by susan | Feb 5, 2019 | Uncategorized
although pleased by beauty and grace, I am delighted by the unexpected, by that which surprises and beguiles. that which catches me off guard, or might poke fun at my expectations. it is the balance between the two that I find exquisitely satisfying, as when I am walking a trail and notice an strangely shaped branch that forms a recognizable letter or design, or a collection of rocks that somehow extends a message. nature’s seeming chaos, just as it is, fills my soul–but that quirky branch sends me to an even deeper level of appreciation.
is this what we seek?
delight in the unexpected? to be enthralled, enticed to greater imagination, captivated? to look through the superficial and into what lies beneath?
my friend speaks of the garden within the garden, the house within the house. she speaks of a story by henry james, the figure in the carpet. I am curious; my tendency to respond literally to my world holds up its hands in resistance. I wish to understand, yet how can any of these things be? what does a garden within a garden look like? what exactly is this figure in the carpet, and what does it tell us about anything? how does one imagine this, let alone describe it to another?
as a writer, I take this as a challenge to be more obscure, to write in layers upon layers, to lead the reader down a complex yet ultimately satisfying path filled with demands that ignite curiosity, a desire to explore… and I sit here shaking my head in bewilderment: I simply don’t know how. a writing mentor tells me to dig deeper; this I can do, I just don’t know how to veil that depth while only gradually hinting at pieces of it.
and this must be my work, to learn something I don’t think I can learn. just as we all must seek to understand our own path, to not grow complacent, to keep challenging ourselves ~ this is the why of life.
as a therapist, I work with clients who face, at times, great challenges. this morning, as I reflected upon one of those clients, the phrase that came to mind was never ever ever give up. while I do believe a decision to give up is, given certain times and situations, beneficial or even vital, tenacity most often results in empowering outcomes. thus I’d better get to work. figuring out how to enthrall, delight, and enchant. so that I can create the kind of book I would like to read, taking readers down a path I, myself, would want to wander.
by susan | Jan 29, 2019 | Uncategorized
while driving an unfamiliar road last spring, I passed a house, well-kept and orderly, covered in neat gray siding, that was anchored by two slender rain chains, one on either side of house’s facade.
ah, a rain chain. I had first seen one perhaps two decades earlier, on a house being built in an exclusive neighborhood near my previous home. I’d loved the idea back then, described to me as a Japanese rain gutter, and had filed it away under “luxurious things wealthy people might own.” sighting rain chains on this lovely, but not of mansion status, home, freed me to consider a rain chain something I, myself, might be able to acquire.
image seared in my mind, I began researching “rain chains,” and discovered that the cost wasn’t exorbitant, in fact, it was even quite reasonable. especially if one decides to treat oneself to things of beauty that makes his or her heart soar. it’s nearly impossible to put a price on joy.
I ordered a rain chain, and I ordered a copper basin to attach at the bottom to collect the rain. I’d read the installation instructions, and felt capable.
giddiness erupted when the package was delivered. I unwrapped the stunning, shiny copper chain and basin, heart on fire. an hour later, my gorgeous new rain chain ran from gutter to ground, shouting to the world my owner loves herself.
over the months the copper has adopted a patina, as sun and moisture have draped themselves over the chain. and not two months into the chain’s life as part of my home, it gained a mate, now firmly attached to the other end of my home’s eastern frontage. they bring me joy. they emanate a lovely sound as rain pours through; they hold ice in graceful patterns. they add a whimsical note to my staid brick house.
joy is a word on my 2019 list, one of eleven words that serve as guideposts on this year’s journey. I find joy in hundreds of small things, and yet at times, forget how very much those things matter to me. my prayer to the universe is that I continuously remember to acknowledge and live the joy that surrounds me. as do those rain chains.
by susan | Jan 23, 2019 | Uncategorized
“did you see last night’s moon?” he asked.
this was enough. it reignited the waning friendship; it lit the wedge-shaped segment of my heart that belonged to him, and to all those who speak of their enamoredness with la luna.
at the beginning of this year, I listed eleven words to guide my journey through 2019: adventure, intuition, confidence, joy, love, peace, writing, retreat, partnership, healthy, engaged. each of these have deeper, expanded meaning, which I will delve into at other times, but my friend’s comment on the moon leads me to a focus on “love” and “engaged,” both of which speak to this shared space within and between human beings, this sacred space from which fuel and focality are birthed.
we humans are complex, yet stunningly simple: when something external touches a similar internal chord, we instantly connect and bond. on one end of the continuum might be a shared interest in classical music, toward the middle could be a love of vivaldi’s work, and on the other end might be a common rapture experienced when each plays their vivaldi on his or her cello. we feel heard and understood. we believe someone else knows our internal experience; we feel validated. we are completely engaged with the experience, and we flood with oxytocin, with dopamine, with serotonin, the body’s “feel good” responses to connection, achievement, happiness, and thoughts of loving kindness.
