Hooray! My kids (age 12 and 14) went back to school last week.
Boo! I have a puppy who’s on day four of diarrhea and mild depression. (The puppy has the intestinal distress. I have the depression.)
As someone with bipolar 2, I tend to spend most of my unstable-mood time in depression rather than mania. And as my husband recently reminded me, I tend to take a dip each September. I hate that about myself. By now I really should have control over my moods … you know, just like someone with poor eyesight should have control over how light rays bend as they pass through the cornea. Ha.
Beyond the current mood slide, the past ten months have offered other distractions that have pulled me from noveling: two nasty surgeries (foot and sinus), freelance projects (huge in time, dinky in money), adventures in caring for aging parents, roller coaster rides with a particular teenager whom I love very much. And of course, summer: 2.5 months during which my kids became obsessed with magic tricks. I watched a lot of magic tricks over the summer. Maybe about 450,000 magic tricks.
I wish my kids could teach me to wave a magic wand and make depression disappear. Escort it into a box then saw the box in half. Turn it into a beautiful white dove. I wish my kids could magically pump the world with a little helium so it didn’t feel so dang heavy.
I am getting to my point.
You, too, might have fragile brain wiring. You might have had recent health adventures, family obligations, loads of work. You might be an over-empathizer who feels weighty sorrow on behalf of those facing hurricanes, racism, famine, acts of terrorism and 8.1 quakes. Your heart might be cracking on behalf of refugees, immigrants, and the general state of the not-very-United States.
Aren’t I cheery today!
My point (in the form of a question) is this: When we are in one of these unwelcome periods where the world weighs too much, when we feel flat and sad and weary, when we are distracted by life’s life-ishness, how do we keep writing? Or in my case, how do I start writing again?
I might have an idea.
A few weeks ago, I was listening to a radio interview with an author named Karl Ove Knausgaard.
Kah-rel Ooh-vuh Kah-nous-gard.
You might have heard of KOK because apparently he has a cult following. I had never heard of him, perhaps because I am too busy following the cult of depressing national and global news. In this radio interview, KOK spoke of his new book, Autumn, a collection of essays for his unborn daughter.
KOK’s essays, the interviewer shared, are christened with simple titles: Jellyfish, The Migration of Birds, Apples, Ambulances, Thermos Flasks, Labia.
I know!
In the introduction, he addresses his soon-to-be-born daughter.
These astounding things, which you will soon encounter and see for yourself, are so easy to lose sight of, and there are almost as many ways of doing that as there are people. That is why I am writing this book for you. I want to show you the world, as it is, all around us, all the time. Only by doing so will I myself be able to glimpse it.
I finished listening to the KOK interview while sitting in my driveway, the car engine running, and it hit me: over the past ten months, I have been focusing mostly on the startling, overwhelming and difficult. I have neglected to notice the specific, ordinary and simple. I have forgotten to notice everyday, astounding things.
I made a mental note to look up Karl Ove Knausgaard’s book when I got inside the house.
By the time I got inside the house, I had forgotten.
My brain is a sieve.
But a few days later I was listening to Sherman Alexie’s new memoir, You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me. Alexie too writes about the specific, ordinary and simple. About quilts, salmon, silverware and porcupine roadkill.
“[F]or the rest of my life,” Alexie shares, “I will think of my mother … and the dozens of times she gave extraordinary meaning to ordinary porcupines and their quills.” Alexie then asks, “How does one commemorate the ordinary?”
This time I remembered to purchase Autumn, 224 pages of commemorating the ordinary.
It occurred to me that the big events and concepts–politics, news events, human suffering–clamor and claw for my attention. Unfortunately, it’s those loud and distressing things that feel like concrete shoes and keep me from focusing on creative work. I can’t be so creative when I am constantly focused on life’s big and heavy stuff.
But aren’t we as creative people supposed to focus on the big and the heavy? Let’s face it. Ruminating about porcupine quills, bird migration and thermos flasks is silly when there’s actual important stuff going on in the world. Right?
A few weeks ago, I was filling out some medical paperwork for my son, the nascent 9th grader, and one of the sections asked me to list the dates of his developmental milestones–first words, teething, rolling over, walking, speaking in full sentences. I could not remember the dates or circumstances of those big moments, nor had I documented them. The details had vanished in between the couch cushions of my brain. What kind of mother doesn’t keep track of the milestones!
I spent two weeks feeling horrible about that. (Thank you, depression!)
But Karl Ove Knausgaard and Sherman Alexie might say those “big” moments are no more important than the ordinary moments. In fact, they might say those big moments are less important. Could this be true?
