Under Lockdown

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CAM00807Yesterday I once again got the dreaded, automated call from my daughter’s high school — the third time this school year — “under lockdown.”

My gut twisted and the muscles in my shoulders and arms seized up. I had that weird fight or flight adrenaline rush, weird because there was no where to go and nothing to do.

This call came late in the day (the last one took up a 3 1/2 hour chunk in the middle of the day), and when I texted Emma she was able, almost immediately, to report that she was safe, and they were being allowed to leave the school. She called it “being evacuated,” but just leaving the damn place was good enough for me.

This morning, at work in my writing cabin, I found myself reflecting on how context changes everything. Kind of like what I used to tell students about point of view. A new point of view = a new story.

I can be frustrated to the point of — I don’t know what — with this kid, ready to wrap her up in duct tape for the duration of her teen years, at the minimum, and then something threatens her safety, and I — just — want — her — to — be — okay.

During the last lockdown, the 3+ hour one, the kids had to use a bucket in their classroom for a toilet. They had water bottles to drink, and a few kids had packed lunches in their backpacks and were willing to share. Twice the police banged on the door and entered, making my daughter and the other students stand along the walls with their hands on their heads. (The most terrifying moment in the whole day, for Emma.) In Emma’s eyes, they were innocent teenagers locked in a room with a bucket for a toilet and not enough to eat. For the police, they were potential terrorists (I guess), or hostages harboring — in fear — some menace hiding behind a cabinet door or pretending to be one of them. See how the context shifts?

Emma says “it’s no big deal.” But yesterday, she went to bed about 5:00 and slept until 5:45 this morning when I woke her…to go back to school.

Your Inner Anthropologist

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Imagine that an anthropologist is studying your life.

Based on the evidence, what will he or she infer is most important to you?

1. Subject is devoted to Spider Solitaire. (That would be me.)

2. Whenever the cellphone beeps or pings or kaboodles, subject picks it up as if it were  a fussy baby and soothes it.

3. Subject watches television for several hours every evening.

4. Subject devotes substantial amount of income to espresso drinks.

And so on.

Not that any of this is necessarily bad (and maybe “creates beautiful family dinners,” or “knits sweaters” is what your anthropologist discovers), if these activities are what you wish to spend your life on. As Annie Dillard says, “How we spend our days is how we spend our lives.”

But here’s the real question for anyone reading this blogpost: Would your anthropologist infer that you are a writer, based on the evidence?

This idea doesn’t apply only to writing. A few years ago when I read Jeff Olson’s The Slight Edge, I realized that despite my flaky youngest daughter’s difficult behavior, if she was actually a priority for me (and she is), then I needed to find a way to have at least one positive interaction with her every day. Once I made that a priority, we began to make a little progress.

I asked a boyfriend of one of my older daughters what was most important to him. He got all glowy (it was kind of inspiring!) and went riffing off.

Anything outdoors!

Snowboarding!

Hiking!

He made his ideal life sound like it could be profiled in Outdoor magazine.

However, anytime I see this young man, he’s staring at his cellphone (one arm wrapped around my daughter) while watching television. Or (no arm around my daughter) he’s playing a video game. As far as I can tell, he spends most of his income on games and tee-shirts.

Bless him for highlighting a lesson for me. And of course it isn’t just him — we all spend inordinate amounts of our time doing what is not important to us.

If writing is important to you, you should write.

 

 

 

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

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fall winter 2012 013

I was awake at 5:30 this morning, eager to crack open my notebook and begin writing. But it’s 30 degrees here, and I am not good at being cold. I turned on the heater in my cabin, and then I carried my journal and my favorite pen inside. I turned on a lamp and I sat down in my comfy green chair.

Then, I stalled. Every word I wrote felt like an ice cube stuck with all the other ice cubes. I had to chisel each one free and it wasn’t rewarding. My fingers were blunt and stiff. Surfaces. Temperature. What I ate yesterday. What I might do later today, if I ever get out of this chair. I grabbed some poetry off the bookshelf next to my green chair and I read. Nothing grabbed me, but I copied out a short poem, and then I tried to write a poem using the same sort of gestures.

cabin2But what was the point?

Why write?

And then, I remembered to ask, What is this? What exactly is it that I’m feeling? Can I name it? Where did it come from? What is it trying to tell me? 

I remembered something I read yesterday in Tracey Cleantis’s book, The Next Happy. Fear can masquerade as lethargy. I wrote down that question, too: What am I afraid of? 

The pages began to warm up, and the words weren’t solid little cubes of ice anymore. They began to flow.

Gratitude

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Photo post.

Source: Gratitude