thus we search for opportunities to experience this again and again. we associate and attach to others with whom we share interests. we blossom when with those of like mind. most of us find ourselves resonating with others in myriad ways: some with whom we share physical interests, those with whom we celebrate spiritual beliefs, some with whom we love to discuss politics or history or creative pursuits. many of us could create a venn diagram depicting our overlapping connections, and others of us have bubbles of interests that may not touch at all.
my writing friends are spread across the land; my yoga community exists in a building down the street. family reaches across state lines; cycling friends all live within miles of each other. most good friends live within miles, as well, and my spiritual world encompasses all that is seen and unseen . . . and within each of these communities at different moments I find powerful connection and resonance, flames that ignite in my soul.
this is not to say that one must keep to what is known: it is through expanding our awareness, through inviting adventure and curiosity, through stepping outside our comfort zone, that we discover we are more than what we’d believed. it is by meeting with those who may not be of like mind that we discover our mind to be more expansive than we thought possible. and within each breath of expansion, lies opportunity for one more glimmer, one more flicker, one more burning moment of pure, connective, delight.
“yes,” I replied, “I saw it.”
by susan | Mar 1, 2018 | Uncategorized
I don’t remember learning to ride a bicycle. Not who taught me, how long I used training wheels, the color of my bike, nor how many times I fell before I caught on. Before my body discovered the sweet balance spot, to use momentum to my benefit, to assess, as I slowed, at which exact moment I should place my foot upon the ground.
I pedaled to and from school, Rexall’s drug store, and friends’ homes in Midland, Michigan, and continued when we moved to South Bend, Indiana, although there I added trips to the zoo and to the swimming pool. At eleven, my family settled in Utah, plunking me in a mountainous community where I continued to ride–and push uphill–my bike.
Then a hiatus: no bicycling in college.
At twenty-five I bought a mountain bike, which I rode scant times over the next fifteen years as I married, raised children, juggled work and home, while again living high on the foothills of Salt Lake City.
After my divorce, I started to again ride a bike. To get exercise. To clear my head. To escape one thing or another. To gain, again, balance.
For the past eleven or so years, I’ve pedaled indoors throughout each winter. The course I take is intended to keep cyclists fit while snow and cold temperatures keep us from riding outdoors. Each year there are a few “tests” given to assess our fitness level. Similar to a time trial, it is a maximum effort sustained for anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five minutes. These are never easy, as we work to balance breath, exertion, and commitment. I struggle, each time, with the part of me that urges me to just stop, chiding me with both the silliness of it all and my right to self-determination. I’ve been doing these for years: I know I am capable. Yet each time I host an internal debate, and sometimes the winner is not my best self.
Yesterday I fought back, and completed the damn thing. I needed that victory, since I had bailed early on the previous three tests. I needed to prove to myself that I could bear it, that my physical body could withstand the mental chatter and prevail. That I could do what I didn’t want to do.
I spent years of my life doing what I didn’t want to do. And of course, like everyone, I continue to frequently do what I don’t want to do. Like recalcitrant children, our hedonistic selves must often be reined in, redirected, buckled to different tasks. The reward? Not great glory, but instead a sense of competence. Not necessarily wealth, but instead, greater self-esteem. Not material prizes, but the spiritual one of depth and capacity.
I am the same human being I was two days ago, and yet I’m not.
by susan | Nov 4, 2017 | Uncategorized
a while back, my publisher mentioned that I never hold back my criticism of well-established authors. I blanched a bit, then acknowledged the veracity of that statement.
in my defense, however, I stated “it’s only when I feel something they’ve put out there doesn’t live up to the incredible work I’ve fallen in love with, that doesn’t resonate with me in the same way as other works I’ve loved.”
I’m not critical of the authors themselves–these are not personal attacks; I am simply vocal in my assessment of work that doesn’t touch me as other things they’ve written have done. I could behave differently; I could gush and just say “I love everything so-and-so’s ever written,” but it often isn’t the truth. my critiques are very personal: they are only about me and my reaction to the work. and this is, I’m certain, where I myself am going to have to work on developing my own self-protective shell. not everyone likes what I write, and not everyone will like what I put out there. some people may like one piece and not another, and some people will dislike everything I write. as such, I–like every artist–need to build and buttress my own shell.
it is healthy–and the only way to be genuine in this world–to speak your truth about experience with art, be it written or composed or visual. our visceral reactions are unique; they are responses from deep within, formed by a mysterious interplay of nature, temperament, nurture, life experience–soulful stuff. we are drawn to the inexplicable at times, and the more we heed this call, the more authentic (and fulfilled) we are. certain designs, rhythms, and patterns please a majority of us, but it serves no one when a person pretends what doesn’t please him or her actually does.
like what you like. love what you love. admit when you don’t. and when you perceive a naked emperor, speak your truth.
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