More than Paddling

I figured a reflection on my favourite quote of the month would be a good idea, but then felt like a bit of a fraud. Eleanor Roosevelt’s advice to do one thing every day that scares you sounded like a good place to start, but when I realised I very rarely venture into uncharted waters, let alone do that on a daily basis, I thought anything I might say on the subject would be rather trite and coming from a philosophical standpoint rather than a practical, lived out one.

We live in the real world, right? Most of us simply get up, go to work, come home, have dinner, go to bed. The routine of our lives follows a fairly mundane pattern, but when you think about it we like the familiar, the predictable, the regular pay packet or Govt benefit. We come to rely on these things; they sustain us to a certain degree, but they don’t necessarily give our lives more meaning. 

And it’s meaning we crave, isn’t it? I know as I get older I have more years to look back on than I have ahead, and I wonder at what points in my life I dared to make decisions which were just that bit scary, against the norm, not the safe option, what seemed to go against all sense of reason, and were definitely outside my comfort zone. Fortunately, there were moments when I did manage to do that over the years, but much fewer than I would have liked.

Despite heading into middle age or old age, the dreams and desires we had back in our younger days never really leave us. They might take on another form, be somewhat less risky, for I know even clambering over rocks at the beach looking at rock pools has become perilous for me, but the idea of venturing out, trying something new, having an adventure, is very tantalising. Even we oldies like to have something to look forward to, and not just warm slippers and a cup of tea. No one wants to toddle off into the hereafter loaded with regret, wondering ‘what if.’ We all want our lives to mean something, to feel that somewhere along the line we’ve made a difference.

I’d love to be brave enough to Live in the Sunshine, Swim the Sea, Drink the Wild Air  (Ralph Waldo Emerson). To embrace life with such energy and abandonment and sheer joy sounds intoxicating, and the fleeting image of a swashbuckling Errol Flynn in full pirate regalia sporting that telltale dashing grin flashed across my mind. Is it even possible? We have our roles and responsibilities, the expectations of others, the mortgage or rent and bills to pay; how do you have that sort of life and still do real work in the real world?

When did I become a creature of habit, so predictable that the familiar has stunted my growth? Sometimes habits, especially comfortable ones, can hold you back (Karen Hawkins - The Book Charmer). Maybe I missed out on my rebellious adolescence and mid-life crisis. Wonder if I’m due for a cathartic personal revolution of some kind. Sounds a bit melodramatic, but we all need those moments when we reflect on the path our lives have taken, and take stock of whether where we find ourselves now is remotely where we dreamed we would be all those years ago. 

I am most definitely not the centre of the universe, so don’t expect everything to go my way or have all my dreams fulfilled. All this inward-looking has the danger of becoming self-indulgent if what I pursue simply focuses on me, to the detriment of all others around me. 

Coming to that point where what you do brings you alive and aligns with what you believe you should be doing can be quite a journey. I remember the first time I saw the kids’ movie Antz, realising by the end that Z the worker ant was fundamentally doing exactly the same as he’d been in the beginning, only there’d been a monumental shift in his attitude and understanding. What he saw as drudgery and lack of consideration for his individuality took on new meaning as he found purpose in what he was doing and discovered his place in the bigger story. To get to that place though, he had to step out and face danger, put his own agenda aside for the sake of the whole ant colony.

I’m not good at facing scary stuff, let alone committing myself to leaving the safety of the shore and heading out into deeper waters, losing my footing, being out of my depth. It’s more than uncomfortable Eleanor, and not the natural choice. I don’t want to be bitten, stung or eaten, and I definitely do not want to drown. But then again, I could just get a boat, that would at least get me going. 

Far-away horizons beckon us, and not only the literal ones. Whether young and full of energy or creaking at the knees, our hearts and minds are constantly challenged to be open, to embrace the unknown rather than fear it, to learn and grow, allow the worlds of others to impact our own. 

Why paddle in the shallows when there’s a whole ocean to explore?  