I gave it (paying attention to the mundane) a try:
Iced coffee in a wine glass on an 89 degree summer day. No A/C.
My son’s ability to harmonize with his sister’s humming.
Italian plums suspended like Christmas ornaments from the tree in our back yard.
The beautiful chocolate-colored beauty mark on my daughter’s cheek.
The smell of my puppy’s feet (somehow they smell like pretzels).
The sound of my husband spraying shaving cream into his palm.
Are these things more noteworthy than the big, heavy, distracting things happening in our world? I’m not sure. I do know they are easier to hold and savor. In those small things, beauty sparkles. When I contemplate those simple images and sensations, life feels manageable.
Maybe a thermos flask deserves as much commemoration as a baby’s first smile. Perhaps the migration of birds is far more interesting than the daily political drama. And where would we be without labia? It’s tough to say. That alone is worth some contemplation.
I think I can try to ditch the funk, reignite my curiosity and get my writing muscles back by focusing on the purely ordinary. I’ll let you know how it goes.
What works for you when you are out of shape, writing-wise? How do you keep writing when you hit life’s speed bumps? Will you write a few sentences that commemorate something ordinary? Please? We’d love to read it.
Photograph compliments of Flickr’s Jean-François Thibault.
About Sarah Callender
Sarah Callender lives in Seattle with her husband, son and daughter. A crummy house-cleaner and terrible at responding to emails in a timely fashion, Sarah chooses instead to focus on her fondness for chocolate and Abe Lincoln. She is working on her third novel while her fab agent pitches the first two to publishers.
I, too, get obsessed with the big, awful things and all the noise. And having suffered damage to our home from Superstorm Sandy (was it wearing a cape?), I’ve been particularly devastated seeing all the folks in Houston and Florida getting that first look at their waterlogged homes and knowing what’s ahead for them.
Thanks for reminding us to see and to cherish the simple things.
Hi Mary,
Yes, I can only imagine how the footage and news of the storm and the flood brings you right back to a place you’d rather not be. And yes, you understand the rebuilding and dehumidifying process better than someone like me. I understand earthquakes, but that’s a far cry from fourteen feet of standing water.
Don’t you think that we writers tend to be over-achievers when it comes to empathy? It’s a gift and a burden … though my husband might say it’s mostly the latter.
Thank YOU for your empathy. Happy fall to you!
Yes Sarah, we writers are over-achievers in the empathy department. And yes, feeling deeply is both a blessing and a curse. But it takes us places some people never get the chance to be.
Good luck with your novel-pitching! Hope the fall brings you much luck!
From where I write every day, during the warmer months I can see the hummingbird feeder. The hummers come for a few seconds. If I don’t take off my computer glasses and look, right away, they’re gone. I’ve never been able to get a decent photo.
When I write, I block the internet, and suddenly the world becomes very small, and then it expands again into the one of the story, and all is well, no matter how hard the writing.
The modern world can intrude on you 24/7 if you let it. It seems so important, but I can literally do NOTHING to change it. My one contribution to humanity is the story I’m writing. Nothing unessential should be that important, but it is because it fills the void.
I am content.
I contemplate how the squirrels are similar and so different from the chinchilla, even though they both have the hopping gait and grey fur and a bushy tale. And how gorgeous the color of the crepe myrtle is.
The speed bumps in my life have been one continuous washboard. Slowing down turns them into rolling hills.
“When I write, I block the internet, and suddenly the world becomes very small, and then it expands again into the one of the story, and all is well, no matter how hard the writing.”
Yes. Thank you.
I agree! I am posting that quote on the wall right in front of my computer. It’s beautiful.
:)
Oh Alicia. Some much lovely stuff in this comment … I am guilty of taking the speed bumps at 30 mph, or at least trying to. My car always protests, as do my passengers. I love the image of the washboard becoming a series of rolling hills.
You remind me to slow the heck down so the bumps aren’t as jarring. It’s counterintuitive but so true!
Thank you.
To Alicia’s excellent observation, I would add another I’ve recently made: that the path to that small but expanding world gets shorter and more easily and swiftly trod with consecutive days of purposely seeking it. Thanks, Alicia. Wishing you the best, Sarah!
Yes, Vaughn! It’s the whole muscle memory thing, right? Or the “a body in motion tends to stay in motion” hoo-hah.
Thank you, dear sir, for this reminder.
And, the “small but expanding world” idea is brilliant. When I pay attention to the small things, the world is immense in a wonderful way.
URGr8.
I find that it is the little things that turns a good work into a great work.
