Archive for August, 2009
Cindy on August 24th, 2009
I believe that modern Americans are feeling less and less satisfied even as their freedom of choice expands.” — Barry Schwartz
When I was a gangly, insecure kid in junior high, I kept a green eye on others who were smarter, cooler, prettier, and more athletic than I was. Like most preteens, I measured my worth against the status of my peers. And like most kids, I often found myself lacking, no matter how much encouragement I earned from my parents and teachers.
As I matured, I grew thicker skin and self-respect, and even began to trust my own insight. I understood, as my folks often reminded me, that I’d always encounter people who were faring better or worse than I was. I also caught on to the fact that conformity was a dead-end street and not a path to personal fulfillment.
Regardless, I was boggled by the options open to me after I earned my liberal arts degree. I was told that the world was my oyster, and if I really wanted to I could pursue journalism, art, advertising, marriage, motherhood, travel, teaching, publishing, public relations, law, or writing for non-profit organizations. Or maybe several of those things at the same time. On a good day, I labeled myself a Renaissance woman. Most of the time, though, I felt like a dilettante. A dabbler.
After a five-year stint in reference book publishing, I finally settled on marriage, motherhood, and freelance writing, all of which I found truly satisfying. Still, I didn’t stop looking outside myself for answers.
All too often, I questioned — or doubted — my abilities and choices. Did I really have anything new or interesting to say? Was my writing worth publication? If there were so many books, essays, and articles in print, well, why would anyone bother to read anything of mine? (Even now, as I edit this blog entry, I can’t help but think of all the other good blogs and worthy Web sites competing for attention.) Thankfully, I’ve ignored the voices of my inner critics and forged ahead.
All of this came tumbling back when I started reading Barry Schwartz’s The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less, which Business Week voted a “Top Ten Book of the Year.” Thanks to a tip from another blogger, I rediscovered this fascinating book after overlooking it (too many books to choose from!) when it first hit the bookstores. And I’m glad I did.
The Paradox of Choice would be an excellent gift for any new graduate who’s wrestling with “what to be” when they grow up, as well as for anyone who’s chronically overwhelmed by modern culture and its smorgasbord of “options” — from electronic gadgets to graduate schools.
As Schwartz points out, our abundance of “choice” comes at a great price. “We get what we say we want, only to discover that what we want doesn’t satisfy us to the degree that we expect,” he writes. “We are surrounded by modern, time-saving devices, but we never seem to have enough time. We are free to be the authors of our own lives, but we don’t know exactly what kind of lives we want to ‘write.’”
Covering everything from the perils of conspicuous consumption to the virtual emptiness of extreme competition, this book will get you thinking about the choices you make. It might even help you find the courage to simplify your life and find more satisfaction in having just enough. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on August 18th, 2009
I pray that the life of this spring and summer may ever lie fair in my memory. ~ Henry David Thoreau
The sad reality always hits us mid-August: Summer is winding down, and we’re lurching toward the new school year. Taking inventory of what we’ve done since June, we might be surprised at how precious little time we’ve spent relaxing in a deck chair.
For most of us, the first half of June explodes like a bottle rocket into thin air. Graduation parties. Father’s Day picnics. Bridal showers. Art fairs. Weddings. Family vacations and reunions. The whole season balloons with so many joyful events and ceremonies that it might seem as if we’ve been riding a roller coaster, non-stop, at a summer carnival.
Last week, my friend Jan and I talked about our need to zen out and savor the things we’ve created, everything from our families to our careers. A widely published author, Jan is prolific and productive — and I’ve always admired that about her. Until recently, though, I hadn’t realized that she too occasionally struggles to let go and let it be. Like me, she’s often focused on “what’s next.” We agreed, in so many words, that downtime is as essential to our well-being as active participation in all that matters to us. And the rewards that follow are often surprising.
So, before summer packs up its beach bag and clears out for a new school term, I’d like to indulge in a few non-eventful pleasures. Many Europeans, for example, take the entire month of August as vacation time. While such a long holiday isn’t possible for industrious Americans, I’d like to borrow a shorter page from the French. Joie de vivre isn’t all that complicated, but you have to step aside and make room for it.
Here’s my plan.
*Guilt-free, I’m going to chill out for a week and remember how the words “summer” and “freedom” used to hang together when I was a kid.
*With or without a hammock, I’m going to watch more sunsets, spot fireflies, nap with my cats, and contemplate my world by moonlight.
*I’ll brush up on the names of wild birds and constellations.
*Instead of pulling weeds or pruning, I’ll sit back and admire what I’ve planted.
*I’ll spend less time e-mailing friends and more time having lunch with them in outdoor cafes. We’ll push aside our own worries while we sit back to enjoy the parade of characters strolling the sidewalk.
*No more complaining about the humidity. When tempted, I’ll remind myself that I’ll be spending a long Michigan winter in front of a computer monitor, wishing I could be out in a garden.
*With or without company coming, I’ll cut fresh flowers for the dinner table. At least once, I’ll steam corn on the grill and make lemonade from scratch.
*If I can remember the right titles, I’ll rent film classics I haven’t watched in ages. And maybe a few I Love Lucy episodes.
*Just for one afternoon, I’ll read a novel that has no redeeming social value while I sunbathe without fretting about skin cancer.
*I’ll ride my bike for an entire morning without checking my watch. After pedaling around a local park, I’ll rest under a thick canopy of trees and admire the view.
How about you? What will you do to enjoy the last lazy days of summer?
Most of us schedule our lives too tightly, then rely on “nostalgic flashbacks” to appreciate blissful moments, says Veronique Vienne in The Art of the Moment: Simple Ways to Get the Most from Life (Clarkston Potter).