Fill or Be Filled

In the space of a minute these few lines entered my consciousness…

Every notebook
every page
every minute
of every day
is blank
until you fill it

I’d been staring out the study window, observing the bird activity in the backyard, poised with pen in hand to face my journal, but nothing had been forthcoming. The blank page can be a disconcerting thing, intimidating, stark white until I make my mark. Both inviting and confronting. As are the blank canvas or musical score, even a blank afternoon or evening. They present themselves and pose such questions as what, why, when, where and how they will be approached.

Is a moment in time only worthwhile if we put our stamp on it? What we do with each moment is entirely up to us, whether we go out there with a 10-point plan of how to achieve whatever goal we have in mind, or whether we come at life somewhat more low-key and allow situations and our surroundings to influence how we choose to move forward.

I’m more the low-key type, partly because I not only dislike planning too meticulously, which probably explains why I never complete anything writing wise, but I prefer to take in my immediate environment, observe it over a period of time, feel its moods and seasonal nuances, open myself to its leading, see where it will take me. Whether in nature, urban environments, or in the midst of the dynamics of family and friends’ relationships, I tend to hold back, take in as much as I can, wait for a response to emerge.

Creativity necessitates periods of what looks like doing nothing, what may seem to the casual observer a waste of time as we stare off into the distance or go for long walks without producing anything concrete, without doing any real work in the real world. But we need to venture into the interior before we can externalise our thoughts and ideas and emotions, before we can get a grip on what is lying beneath the surface, what it is we are wanting to present to the world.

And if that interior is barren, where do we go to from there?

Julia Cameron says in The Artist’s Way......In order to create, we draw from our inner well…If we don’t give some attention to upkeep, our well is apt to become depleted, stagnant, or blocked…We must consciously replenish our creative resources as we draw on them…by filling the well.

When farmers face prolonged drought, they have to dig deep to stay the course. As their livelihoods are stripped away along with the topsoil blown by scorching winds, how do they hang on? To be able to see beyond the cracked earth and broken dreams, believing rain will come, that life will return not only to the land but to themselves, takes courage and an underlying belief they are where they are meant to be. Without that hope, the white flag of surrender has already been raised.

I went for my first bushwalk recently after avoiding it during the summer months, too snaky this year, and realised what I’d been missing. My senses came alive as I moved away from the familiar streets and followed the dirt tracks until all trappings of civilisation were gone. My breathing settled, my mind less cluttered, my focus alternating between the broader vista and the abundance of details right at my feet. Birdsong became clearer, the rippling sounds of the creek rushing downhill increased, tantalising aromas of the bush tickled my nostrils, and the textures of bark and lichen under my fingertips reconnected me, not only to the bush but to myself.

I’d been neglecting what brings me alive, what stimulates my senses, what regenerates my spirit. A bushwalk, a simple thing, but an essential component of what I need if my inner well is to be refilled. I can’t draw on my inner resources if there is nothing there on which to draw. Along with my body, my mental, emotional, social and spiritual needs also need nourishing, otherwise I’ll shrivel up and be a poor substitute of what I could be.

There are other things I pursue to ensure the well doesn’t dry up, and for everyone it’ll be different. Music, painting, gardening, reading, art galleries, museums, playing in the park with the kids, fishing, swimming, writing, singing, travelling, the list is obviously endless, depending on our personal preferences. But unless we see such things as essential to our survival, instead of seeing them as less important than 'work' and merely luxuries to be indulged in, we will be missing out on the very things that enrich every part of our life, that make us more human.

I can fill a couple of pages with my rambling and throw it out there into the ether along with countless others, but am conscious I don’t need to do that all the time. I don’t need to make myself heard every moment of every day. What I do need is to take more notice, see as well as observe, listen as well as hear, tune in to my surroundings, drink from the well of life around me and absorb its goodness in order to replenish the well within.  

