WHY DO WE WAIT FOR THE RIGHT CONDITIONS?

WHEN THE WRONG ONES WILL DO

WHY DO WE WAIT FOR THE RIGHT CONDITIONS?

GROWING AND MAKING STUFF

MAKES ME HAPPY

GROWING AND MAKING STUFF

AWARENESS...

STAYING AWAKE TO THE REMARKABLE IN THE ROUTINE

AWARENESS...

Hi. I’m Maery, a writer in the Twin Cities. Although I no longer have the body for extreme adventures, I love to bicycle, go horse trail riding and take hikes with my dogs.  

One thing you should know before you join me on my quest -- I don’t have a map. And I’ve been known to wander off course and stop to listen to birds and look for agates. I also have a few issues with fear and anxiety. In other words, I’m not a good role model or adventure guide. But in this time of uncertainty and polarization, I'm not sure anyone has a reliable map. We'll just figure it out as we go.

Bee on Sedum

I’m working
a lot
And thinking and worrying
about work
a lot
And trying to figure out how to stop stressing
about work
a lot

Bee on Sedum

Many visits to a financial planner later
Walla!
There’s a retirement plan
I say, “I’ll work for five more years.”
“Eight would be better,” he says.
“I’ll tighten my budget,” I say.

Bee on Sedum

Growing season is about over
In the garden anyway
In the head, heart and soul
Things may slow
But they don’t stop
Until they do
But let’s not think about that yet

Bees on Sunflower

bicycle in the woods

“The pure joy of daily living becomes impacted
with the blood of fate and battles.
There’s no turning back the man says,
the one waiting to take tickets at the top
of the gangplank. Still, in the past
we could always wait a little. Indeed,
we are waiting now.”
~ John Ashbery, “More Feedback”

There are times when I ride my bike,
when I am climbing a big, long hill
that I worry that I’m not going to make it.

Well, it’s not like I’m going to die in my tracks,
but I worry that other people on the road
are looking at me and snickering.

I worry that they can hear me huffing and puffing
like the big bad wolf trying to knock down
a grinning pig’s brick house.

I wonder how slow a bike can progress,
as the pedals become harder and harder to turn,
before the rider loses her balance and tips over.

There is no shame quite like the shame
of having to walk your bike up a hill,
while other bicyclists ride by.

So far, the walking hasn’t happened.
Instead, I keep going, as the muscles in my thighs
burn and earn their keep.

I actually enjoy the burn and ache in my legs.
I’m comforted in knowing there still are muscles
buried under the skin of these old legs.

Better yet, they are willing to perform and do as I ask
Even when what I ask sometimes feels like too much.
It means I’m not dead yet.

It means I’m not yet so old
that this thing I love, cycling
Isn’t possible.

It means I can still challenge myself.
And even if I’m breathing hard,
I’m still breathing.

And there are dreams that next time,
it will get easier
because I’ve tried and keep on trying.

That trying and doing and repeating,
So far, means more
than the number of years that have passed.

And by this point
I’m no longer talking about bicycling
I’m talking about life

Bicycle by Rum River

Eagle and nest
Editing, refining, rewriting, starting over from scratch, research — none of these things are as fun to me as the initial idea and the start of creating something new. Unfortunately, they’re necessary to develop skill and complete a story, especially a longer work.

Whatever your creative endeavor, I’m sure you are familiar with this truth.

It helps if I simply consider these tasks to be practice, like doing scales on the piano, which I find tedious and boring but imperative to improving finger dexterity and strength. Some things aren’t fun but are part of the process of getting better And if I look at it that way, if I see something unpleasant as leading to goals I want to reach and who I want to become, these exercises are actually exciting and enjoyable, or at least tolerable.

The hardest part about editing though, is that in rereading what I wrote and trying to make it into a longer, interesting story, I begin to think that everything I’ve written is crap. Complete and utter crap. Hopeless, beyond improving with editing, crap.

I start to think that I’m wasting my time. Why would anyone care about or want to read the story I’m writing?

Not to mention that my pattern is that I never finish anything. Not even one full, complete draft! Who am I kidding that I’m writing a book anyway?

I can come up with a hundred other things I could be doing with my time. Anything but wasting it writing something that will never be read by anyone but me. Just think of how much more free time I could have. How much less frustrated, inadequate and like a failure I would feel.

Oh wait. Giving up kind of equates with failure. Unless it’s just a decision that there’s something else I’d rather be doing. That I’ve changed my mind and what I’m writing is no longer important to me.

No. It’s still important. Maybe even imperative. Kind of like breathing is important even if you are in a smelly place.

Oh, but I want approval. Right now! Not next month or next year. I want immediate gratification. I want to be popular. I want people to admire my work — my talent — me.

Or is it that I just want to feel less alone?

cormorant

Where is my wise-self? She should be here arguing with my monster-self, who is really mean to me. She should point out something I’m not seeing at his moment. Something hopeful. Encouraging. Strengthening. Something that re-energizes me — like chocolate melting in my mouth followed by a swig of dark coffee.

While I wait for wise-self to show up, all I can do is plug on. Keep pushing.

In August, I signed up for a “29 Days of Writing Challenge” put on by Gabriela Pereira. The daily writing prompts and tips were some of the best I’ve ever read. I recommend visiting her website (DIYMFA.com) and poking around for yourself.

One of the things Gabriela said in a podcast was that “There is no wall.” She was talking about how we can get stuck and feel like there’s a massive brick wall standing in the way of finishing a writing project. When in fact, those walls are imaginary things our brains have created. There is nothing really stopping us, preventing us, standing in our way, or making it impossible to finish what we started. Nothing except our own thoughts and beliefs that the wall is there.

The wall is not there.

Wait a minute. I think my wise-self just showed up at the door. I better go let her in.

tree frog

Photos taken at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. And here are a few more photos and a question for people good at identifying plants:

Swans meadow knapweed

(Flower identifiers: Is the above flower meadow knapweed?)

lilypads cormorants