Yes, David! I think it’s so easy to look for a big, fancy strategy, technique, or plot to make a story great. You are right–the opposite is true.
A few years ago, my family and I went to the Newseum in Washington DC and one of my favorite exhibits was the gallery of the Pulizter Prize winning photographs over the decades. Most or all of those of those photos depict the smallest and simplest of moments. Ordinary moments. And that’s what makes them so compelling–the story that resides in those small details.
http://www.newseum.org/exhibits/current/pulitzer-prize-photographs-gallery/
Thank you!
The media has always profited from exaggerating the importance of events that, when you think about it, make no difference to you, personally. They want you to think those events are important. They don’t make any money unless you do, so they use every tool of modern psychology to get you to watch or look — “This One Simple Trick May Save Your Child’s Life!”
It’s all hype and exaggeration, with lenses zoomed in tight on the abnormal and terrifying, while the normal and reassuring right next to it gets cropped out of the picture.
But five years from now, which will you remember: the latest celebrity “scandal” in the press or your puppy having diarrhea? Which really makes a bigger difference in your life: Lady Gaga’s medical problems or your son’s harmonizing with your daughter?
My favorite image ever is simply my wife sitting in a tree, smiling. Just thinking about it makes me happy. It’s an ordinary photo, but no other work of art pleases me as much.
I wish I could see that photograph, Skip. I know it is beautiful simply because it is so quiet.
And thanks for the reminder of how I can be manipulated by the news machine … I am certainly guilty of clicking over to something that is, in the end, as satisfying and substantial as cotton candy. I do that time and time again … now I will hear your words and perhaps that will serve as my warning not to surrender to the cotton candy!
Have a great day, Skip!
:)
Oh, boy (girl!), did I ever need this post today.
I have found myself in the September Glums, as both of my kiddos have high-tailed it out of New York for college elsewhere (726 miles away for one, 2716 miles away for the other, not that I’m counting). No one knows how to keep you rooted in the specific, ordinary and simple the way kids do — even older kids, even when some of their issues become less simple.
Still.
I, too, feel shut out of my writing at present, and I, too, have felt overwhelmed with world issues. The last year or so feels like a blur. Oh, it IS 2017? Got it. What is happening to time?
I guess in a way it makes sense why we start to lose ourselves when things feel so big — the future of our country, the fate of our planet, the devastating impact of floods and earthquakes and fires, the potential for nuclear catastrophes (726 miles away or 2716 miles away or any number of miles away); these are topics as big as they come, for us, right now. Ignoring all of that to focus on one person–their needs and thoughts and feelings–seems almost irresponsible, right? But then I hear of good people risking their lives to save others trapped in buildings or cars, Mexicans who crossed the border to volunteer aid to Texans, a stranger giving up the last available generator so that someone she didn’t know would be able to supply oxygen to an ill parent, a woman who sat by a Muslim woman on a subway when she witnessed her being taunted, a man who walked displaced dolphins into the sea, and I remember the power of one. I’ve even started to file these stories away, so I can remember, when the Glums hit, that there is so much good out there still, even in the dark.
And, see, I feel better, having looked through that file, than I did when I started this comment.
You asked for a commemoration of the ordinary… I shared my deck this summer with a rose-breasted grosbeak, feeding him oats and sunflower seeds, and taking as many pictures of him as I could. He had the best song, too, which I captured as a recording. Listening to that now.
I have two of Sherman Alexie’s books but not You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me; thanks for the recommend. Thanks, too, for this post, which has already helped to shape my day in the best of ways.
Wishing you such good luck with your puppy, and in reconnecting with your wip! Most especially, wishing you well as you cope with your depression. Sending you many positive thoughts, Sarah.
Oh, thank you, Therese! I’m just surprised you haven’t measured the distance in feet between you and your babies … or have you?
I am going to copy-cat you and start a file of good things. The File-o-Goodness. Because you are right–goodness is there, all over the place, when we take the time to pay attention.
I am obsessed with birds, and I love imagining you feeding your little rose-breasted buddy. And man, that is some rosy breast! What a show off! I hope he is still humble when he’s hanging out with his friends.
A few people have also mentioned birds in their comments today; there must be something that attracts us to these small, perky, singing creatures. I love the funny little tilts of their heads and the insistence with which they communicate … the same thing, over and over. It’s like me chirping at my kids: Put your shoes away! Put your socks away! Put your sweatshirt away! Why are your shin guards on the table? Put your dishes in the dishwasher! Put the toilet seat down! Put the toilet seat up! Who borrowed the packing tape and didn’t put it back in the junk drawer? Tweet tweet tweet.
