Embodiment

Past the point of prose,

Torn between "ought"

and "ought not",

the should-do

and the want-to.

One foot here, 

one foot there,

straddling the practical,

and the possible,

waiting...

For money? For power?

No.

For permission.

Who you are,

what you are,

what you do,

how you do it --

it's all the same.

Or should be.

My desire for art --

is it selfish?

To pursue it, to consume it, to create it...

It's all I want and ever wanted.

The movement, the music;

the canvas, the paint;

the actors, the stage;

the words, the page --

I want it all.

Superheroes and Converts

We cannot see what is ahead when we take action. We can only set things in motion, and then ride the wave. When I first sat down to carry on the stories of Mr. Schnoozle, I had no idea it would turn into a book. A book that is now The Adventures of Mr. Schnoozle. I had no idea I would love fall in love with this little green creature and his friends. In fact, I didn't even know some of his friends existed until they appeared on the page.

And I certainly did not think to myself, "I can't wait to finish this and then spend hours & hours of my free time researching self-publishing, marketing techniques, and crowdfunding!"

Yet here I am with a finished, fully-edited manuscript in my hands, and a least one million (maybe two) tabs open on my browser in an attempt to figure out how to convert this manuscript into a book and how to convert unsuspecting web surfers into fans of my dear Mr. Schnoozle.

I am also converting. I am slowly turning into one of those more-than-one-job individuals. Though I suppose I can't actually say I have two jobs until they both produce income. This full-time nurse and wanna-be writer life has me torn. I vacillate between "Isn't my life exciting?" and "What am I doing with my life?" with the occasional veering off to "Who even am I??"

In an attempt to reconcile this double life I am leading, I like to think of myself as an incognito superhero.

My workplace disguise: crisp, monotone scrubs, hair neatly pinned back, glasses, "Gretchen - nurse" on my shiny name badge, smiling face as I make parents feel better about the fact that their baby is in an ICU.

My after-work super-ness: pajamas (or whatever's most comfortable, which might be nothing), hair in wild disarray, glasses flung across the room, writing emails signed "Pattertwig" or "Luna", smiling as I save the world, one word at a time...

So, I've got some work to do. I have the incognito part down. Still working on the superhero gig. Even so, the imagery helps. I feel less like two different people and more like one person wearing two very different hats.

Weather the storm

Expectations are dangerous. We enter into something with a certain outcome in mind. If that outcome is as we expect, we are more or less satisfied. If it is better, we are thrilled. If the outcome we had in mind does not come to pass or changes drastically, we are somewhere on the spectrum of disappointed to devastated.

There is only one way to withstand changes: flexibility. This is not to say you won't feel any number of emotions at your unexpected outcome. You may feel anywhere from elation to sorrow, depending on what it is you're facing. Without flexibility, we will break. A reed that expects only fair weather and sunshine will snap when the storm comes if it does not bend with the wind. Where are you when the storm passes? Did you succumb and are now lying on the ground, acres away from your home? Or are you once again reaching for the sun?

Curiouser and curiouser...

A friend asked me why I write. More specifically, why I started writing children's books. I started to spout off all my altruistic reasons. My "how I want to better the world one book at time" hopes and dreams.

He interrupted me, "No, no. Before all those ideas. Your first reason. What made you sit down and start writing?"

The answer was easy, "Oh, simple. Curiosity. I wanted to know what happened to Mr. Schnoozle."

Then I realized, isn't that always the first reason? From the very first book we get lost in as a young child, when our parents are reading it to us, we are curious. The curiosity is there before we can even speak full sentences, let alone read them ourselves. Who are these strange and interesting characters? What are they doing? Where are they going? What's going to happen to them? The previously egocentric child is now enthralled with the idea of someone else's story. Reading stories, or having them read to us, is one of our first lessons in empathy.

I loved that experience as a child. I still love that experience. It brings me the utmost joy to think that one day my words, and the stories they form, could cultivate the ever-essential virtue of empathy by igniting a child's imagination. Among many other reasons, this is why I write.

Neil Gaiman, in characteristic genius, puts it perfectly: "When you watch TV or see a film, you are looking at things happening to other people. Prose fiction is something you build up from twenty-six letter and a handful of punctuation marks, and you, and you alone, using your imagination, create a world, and people it and look out through other eyes. You get to feel things, visit places and worlds you would never otherwise know. You learn that everyone else out there is a me, as well. You're being someone else, and when you return to your own world, you're going to be slightly changed. Empathy is a tool for building people into groups, for allowing us to function as more than self-obsessed individuals."*

People sometimes say to me, "Write for yourself." To a certain extent, I do. The very act of it keeps me sane. When it really comes down to it, however, I write for us.


*Originally quoted in Maria Popova's Brain Pickings (7 Aug 2016) from Neil Gaiman's book, The View from the Cheap Seats.

Trust Fall

Today is the day. I can feel all the thoughts I've been collecting over the last few days (weeks?), and the emotions that come with them, swelling up within me, like a giant wave. It's about to crest, about to crash; white, foaming, and thunderous. I can already hear the roar, feel the reverberations in my imagination as I watch the might wall of water, grow in silence, gathering momentum as it draws from the waters that were resting in stillness on the shore, unsuspecting, just a moment ago. Let it fall.