It Ain't Necessarily So

I have a friend who refers to me as ‘vertically challenged.’ After all, he is six foot something and I’m just a smidgen over five foot one, but somehow I’d never really considered that how he saw the immediate environment was any different to mine. That is, not until I used the booster step in our local store, a six-inch high step for the little kids to stand on, helping them see over the edge of the counter. As they grew, being big enough to hand over their own coins brought with it a sense of achievement, and even better was the milestone of being able to do it without the booster step at all. 

One day for no reason in particular I stepped on it as I came to the counter, and was immediately taken aback. Everything looked completely different from such an elevated position. I was no bigger, but I felt bigger, more prominent. My short stature has never made me feel inferior, and has never prevented me from participating in anything, but the added height in that moment caused me to think. As tall people look down on us shorties, do they look down their noses at us from their superior position, or see us as equals. And do we look up to them in more ways than one, maybe unnecessarily, feeling their stature somehow gives them more authority. 

A quote much bandied around in various forms, but attributed to Anais Nin from her 1961 autobiographical novel The Seduction of the Minotaur puts it succinctly.

We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

The first time I came across it I had to stop for a moment. Surely that’s not right, I thought, at which point it didn’t take long to realise she was exactly right.

From the cradle to the grave we come at life from our own particular viewpoint. How we’ve come to see the world in that way is dependent on so many things, from our ethnic, racial and religious background, our economic circumstances, academic achievement, physical and mental health, even where we are placed in the order of birth within a family. The list of family and environmental factors that weigh in to produce each unique being is endless, and we are at the mercy of our own parent’s ability or lack of it to negotiate a way through it all in our formative years, and somehow become a fully formed reasoning human being.

For some reason though, we believe what we see and understand is obviously the way it is, the right way, how could anyone possibly see it any differently. Police reports of crime or accident scenes can attest to the fact that no matter how many people give a written statement, you will end up with a wide variety of versions of the one incident. We see things from where we stand, through the filters built up over years. Not until we come up against someone else who perceives the exact same things in a completely different way, and can articulate why they see them that way, do we even consider there could be another way of experiencing the world.

I had contact with an American couple several years ago when Donald Trump was turning himself into a three-ring circus while pushing himself forward as a Presidential candidate. My friends and I looked on with horrified fascination, not thinking in our wildest dreams, or nightmare as it turned out, that anyone could possibly take him seriously. My American friends on the other hand had a completely different take on it, believing he could deliver and had popular support, so would bring stability and economic growth. No matter what we said, our arguments about his unsuitability for the role fell on deaf ears. Why couldn’t they see it? I guess they were thinking the same thing, wondering why we couldn’t understand their point of view.

The framework for how we see the world begins at birth, and is constructed, whether intentionally, meticulously or haphazardly, right through childhood and adolescence, and into adulthood, at which point we tend to follow certain pathways and make choices that enhance that perception. It usually takes a monumental event to shift that standpoint, especially if held with such tenacity that other points of view and attitudes are discounted, belittled, seen as irrelevant, and along with those differences those who hold them are likewise disenfranchised and held with little or no regard.

The TV series Go Back to where you Came From is a pretty clear illustration of how an entrenched attitude can be turned on its head. Not by argument, not by reasoning, not by bullying, but by experiencing the world from the standpoint of those we are so convinced have it all wrong. Meeting people face to face, hearing their stories, and not just hearing, but listening. True listening requires us to put our own agenda on hold, suspend our preconceived ideas, hold back the words on the tip of our tongue. 

How do I, how do we, have the courage to step back when it’s needed, and open ourselves to the chaos that another person’s world might have on our own. Forming a perception of ourselves and where we fit in the bigger picture is no mean feat, fraught as it is with many obstacles, but also many learning opportunities if we choose to embark on them. To have our opinions and beliefs challenged, to be confronted by how our actions impact others, to see our assumptions crumble and prejudices exposed, are we ready for that? Am I?

Could be scary, but could be just what we need.