I’m not as pretty-sounding as a grosbeak.
I am thinking about YOU as you reconnect with your WIP. I know it’s beautiful. I just know it.
They say the devil is in the details. I’m not sure who the expert on the devil was who said that or exactly what that means, but I do know the imagining of that sentence can bring about full stories. I once was forced to read a James Joyce short in some lit class. He went on and on about the spoons at a tea party. But on hind sight he never mentioned their gleam just that they were bourgeois and boring. I didn’t know what bourgeois meant so I couldn’t agree or disagree, but I made up my mind to learn French. I did find the story boring. In all of Joyce’s lamentation and criticism of that bourgeois stuff he’d forgotten to notice that when the sunlight hits silver in a certain way it gleams like magic trapped inside an ordinary everyday object. I suppose his attention was undivided on the bigger picture of the devil. Here’s to the little devils. The ones in the details.
Ha! I love this. I just looked up the idiom and yes, the meaning is relevant: the devil is in the details means that what looks simple is often much more messy and complex and potentially problematic. And to your point, a spoon can be, if we examine it, so much more than a metal utensil.
We writers often use that idea (all is not what it appears) to create and sustain tension. When something a character says or does seems a bit off, it hooks a small part of our brain and we want to keep reading to find out if, in fact, there is something hiding under the surface.
And wouldn’t our stories be dull without the wily presence of an devilish antagonist? Our stories would put our readers to sleep without the presence of temptation, greed, deceit, lust, and everything else that’s “bad.”
I am veering way off course here, but thank you for allowing me to detour.
Happy writing, sweet woman!
Thank you, Sarah. This was exactly what I needed this morning.
I’m with you in that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time focused on things beyond my reach. My heart is heavy with the hurt of it all and the immensity of it all.
And it has gotten in the way of my writing. The draft I had sworn I’d finish by the end of July was still unfinished at the end of August and remains unfinished well into September.
Lately, I’ve tried to do just what you propose–focus in on the small things that make up my life. I’ve started taking pictures–I want to take one everyday, not of the monumental big things we always take pictures of, but of the little things that are like gifts in my life: A spray of red and green maple leaves, the misty grey mood of the pond in the park where I walked on a drizzly day, my baby granddaughter’s fascination with a ceiling fan that whirled slowly above our heads, her brother chasing bubbles in the backyard.
With luck, I will take these little gifts and bring them back into my writing along with the smell of rain and the taste of coffee with just enough cream. I hope they will light up my story and allow me to (finally) finish it, and to remember how much I love this writing gig and why I bother to put words to the page in the first place.
Oh Ute. Thank you for this beautiful comment (and for the idea of taking photographs). And isn’t fall such a beautiful time to capture the simple things? When I binge on current events, I feel like I have eaten a dozen donuts. When I notice the way water droplets hang, suspended from a bare branch, I am fueled and satisfied. I am going to take a page from your book of good ideas.
Thank you and bless you for sharing your empathy!
You can do it. So can I.
:)
Such a timely post for me, Sarah. I’d almost wonder if you had been one among the many cute little chipmunks who frequent our deck, privy to the details of the challenges and difficulties I have been dealing with over the past ten plus months.
Honoring the ordinary has been my lifeline–for living and for writing what I can in between the bumps.
As weather has permitted, my beloved husband and I have enjoyed many meals at the table under our big blue umbrella on the aforementioned deck.
Watching the multitude of birds flit in and out to the feeders, listening to their various distinct tweets and chips, has provided peace and encouragement for my spirit and soul.
The smell of fresh basil growing in nearby pots, the stillness of a quiet summer evening, the passing of giant, puffy pieces of white clouds–all have been ordinary. Or is that extraordinary?
Thank you again for your beautiful post. As i go for yet another medical test this afternoon, you have made my day brighter.
Micky,
Thank you for sharing the beauty of your surroundings (I could smell the basil warming in the afternoon sun) and the heartache of your life’s bumps.
I have been reminding my kids that life is not supposed to be easy … but I’d be lying if I didn’t wish it could be a lot easy-ER. I am thinking of you and your beautiful back yard today, hoping the puff of cumulus clouds buoys you.
Thank you for sharing your words!
sarah
LOVE.
Thank you.
:)
Thank YOU, Erin. I hope your day is brimming with small and mighty miracles.
Today’s miracle is that I finally finished unpacking the car 10 days after coming home from my hiking trip. The stuff’s not all put away yet, but it is in the house. Baby steps.
