Hallelujah anyway

Yesterday afternoon, while checking Facebook, I saw that Annie had shared Anne Lamott's latest post. It was just what I needed to hear.​ For me her admonition is about writing, but I think her philosophy is equally applicable to any interest or passion. It's about making things happen. About not wasting our time here on the planet. About becoming the person we really want to be. And the really interesting part? She insists that these parts of us shouldn't be reserved for when our kids are grown or we retire -- that magical space where we think time resides.

Way to go Anne:
I had a great idea for a new book, although come to think of it, maybe it is just a Facebook post. But it would be called Pre First Draft, and address the way we suit up and show up to be writers, artists, and general tribal-two-stomp creative types.

I think it would begin with an admonition: if you used to love writing, painting, dancing, singing, whatever, but you stopped doing it when you had kids or began a strenuous career, then you have to ask yourself if you are okay about not doing it anymore. 

If you always dreamed of writing a novel or a memoir, and you used to love to write, and were pretty good at it, will it break your heart if it turns out you never got around to it? If you wake up one day at eighty, will you feel nonchalant that something always took precedence over a daily commitment to discovering your creative spirit?

If not--if this very thought fills you with regret--then what are you waiting for?

Back in the days when I had writing students, they used to spend half their time explaining to me why it was too hard to get around to writing every day, but how once this or that happens--they retired, or their last kid moved out--they could get to work.

I use to say very nicely, "That's very nice; but it's a total crock. There will never be a good time to write. It will never be easier. If you won't find an hour a day now, you won't find it then."

It's the same belief as thinking that once you lose weight, you'll begin to feel good about yourself. No, you won't. If you're not okay with yourself at 185 pounds, you're not going to be okay at 140. It's an inside job. 

How do you begin? The answer is simple: you decide to. Then you push back your sleeves and start writing--I.e., scribbling words down on paper, or typing at a computer. And it will be completely awful. It will be unreadable shit! You won't have a clue how it account to anything, ever. And to that, I say, Welcome. That's what it's like to be a writer. But you just do it anyway. At my church, we sing a gospel song called, "Hallelujah anyway." Everything's a mess, and you're going down the tubes financially, and gaining weight? Well, Hallelujah anyway.

So you decide to get back to work creatively, and you write up some thoughts or passages or memories or scenes. Then what? Then you write some more. Everywhere you go, you carry a pen, and take notes--ideas will start to come to you. You'll see and overhear and remember things that you want to include in this mysterious quilt you're putting together, so you jot them down. Imagine a rag-bag guy who lives inside you, who collects images, descriptions, holy moments, snippets of funny conversation, for you to use in your writing--but he doesn't have any hands, and needs you to help him amass the rags with which you can make squares for the quilt.

That's all you have to do today: pay attention--being a writer is about paying attention. Stop hitting the snooze button. Carry a pen with you everywhere, or else God will give me all these insights and images that were supposed to go to you. Hang up a shingle on the inside of you: now open for business. Wow! You won't have to wake up at 70, aching with regret that you threw your creative essence under the bus. And if you already are seventy, then you won't have to wake up at eighty, confused and in despair about how you let your gift slip away. Because you will have been writing--or dancing again, or practicing recorder--every single glorious, livelong, weird, amazing day. -- Anne Lamott

Date night

My sister-in-law mentioned recently that one of the benefits of parenting older kids is better dating. So true! No need for a sitter for weekend dates AND picking up and going out of town, just the two of us, no longer requires three packings lists, 27 pages of instructions to the lucky sitter, and eleven hours of deep breathing. I'd have to say that Sterling and I make a valiant effort to avail ourselves of this new-found dating freedom, but even now we get bogged down in the kids' activities, our own work and personal commitments, and just plain old exhaustion.

Recently, the planets aligned for a brief moment, and Sterling and I found ourselves home WITHOUT kids for TWO days. I know. That's never happened before in our 19+ years of parenting. It was weird and fun all at the same time. Just think: No driving anyone anywhere. No sharing the television (or Netflix). Heck, we even polished off the ice cream ALL BY OURSELVES. [Note to self: once kids are grown, do not stock ice cream.] Not wanting to waste this rare opportunity of kid-freedom, I called Sterling at work just moments after the last child walked out the door.

Me: "Hon. There are no kids in my house. I'm freaking out. I'll plan a fun date for us tonight, and you plan one for tomorrow."
Sterling: "No kids? What does that even mean?"

For my turn I picked up sushi (not from the cheap-o place but from the good place). I bought some good chocolates and a movie and set everything up in the living room. We ate up to the coffee table (with candles and pillows) and spent a good hour just rehashing the last week or so before we started the movie. The food was great, the surroundings were infinitely more comfortable than a restaurant, and no waitress was hurrying us along. It was simply good, quality connecting time. After which I didn't twitch so much when Sterling waited till the last minute to get ready for church, and he  laughed good naturedly when I left him a car with no gas. Connection people. It heals a world of petty hurts.

The next night Sterling opted to go out. He planned a date almost identical to one we'd had before we became parents. We went out for steaks, then played miniature golf and raced go-carts, and ​topped the night off with ice cream. It was way more activity-centered than our typical date nights (meaning at 8:30, when we finished dinner, I had to stave off my old-woman-need to lay on the couch). But best of all, the slightly rag-tag putting greens reminded us of dating days of yore. It was actually much more fabulous than the family fun center might initially suggest.

​By far, our favorite "typical" date night consists of dinner at a good restaurant and an hour spent wandering through a book store. A few times we've driven to a neighboring small town (we live in the burbs) for dinner, afterwards riding around the countryside (in a pickup truck) looking for our future weekend estate. We are seriously considering (there might be some arm-twisting involved) joining a fitness group together. We've long talked about getting season tickets to the Alley Theatre. In short, the livin' it up portion of our marriage is just starting. I like to see-saw between a sobbing mess that my kids are leaving and fiendish glee about some down time and free wheeling.

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I realize it's from 2008, but I can't help but enjoy this Guardian article on dating as a means to reconnecting with your spouse. As a bonus, the article gives a cheeky, "M'lud," which, as an Anglophile, I find especially delightful.​

There are a number of these His & Her 'lists' circling the Internet. Essentially, they are lists of questions to stimulate conversation between partners. I haven't tried them yet, but think they'd be a great way to focus on something other than our kids (who are lovely, by the way).​