Montana, you disappoint me!)

So here it is: the end of my month of gifts, the end of a journey I wasn’t sure I wanted to make. I found it hard to contemplate stepping away from social media, even as the urge for quiet grew in me. I know it’s a risk. At the same time, it feels like the right thing to do.

Yesterday, while we were running errands, the Girl!Twin and I talked about some of the challenges inherent in a life in the arts, how hard it is to balance the need for publicity with the unhealthy dynamic that need can create. There’s a part of me that still wants to believe at some point, I could be popular enough, successful enough, cool enough to be okay . . . but that’s an illusion. The quality of being enough can only come from within, it’s not a gift bestowed upon the artist by a grateful world.

There isn’t necessarily a correlation between having that healthy sense of identity and having success—but the happiest creators, whether they’re famous or not, manage to maintain a space of stillness around themselves, establishing the true give-and-take of friendship. And the ones who need constant reassurance, who have lost the ‘enough’ setting on their souls? Nothing will ever fill that void.

Don’t get me wrong. We all enjoy praise, and we all have times when we need comfort and reassurance. If you’ve ever been the parent of an infant, though, you’ll remember the advice some wiser and more experienced person gave you: babies need to learn to comfort themselves.

So here I am, getting ready to take another baby step on the journey. The quiet is a little scary, a little uncomfortable. But it’s also exciting, and that tells me it’s the right path for me at this time.  Every faith tradition has its stories of solitude, I think in part because with too much noise and bustle, the still small voice can’t find room to make itself heard. For too long, I’ve been chattering rather than listening, and now it’s time to change.

I wish you joy, and peace, and wonder in the new year. May your lives be full of gifts, and the magic of creativity.

A month of gifts, day 29: The Gift of Change and Endings

This year has been one of tremendous growth and change. And most of that time, I’ve been fighting it, trying to hold on to life as it was, life as I intended it to be. The more I struggled, though, the harder it became to keep everything together, especially myself. And then I read this amazing chapter in Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. She talks about the tendency we have to try obsessively to fill whatever hollowness we find in ourselves, how we can become nothing but grasping hands and hungry mouths. It was such a riveting image, and one that resonated with my experiences. I’ve felt myself grabbing at things and people, trying to stuff them into the gaping holes in my heart so I didn’t have to feel all the scary things that were looming behind me.

In general, I think it’s human nature to fear change, to avoid it as much as possible. Let’s face it: even when it turns out for the best in the end, the process can be disruptive and painful. It often means leaving behind cherished places or beliefs or even people. Some of those losses can never be replaced, some of those griefs never heal, even if you find yourself in a better place in the end.

Yet change, like death and taxes, is one of life’s inevitabilities. If we freeze in the headlights, like deer, we may think we’re hiding from all that scariness, but we’re not. We’re only holding still as fate bears down on us.

Change, and the inevitable endings associated with it, is one of those things that a friend of mine calls “The blessings we don’t enjoy.” At least, not when we’re in the middle of the process. It’s only afterward, when we can see the whole situation and appreciate how far we’ve come and what we’ve learned, that all the growing pains seem worthwhile.

So, like I said, I’ve been fighting change for a while. Some of it is spiritual in nature, as I found myself adrift after some distressing stuff at church. It felt like my spiritual side had been ripped down to the foundations; I found myself questioning even the most basic assumptions I’d made about the universe and my place in it. (It’s the kind of situation that I wish I’d gone through in my twenties, like normal people. I keep thinking, “Aren’t I too old for this nonsense? No? Well, crap.”) There’s been a lot of sorrow, a lot of anger. But now I’m starting to feel little inklings of hope again. I don’t know where they’ll lead me. But I’d like to believe there’s some purpose to all of this, and that all my well intentioned religious beliefs imploded because only in that utter destruction could I grow. I hope that somewhere out there, Someone who knows way more than me is nodding and saying, “Now the real work can begin.”

Some of the struggle has to do with my writing career, or lack thereof. On an intellectual level, I can appreciate the revolutionary nature of this time, and the artistic ferment that’s going on. It’s exciting! It’s also super discouraging. A few years ago, I realized I would never, ever have the kind of writing career I dreamed of when I was starting out. That world, unfortunately, just doesn’t exist anymore. And I can also accept, on that intellectual level, that this means not just loss but opportunity.

Oh, but try to tell that to my wounded heart. As Anne of Green Gables would say, “My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.”

Lately I’ve been reading a lot about courage, and creativity, and trying to understand what it is I’m looking for and what I need to hope for. It’s not an easy journey. Being a goal-oriented, driven sort of person, all this uncertainty has been excruciating. But I suspect that, like the physical therapy exercises I’ve been doing for my injured shoulder, it’s the painful parts that will help me get to where I want to be. Only by stretching through the stiffness that’s been caused by guarding myself too long 

can I become something more than I am right at this moment.

This is me, standing at the brink of something I hope will be amazing, and true, and beautiful. This is me, ready to let go of the comfortable so I can embrace something magical.