That is HUGE! Sometimes I go months without unpacking a suitcase. When my kids still did Easter baskets, plastic eggs, etc, the baskets, green plastic grass and plastic egg halves would sit in the corner of my bedroom for 12 months. It’s one of my fatal flaws.
Thank you for the laugh! I hope it was a great hiking trip.
:)
Thank you for the beautiful post, Sarah. And thanks for the reminder that there is beauty and wonder in the ordinary. Yes, so much terror and sadness in the world, but the golden light of early fall, just before sunset, brings such joy. (And yes, melancholy because that’s how I roll — I suspect you do too!)
So grateful to you for sharing.
Thank you, Lorraine. Yes, we are big feelers. I wouldn’t change it though sometimes I look at my husband and envy his ability to feel the world in a much more manageable way. It’s hard to be a big feeler. It’s also wonderful, and I think it allows us to leap into our characters’ shoes.
I wish you a very happy early fall and many hours of productive writing (and noticing).
:)
Thank you, it’s just what I needed today!
Thanks, Christina. To be honest, this post was really self-serving. *I* needed to hear and internalize the power of the small and simple. Thanks for going along with it.
:)
What Erin said, above!! Just talking about this with my daughter, the ordinary things being the ones that collect into a life well-lived. The hard days and the good days. Such beautiful stuff here, Sarah, from you and everyone.
Hi Susan,
I agree wholeheartedly that everyone’s comments are amazing and inspiring. It really shouldn’t surprise me!
And happy belated to you! I hope it was a perfect day filled with Susan-o-rama.
:)
Sarah, I’m so sorry you are overwhelmed with the big things. We’ve been more than a bit distracted due to Irma but what’s been beautiful is seeing people coming to help one another. Truly, a grace-filled time. Yesterday I saw the teeniest little frog–he’s smaller than my pinky fingernail and translucent. The only reason I saw him is because he was hopping in the blades of grass. And I almost walked through a magnificent spiderweb. How amazing that these tiny creatures weather the wind and rain. And in my backyard, the hummingbirds were looking for the feeder. I can’t help but give thanks to God for everything, even the storm, because it’s brought us all together. Here’s to celebrating the small and beautiful moments in our lives!
Thank you, Vijaya, for these beautiful images. The translucent pinky-nail frog is my favorite. It really is a beautiful world we live in, and you are right–the challenge of these storms managed to bring out so much good and love. I wonder if we, as a nation, are craving the opportunity to show love to our neighbors, regardless of their politics and values.
I like to believe we are hungry for compassion and kindness. :)
Thank you for your words here!
Sarah,
What a lovely brain you have. Another WOW here. Writing is my “home.” Which sometimes pulls me away from my family and I have to work on that–but it’s my escape. Yes, I know what’s going on in the world and my empathy meter is worn out. But inside the paragraphs and flowing sentences of my on-going story is MY WORLD. One I control and worry over, one I love to embellish with things like soaring birds or the sound of a motherly voice, or kind words between strangers. This is lovely and underlines: you’re a writer along with your other accomplishments: mother, wife, friend. Thank you.
Dear Beth,
So lovely. Thank you … and I love that you call writing your “home.” I don’t think I’ve heard another person refer to writing in that way, but it makes perfect sense. I doubt not-writers would understand it, but I most certainly do. We writers are a weird and wonderful people, no?
I am, as always, grateful for your beautiful and encouraging comments.
Happy home-building to you!
:)
Hi Sarah,
I’m sorry for how you’ve been feeling. I too have been in a real funk for some time. I live the Houston area and although our home was not affected by the flood some of my neighbors were. Then the pressure came on tenfold when Irma made it’s way to Florida. My entire family lives in Miami and other parts of the the state where Irma made its path. Needless to say it has been a very trying few weeks. Thankfully, and by the Grace of God, no one in my family or any friends were impacted by the Monster Hurricane. Yesterday I happened to glance out my back window and for the first time since I’ve lived in Sienna Plantation, I saw a small squirrel on my magnolia tree. I stopped and smiled as she (or he) scurried across the branch. It reminded me that God watches all of us. And I’m grateful.
Yes, Danys! Isn’t it amazing how the presence of a rodent in a magnolia can bring so much hope? Furry little brown bushy-tailed hope.
You truly have had a rough go over the past few weeks. I am so glad your home was not harmed AND that your family is safe. It is hard to imagine the long journey that so many people now face. While I don’t have the threat of hurricanes, it’s most definitely Seattle’s turn for a major earthquake. Just this past week, I have restocked and bolstered our family’s emergency bins. It gives me a false sense of security, but I’ll take it!