Today is my daddy's birthday. He would've been 56 today. Instead, he never made it to 33. What would he tell me if he were here? I think he wouldn't say anything at all, not at first. He would stand there with his arms wide open, as he used to do for me and so many others before the lymphoma took him. With the kindest of smiles on his face, he would stand there, waiting for me to be ready; ready for the embrace of vulnerability and total abandon.

After holding me tight and letting me cry out all my fears, only then would he speak. He would tell me to be brave, he would talk to me of faith, and he would say, "Leap, Princess."

The sharing of these thoughts is that leap. I cannot fall into my father's arms. Instead, I am closing my eyes and falling backwards into a sea of proverbial arms. Your arms, my loved ones, trusting that you will catch me.

So what is this all about?, you are likely wondering at this point. This is about art, connection, and vulnerability.

As you may have noticed, I am not active on social media. Not really. I've always preferred one-on-one, in person, deep, genuine connection over a message on a screen. I want to be able to touch, hug, see the person I am talking with. I want to look into your eyes, watch the subtleties of your expressions as you emote, as you honour me with your story, and I want to mirror back love, telling you: I see you.

I can't do that on Facebook. I've finally realized, however, after many months of stubbornness, that I am an ocean away from the majority of my dear ones. This world of social media (that I have held in disdain for it's bastardization of true connection) is not the problem. I am the problem. I talk about wanting to connect, wanting to see people -- truly see them. But I am afraid to reciprocate. I am afraid to be seen.

It's safer to let you believe that my life is a smattering of holidays and adventures; pictures of me smiling in exotic places. After all, why would you want to hear about my struggles as an artist? Why would you care about the fact that I constantly feel like I'm torn in two between my writing life and my nursing life? Why would I tell you about the fact that I've written a children's book that I'm over the moon about? Wouldn't that be ego-centric and self-seeking? Not just that I've written one but that I actually want your help getting it out into the world? Who do I think I am, anyway?

These are the thoughts that plague me when I sign into Facebook, and cause me to sign right back out again. They are the voice of the Fraud Police (as Amanda Palmer* calls them). Every artist -- no, every person -- is attacked by the Fraud Police at one time or another. The voice (or voices) whisper to you before you create, as you create, and then when you get ready to actually share your creation, they begin to yell: "Illegitimate! Unworthy! You're a fake! No really, who do you think you are??"

This is the truth, so why wouldn't I share it? Isn't that the purpose of an artist? To communicate truth to the world with their chosen medium? This, for me, is the essence of vulnerability. I am standing before you saying: I have fears and goals, I have dreams and anxieties. This is my heart and this is my art. This is me sharing myself with you -- letting myself be seen. Don't let me fall, and I promise, when you are ready to make the leap, I will catch you.

My father knew when to admit he was afraid. He knew when to open his arms to love and be loved. This is me, following in his footsteps.

(*From Amanda Palmer's book, The Art of Asking. Brilliant read.)

Roots

The sun is ushering away the clouds on this chilly Saturday morning and the birds of South Yarra are positively thrilled about it. I am partaking in a few of my favourite things this morning: rising with the sun, reading the ever-inspiring Brain Pickings newsletter, putting on the kettle, and subsequently watching milk curl up in cloudy swirls as I pour it in my tea. And of course: writing. It is one of a few activities, such as dancing, which I do not engage in often enough. Rather than lament it, I am going to enjoy that fact that I am doing it now.

It is an exciting time in our household. We are moving. Our destination is the other side of the city to an apartment that has insulation, a spiral staircase, and a lack of black mould. I cannot say the same for our current residence. This move means a great deal of things for us. It invites (or insists, rather) a coming to terms. The goal is for this move to not be one of many, but one of few. It is a step in the direction of permanence. We have started the seedlings for our life together, and it is time to plant them. It is time for them to establish their roots -- our roots.

This means I must resolve myself to homesickness. I must accept it as a life-long companion. For even if we moved to Portland, after having made Melbourne our home, wouldn't I simply be re-naming my homesickness? No matter where we are, we are missing out on loved ones and their lives.

I digress... Yes, this is a time of establishment. We are tired of "playing house". We want to be part of a community; where the local coffee shop knows us by name and begins making our drinks as soon as we walk through the door.

For those of us who have become accustomed to (dare I say addicted to?) a certain level of chaos, it is a challenge to learn how to become comfortable with consistency. We shudder at the thought of routine. We've long-since associated comfort with boredom. However, if we give it a chance, maybe one day that feeling of comfort will naturally morph into a feeling of joy. The kind of joy that arises when one feels secure, and even (I cringe as I write this), settled.

Smuggler's Cafe

Watch for the moments.
Those shimmering moments -
of knowledge, of love, of pain.
Those moments when
your observations hang like magic
in the air.

The speckles of grey in my lover's beard,
the cracking paint on the cafe's wooden floor.
The piece of newspaper, folded up
and shoved under the table leg;
the table is stable, thanks to those crossword puzzles.
Over-sized Christmas lights and mediocre beach scenes hanging
crooked on the walls,
creating a feeling that invites a smile
and deters pretention.

All the while my mind overflows with love
for the man across me,
for the dimple in his right cheek,
for those strong, reliable hands
that turn the pages
of the Sunday morning paper.

And gratitude.
For the adventures we share,
for his gentleness,
for the way he calms me with his presence,
and makes my heart pound with a single look,
a single smile.

The moment shimmers,
unmistakable.
I take up my pen,
and write the magic,
before it passes.