Back to the Drawing Board

11 years and 3 months ago I had this idea, probably delusional as it turned out, that if I set aside chunks of time to clack away at the keyboard on a regular basis and produce a blog, the creative cogs in my brain would then fall into place, whirr into action and spur me on to greater things.

Has that happened? Of course not. Which begs the question, how badly did I really want to embark on something greater? What happened to that novel locked inside me waiting to burst forth? Not much, as it turned out. I find it difficult to sustain a project past a few chapters. I’m not bad at beginnings, it’s just that annoying middle part where you actually have to bring the story and its characters to life, and the end part where you have to pull it all together and tie up the loose ends, that brings me undone.

I have a short attention span when it comes to writing, which explains not only the dwindling number of entries on the Banishing Writer’s Block blog over the past few years, but why I ventured into writing a daily haiku for two straight years in 2017 and 2018, the second year of which was presented online as the Haiku Diary 2018 complete with poems, reflections and photos. Nothing much else made it on to any page anywhere for those two years. You’d think coming up with three lines a day would be a cinch, but getting to the essence of an experience or observation in no more than 17 syllables had its challenges, so after feeling somewhat haiku’d out I must admit to writing only a few in the last couple of years.

Have dabbled in writing short stories, which sounds simple enough, but there’s a real art to writing a compelling short story, and despite consuming hundreds by other authors, very few really grab me. The short story section in my bookcase has taken up quite a bit of space with the many volumes picked up over the years, but as I doubt I will read them again they have been bagged up and deposited at the local op shop for someone else to enjoy, all bar a few favourites. The novel is the dream, but self-doubt looms like an ever-present black cloud, menacing, ready to put a dampener on my feeble efforts. It’s not permanently over my head, so that’s at least promising.

So why all this whining you might say. As Nike so aptly put it, Just Do It. Obviously easier said than done, and I’ve reminded myself of this mantra on countless occasions, but as evidenced in my personal journal, I have arrived at this point more times than I care to admit. At one level I know what I need to do, but don’t seem to have the wherewithal to move forward, so once again I arrive at where I started this little rant, how badly do I want it?

I read prolifically, and gaze with envy at row after row of other people’s creative achievements every time I enter a bookshop. I scour second-hand bookshops, and find some of my most interesting discoveries have introduced me to authors I’ve never come across before and inspired me no end. But then there’s the debilitating effect of doubting I will ever have an offering to add to all those shiny bright brand new releases which seem to pop up with amazing regularity, sometimes even with authors in tow for the obligatory book signing.

There are indeed countless writers out there, published and unpublished, scribbling and clacking away with dedicated enthusiasm day after day, despite their own personal versions of self-doubt, for I’ve yet to meet any creative person who is not dogged by the fear of not being able to come up with the goods. Of never being able to produce not only one, but another book or painting, sculpture, film, song, poem, musical composition or dance or whatever art form they’re immersed in, to justify their reason for being and satisfy that constant urge to bring something from its embryonic stage into full life.

For a woman to birth something other than children and then mother it with the same sense of purpose, attention and care jumped distinctly off the page from Sue Monk Kidd’s latest novel The Book of Longings. It reminded me of my first few posts back in 2009 when I too wrote of bringing something to birth, the expectation, mixed feelings, the waiting and the labour involved as the stages followed their natural course.

So I’ve come full circle. I’m back where I started, with a dream, a desire, and still asking myself the question whether I’ve got what it takes. The only proactive step I’ve taken is to come to the realisation it’s high time I embarked on a new venture, hence this post both concludes Banishing Writer’s Block and begins my new blog Don’t Quote Me where I select a quote by someone other than me, whether notable or not, and reflect on what it could mean, both personally and more broadly.

Will ditching one blog and starting another get the creative juices flowing towards something more substantial? Who knows. Like spending a year in Tuscany or Paris or some idyllic Greek island to locate that quintessential writing environment, changing locations is simply a geographical move and brings no guarantees. So will it be any different this time around?

I guess we’ll have to wait and see.