Thank you for sharing your hope in the small moments.
Hi Sarah,
When I started reading your post, I immediately thought of Sherman Alexies’s new memoir before you mentioned it. It’s so powerful I don’t have words to describe it. I’m glad you’ve read it and have turned to the ordinary.
I just spent a couple of days in the hospital and wrote my first prose poem about the hospital bed mattress. Talk about ordinary.
I’m behind you in all you do and all you endure. You have a great talent.
Mary
Thank you, Mary. I hope your hospital stay was not too traumatic … I do love that you wrote a poem about a hospital bed. Makes me happy just thinking abut it. I hope you are back to good health and are fully recovered.
And yes, can we please talk about Sherman’s memoir?!? He lives in my neighborhood and his kids, while a few years older than mine, went to the same elementary school. I would see him in the parking lot and get so nervous and silly.
I had the opportunity to teach a poetry unit to a group of 5th graders and lo and behold, his son was in the class. I was more than a little nervous to teach a poetry unit to the son of Sherman.
Anyway, I am listening to his book via Audible, and he’s the narrator. It’s almost too beautiful and painful to bear. I’m so glad you have been touched by it too.
Here’s a big hug coming your way!
:)
Sarah, this is such a beautiful post and a great reminder that the ordinary moments are really the only moments that we have in our actual lives. I’ve made a conscious effort to avoid getting sucked into the media hype machine and it’s made a world of difference in my mental state and my writing. I think paying attention to the mundane details in our lives dignifies and elevates them, and who couldn’t use more dignity and elevation in their lives?
You asked for a few sentences that commemorate the ordinary. Three immediately came to mind:
1. There’s construction going on near me. Normally, the sounds would be annoying, but I noticed a particular sequence of sounds (the power drill, maybe?) reminded me of the opening bars to Music Box Dancer.
2. I tried a new-to-me liqueur called creme de violette. It’s exactly what you think it is: a liqueur made of violets–delightful! It’s used in pre-Prohibition era cocktails such as the Aviation and turns them a ghostly purple hue.
3. My cat sometimes drools while she purrs and her chin gets all wet.
This brought me so much joy, Grace. Thank you for sharing with us these snapshots of your world. The juxtaposition of the construction, the liquor and the happy cat? Pure and simple beauty and goodness.
Thank you, thank you!
Sarah, it does seem likely that locusts will drop from the skies and boils appear on our flesh, the way things have been going lately. There was a home-invasion shooting just up the street from me this past Sunday, there’s a threatening squatter who has two domestic violence charges in the past month just below our property, lurking on the property of one of our good neighbors, who died of illness two nights ago. My own fragile brain wiring crackles and spits when seasons turn toward less light, so I follow you on that count.
So, when my comical tail-less (but not tale-less) cat whooshed down the hall after an imaginary rabbit this morning and couldn’t stay her careening hardwood-floor flight, bashing into the front door, and then rising with a stage-presence face of “nothing to see here—all in control,” I laughed out loud. The ordinary things, they are sweet.
(Not sure about that pretzel-footed dog though. Has he been sleeping in the pantry?) Thank you for some dear words.
Your words, Tom, are dearer. Thank you.
I think my dog is working nights at Mariners games in the concession stand. Hence the pretzel paws. I laughed out loud with your cat scene. Thank goodness for our pets, right?
Man, while there’s too much tough stuff going on in other states and countries, you also have worrisome things going on just outside your front door. My brain is snapping and crackling along with yours in solidarity.
Here’s a hug. It’ll take about 13 hours to arrive on your front porch, depending on wind and weather, but it’ll get there!
Thanks, Tom. We’ll hang in there together.
Dear Sarah, your post helped to start my day in the best possible way, so thank you. “Fragile brain wiring” indeed! That’s the perfect way to put it. Recently I had a good rhythm going in terms of getting my creative work started again–but then came a big distraction. Doubts and exhaustion and anxiety. Connection broken. I think that to focus on the ordinary is excellent advice for any writer (also to avoid obsessing over the news, as someone above mentioned). I wish you much success in your creative endeavors!
Thank you, S.K. Here’s a fact: while your connection might have been lost, it’s just momentary. I promise!
Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.
Hi, Sarah:
I’m not sure there’s anything more dispiriting than illness in the context of a pet. You just wish you could explain things to them–both if they’re sick or you are. You connect with them on such a fundamental level and yet this essential and inescapable part of both your lives remains out of reach. You can care for them and they can keep you company. But my late wife, near the end of her fight with cancer, once remarked, “I just wish I could talk to them about it.”