A month of gifts, day 27: The Gift of Good Teachers

This weekend, I learned a new thing! Or at least, the beginnings of a new thing. I've been trying to teach myself to crochet for years now, but all my efforts ended in a tangle of yarn and profanity. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with a friend who's great at a number of fiber arts, and she showed me the basics of crocheting. So during today's Bills game, I did this:

It's not exactly even, but it's so far beyond any of my previous attempts, I'm delighted. And it's all thanks to having a good, patient teacher to show me the way.

I'm grateful for all the good teachers in my life, from my mom and dad, through the men and women during my school days, to my friend Jennifer yesterday. My life is so much better because of them. And now I can look forward to building this new skill, and maybe making some magic for people I love.

For me, the hardest part of learning a new skill is quelling my inner perfectionist. I've always hated being wrong and making mistakes, so it's a challenge--and a good one--to step up and be really bad at something. And now I'm pondering things I've put aside in the past, or the ones I haven't even tried yet for fear of how much I'm going to suck at first. This year, given my plan to take a break from social media, I'll have time to try new things. Maybe I'll start drawing again. Maybe I'll finally get that guitar I've been thinking about learning to play.

The possibilities are endless.

A month of gifts, day 26: The Gift of Books

I came home from the library today with too many books. Actually, pretty much every time I come home with too many books. There are stacks of books by the bed, more in my closet, a heap beside my desk, even a few in the trunk of my car (just in case). My life is measured out in pages, chapters, authors' notes and afterwords. Give me a plot twist or a bibliography, some good light and a comfortable chair, and I'll entertain myself for hours.

I love the way books smell, the weight of them in my hands, the sound of turning pages. I love the possibilities inherent in libraries and bookstores.

Books are some of my oldest and dearest friends, my companions in times of loneliness. But more than anything, I love recommending them--finding just the right person for a favorite story, or just the right book for a favorite person, is a great joy. 

Once in a while, I get to meet one of my favorite authors and tell them how much their work has meant to me. It's a privilege to share someone else's world for a little while, and look at things through their eyes.

I used to think I'd figured out a way to use the library's automated system to take out more books than I was supposed to, but it turns out they just raised my check out limit without telling me. I guess there are some advantages to bringing borrowed things back on time. Right now my library backpack is full to overflowing, so it's time to curl up and enjoy the temporary stash. I've got history books, psychology, anthropology, true crime, self-help, a couple of Craig Johnson's Longmire novels, the latest Pendergast book from Preston and Child, and a Star Wars tie-in. Among others. I'm not quite at my new, higher checkout limit. But I bet I'm getting close.

A month of gifts, day 25: The Gift of a Childlike Spirit

The times are a-changing in the Crow household. The three kids pillaged our remaining cash and took off in one of the cars, hoping to catch the evening showing of The Force Awakens at the local theater. (Some of us have already seen it. Once. So far.) It’s strange that they’re all so grown up that we can just turn them loose without supervision. Twenty years ago, I couldn’t have imagined this day would ever come.

One of the best parts is that even the older two have kept a childlike spirit, at least about some things. At one thirty in the morning on Thursday, driving home from picking up the Girl!Twin at the airport, I was listening to her and her twin brother laughing in the back seat over some video they both found hilarious. That sound has been making me smile for the past two decades. And now they’re bringing their little brother along on their adventures.

I wouldn’t have minded seeing the movie again in the theater, but it’s good for the three of them to have a little time together. All too soon, the twins will be really grown up and building lives of their own, and I want their brother to have good memories of the things he’s done with them. For a while, when they’re here at home, they don’t always have to be mature and responsible.

For the mom, Christmas spirit usually means focusing on the needs of others and finding ways to make the holiday special for those we love. That’s a good thing—but this coming year, I have a goal of regaining some of that childlike spirit of joy that too often gets crushed out by the weight of responsibility. Making magic for others is a good thing, because it grows when it’s shared, but it’s okay to keep a little for yourself.

The childlike spirit believes amazing things—even miracles—are possible. It holds fast to hope, takes pleasure in creativity, treats others with generosity rather than judgment. And it really enjoys the leftover cookies on the counter.

Saving this for future reference . . .

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A month of gifts, day 24: The Gift of Joy

Before Morning

In that hour when the first pearl gray of dawn glints between the trees,

And bird shadows flutter and shift, lavender ghosts on the snow,

Every child—even the ones with aching bones and silver hair

Tinseled across their brows, even the ones who stayed up late

Building and wrapping and baking, even the ones who drove

Lonely roads or flew, who window-shopped and made lists

And mailed cards—children wake in that dim hour,

Hugging the promise of joy tight to their chests,

Whisper their secret hopes to the angels of the longest nights.

Everything is possible in that moment, every hurt soothed,

Every doomed dream breathing with new life.

We remember, when the still night closes around us,

Who we were before the world wore us down to fit.

We remember the thrill of story, the way songs

Threaded our bones. This moment, ripe with possibility,

Will fade as the sun breaks the horizon.

Joy leaking out into the world as a memory

Shared hand to hand between brothers and sisters,

Mothers and fathers and friends.

Joy passed as fingers brush and eyes meet

And hearts crack a little to let hope in.

c, 2015 Jennifer Crow