I’m a sucker for music, and if I’m depressed and unable to write I turn to a piece of music that conjures for me something about the story or a certain character and I let that spur my imagination. I also give myself permission to write as little as I feel I can and as badly as I need to.
These help me because my depression is usually caused by internalized anger or criticism. So if I allow myself to enjoy something beautiful and forgive myself for being unproductive or imperfect, it goes a long way toward turning my mood around.
Then again, my biggest asset is probably my bride. I’m the knd of person who can put a dark cloud on any silver lining you can offer, and I typically wake up in a state of unease if not outright dread. Mette, on the other hand, is preternaturally chipper, and almost always wakes up rested and happy. It’s not so much an inspiration as a lesson: glum ain’t the only way to go.
Hope you and the pup both feel better pronto.
Thank you, David! I always love hearing about your bride. This sounds weird, but will you tell me how you pronounce her name? I like to pronounce people’s name correctly when I talk to them in my head (ha ha).
And yes, forgiving oneself! As I age, I am doing an impressive amount of sagging and aching, but my forgiving myself skills are getting pretty fantastic, most days, though I had an epic parenting fail two days ago and am having trouble letting that one go. Good thing I am only mid-way through life! Plenty of time (I hope) to keep working on that.
Thank you for your generous posts and comments. You’re a peach!
Thanks for opening the door on this discussion Sarah. Struggling with mood related mental illness is tough, and definitely as real and life-skewing as light through a bent cornea.
Like you, I go through my biggest dip in depression in the season shift, usually late August. It usually manifests in an all-is-lost fatalism wherein I want to give up on my writing. I tossed out not just my current book but all my aspirations as a writer, to instead look for something more down to earth that won’t always equate to pain. Yea, light through bent corneas indeed.
I tend to lean more toward mania than depression, but mania is its own set of trouble. Particularly: when one’s writing is so brilliant it will change the world (and it’s actually crap that doesn’t stink until the delusive up-state is past). So my struggle has been looking too much in the big and failing to see the beauty of the simple.
One thing that’s helped me a lot is gratitude journalling. I love your list of simple things you noticed wherein such depth of life lurks. Journalling helps me get grounded in the things that happened in a given day that I’d not stop to think about. I have to come up with at least three, and usually when I break the wall and get past one, I find I want to keep going way past three. There really are so many gems hidden in our life, it’s just a matter of orienting our mind to look for them.
Up, down, either way bipolar 2 = stuff is tough. A psychiatrist once told me the goal of recovery is looking toward the middle ground. Ain’t that the mantra for all though, not just those who are subject to extremes. Perhaps we can bring a special perspective to those who don’t sail the high waves or sink into the deep valleys. Whatever you write, you have something special to give, and it’s simple: it’s you. So let’s write on, my friend!
(For the record, I came to my senses after depression cleared — I’m back in full swing on my novel and happily forging ahead into an exciting 4th draft.)
Oh, thank goodness! I am so glad you included that final paragraph as I was going to hop a plane and hug some sense into you.
Your words remind me to seek moderation. I’ve always been particularly silly when it comes to moderation. Who wants to reside in the gray areas? Not me. Well, actually, yes I do. At least a little, at least sometimes. It’s easier for me to be around me when I seek and strive for middle ground.
Thanks for sharing your adventures and your challenges.
Carry on with your fourth draft! Good work!
Thank you, Sarah, and to everyone else who commented, for this post today. It was lovely to read and such a great reminder that we need to stay the course and that focusing on the ordinary can help so much. I too have found myself discouraged by recent events and often feel too burdened to write. The state of our country, the world. My 14-year-old, sweet cat with a sarcoma who I will have to euthanize sometime in the next month or so. My convalescing golden retriever who wants to race around the yard and chase squirrels but who I have to keep quiet so his ACL repair can heal. The medical procedure I will have tomorrow – here’s hoping that it works. Will it hurt? Probably.
I think Ann Patchett said that “life is difficult for sensitive people”. We feel things harder and longer. It is so true. And you can’t explain it to people who aren’t.
Oh, and I know how the puppy thing can drag you down. They are so adorable, but oh, so much work. Next time I think I’m going to adopt a sedate, older dog with sloe eyes who loves for me to pet him and barely wants to get up when it’s time to go out.
Focus on today. On the simple. The ordinary. I will remember that. And I’m going to focus on those things in my WIP. Thank you.
Thank you! I am so sorry about your sweet cat. We had to put one of our cats down last year. I was a ridiculous mess in the vet’s office. And for a good chunk of time afterward. Anyone who doesn’t consider a pet “one of the family” has never had a pet.
As for yesterday’s procedure, I do hope it was an unpainful success. Thank you for your words here!
xo!
Observing the ordinary. Sometimes you find it in the most unexpected places.
I was just leaving the grocery store, walking behind an older couple dressed in church finery. He walked with a cane, hunched over, slow and painful. She moved confident beside him, his protector. She stepped to his left side, the one without the cane, and reached for his hand. He took her wrinkled hand with his gnarled fingers. When they heard the rattle of my shopping cart behind them, they stepped aside.
“I’m sorry,” she said, perhaps for being too slow, too old, too everything.
“Please don’t ever apologize for being in love,” I said.
Thank you for the reminder.
This is just so beautiful–both the scene you painted and your response to this dear couple. I can’t imagine how lovely your words must have sounded to them.
You made a huge difference in the world when you noticed their love.
<3
Sarah,
so well-told and -said… you’ve caused many sweet ripples ~
very interesting re the birds – I had already written this a few days ago, and there they are…
Over here, this parliament of magpies; there, a thriving colony of ants. And in between are we, un-settled, lost, unknowing.
Stop to take heart at the perfectness of black-and-white becoming perfect iridescent tail. Step carefully around the ants.
The heavens hold; the world is still in place.
Oh, Anneliese,
Thank you for sharing this. You are right: the heavens are still there, and the world is still here. There is great comfort in such simple statements of fact. And so good for us to remember.
And the magpies. A parliament? Gorgeous. You are a poet. Thank you for sharing this hope.
Oh, Sarah, what an amazing. lovely post. I was going to skip WU for a few days, then catch up on the weekend, but fortunately (for me) I’m not that disciplined. Your writing is so warm and welcoming, a blend of grace and tender humor I find irresistible. While reading your post I was reminded of two books I turn to whenever I’m feeling overwhelmed and stressed: “Gift from the Sea” by Anne Morrow Lindbergh (which I first read when I was fifteen) and “Sound of a Wild Snail Eating” by Elisabeth Tova Bailey. They’re very different, but both books just make me feel good–relaxed and peaceful.
I was dreading all the chores and errands I must finish today, but I feel much better now. I’m not exactly looking forward to hanging around a smelly garage while the mechanic changes the oil in my car, checks the lights, and whatever else she does (yes, my mechanic is a woman), but now I’m thinking I’m glad I’ve got a car, and I’m glad I can afford to maintain it, After the oil change, I have to drive across the county to renew the license plates for said car. Again, not looking forward to waiting in line at the clerk’s office, but now I am looking forward to the drive round the lake-the sky is blue and the aspen are changing into their fall wardrobe of gold, with a few bright red accessories.
Thanks for reminding me to take a minute and just breathe.
CK,
Thank you for your generous words AND your observations. A friend once told me that when she is washing dishes or doing some other mundane chore, she starts whisper-breathing, Thank you, thank you, thank you.
You made that same shift. Thank you for role modeling and reminding me.
:)
I’m sitting at my scratched kitchen table listening to thunder walk around on my roof, reading, not realizing I needed to hear something beautiful but ordinary. Not only the thunder but your works. Thank you. They say anchoring our writing in specific details gives it universal meaning. Maybe looking for an ordinary muse opens the door to the extraordinary.
Eugene,
“scratched kitchen table”
“Thunder walk around on my roof.”
Simply gorgeous. Thank you.
Everything, everything, everything, everything, yet nothing, is in my way. And such is the paradox of my fickle black-holed brain.
this is an absolutely lovely and always inspiring journal – sounds like their latest ‘Small’ issue might interest many of us:
https://www.ruminatemagazine.com/products/issue-44-small?utm_source=Ruminate+Updates+and+Newsletter&utm_campaign=291c15352c-Issue+44+Email+6&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_d461984bfb-291c15352c-165477290&goal=0_d461984bfb-291c15352c-165477290&mc_cid=291c15352c&mc_eid=02bc1cac58
“And where would we be without labia? It’s tough to say. That alone is worth some contemplation.”
My gosh I love you, woman. For someone in the grip of depression, you can still write warm, witty, wise, and absurd blog posts. You are amazing.
Wow. You actually have an agent? And you’re depressed? I always thought if I had an agent I’d never be depressed again! (Insert winky emoji here.)
I too suffer from depression- it runs in the family. And I really hate to say this, but exercise really does help, a lot. I HATE to exercise- just ask my trainer! But I can’t deny the effects it has on my moods.
Of course pharmaceuticals are good too….