“As you embrace the here and now, don’t be surprised if you suddenly feel lucky — lucky to be blessed with a good mind, lucky to have friends who love you for who you are,” Vienne advises. “The ultimate gift of the moment is a deep sense of gratitude for simply being alive.”
It’s always fun to anticipate and celebrate the major milestones. But we need a break from so-called special events, not to mention a reprieve from all the graduation (and college orientation) speeches about beginnings and endings. We need ordinary time. Come September, I want to say good-bye to summer knowing that I’ve squeezed every last drop of its sweetness and savored it all. -- Cindy La Ferle
– Parts of this essay originally appeared in my “Life Lines” column in the Daily Tribune (Royal Oak). I took the photo of the garden Buddha in my back yard. The statue was a gift from my husband for my 50th birthday. –
Cindy on August 12th, 2009
Irrespective of what she reads, though, when she goes back to sit before the computer, there is the same stubborn emptiness, the same locked door.” — Elizabeth Berg, Home Safe
As soon as I hit the “Publish” tab, I started worrying about last week’s blog post. Not that I regretted exposing my family’s elder-care crises. I know many of you can relate to or sympathize with the heartache of witnessing the decline of aging parents. But later in the post, I got a little too gloomy about journalism, blogging, and writing careers.
I didn’t mean to discourage anyone.
This site was originally designed to keep in touch with my newspaper column readers, and over the years it also morphed into a blog for my writing workshop students. I usually don’t give writing “advice” — but I try to offer some insight on the writing life. Most of my students tell me that getting published seems like a mysterious, impossible thing that other people do. So, I make a point of reminding them that that’s not the case at all. Published writers are ordinary people who grow tomatoes, burn casseroles, gripe about politics, miss their kids when they move out, and wish someone else would wash their cars. People like me.
Until recently, though, I’ve rarely said much about the lonely hours of isolation, the frightening abyss of writer’s block, the times I’ve been annoyed at editors and baffled by agents, or the times I’ve wondered if I’m just wasting time. I’ve avoided discussing all that because I believe my role is to encourage, inspire, and excite new writers — to remind you that your dreams of publication are not out of reach. And yet, with so many newspapers and magazines folding lately, and with the book publishing industry in a major crisis, too, I think it’s misleading to suggest that being a writer is loads of fun right now. When the only ones signing fabulous book deals are loons like Sarah Palin (who can’t even deliver a coherent speech), well, to paraphrase Anne Lamott, you too might be inclined to get “down on your hands and knees and drink gin straight from the cat’s dish.”
Regardless, last week I wondered if it was wrong to broadcast how pessimistic I’d been feeling about the future of publishing. And wasn’t it a bit unfair or mean-spirited to announce that “the magic just isn’t there for me” in blogging — especially when I know that many of you take pride in your blogs? So, I almost went back to delete that downer of a paragraph from last week’s post.
But then I finished Elizabeth Berg‘s sweet new novel, Home Safe, and I changed my mind.
In Home Safe, middle-aged novelist Helen Ames is coping with the loss of her husband and her father — and facing a newly emptied nest. Despite all the free time she has, Helen is impossibly blocked, unable to do the writing that has always fulfilled and saved her. I won’t spoil the entire plot for you, in case you’d like to read the novel, but I suspect that Elizabeth Berg herself has endured some of her main character’s career angst. What writer hasn’t?
Like the fictional Helen Ames, I’ve often thought about throwing my drafts in the trash compactor and applying for a “real job” in retail. (I’ve seriously wondered if I’m better suited to a gig at an Eileen Fisher boutique or a cozy independent bookshop with a resident cat.) But along the way, Helen reluctantly tries teaching a writing class, and ultimately learns that she is lifted by coaching others. Just as I’ve been lifted by every hopeful student who’s had the courage to share his or her stories in my classes.
Reading Home Safe, I felt at times as if Berg were holding a mirror to my own conscience. But the real gift in this novel was the permission it gave me to admit aloud that I do get burned-out and discouraged; that no matter how much I’ve achieved, I’m not immune to doubt and insecurity.
Burnout, discouragement, doubt, and insecurity are inexorably chained to the writing life — yet they often precede a second wind or a second act. If you’re in it for the long run, there’s no way you’ll fully appreciate the thrill of seeing your byline under a magazine article or your name on the cover of a book until you’ve battled these demons and gremlins. I wouldn’t be honest, or fair, if I didn’t share that with you too. -- Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on August 7th, 2009
Try to relax and enjoy the crisis. — Ashleigh Brilliant
Summer arrived with its boxing gloves on. Or, as John Lennon pointed out, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” Which is why I haven’t been filling this space with new material lately.
By mid-June, it was obvious that my father-in-law’s dementia was more than my mother-in-law could continue to handle at home. For several weeks my husband Doug made it his mission to help find the right nursing facility — a frustrating family story of trial-and-error that’s way too complex to rehash here. Thank goodness, Doug is semi-retired and has more time for his folks now. How do middle-aged couples handle these situations if they both work full time?
Well, we finally found the right nursing home for Dad in July, but within a week, his condition plunged to the point where he was suddenly confined to a wheelchair (he had walked into the facility) and couldn’t swallow his food. He now qualifies for hospice care. Friends have told us countless stories of how dementia patients get even worse after they’re put into nursing homes, which never fails to pile more guilt on over-burdened families. Through it all, my mother-in-law has been incredibly brave and strong. The rest of us are just plain sad.
But wait, there’s more. My widowed mother, whose health is also fragile (and complicated by a stubborn case of anxiety) has needed me more than ever lately. In mid-July — two days after my father-in-law was driven to the local ER from his new nursing home — my mom called to announce that she had to get to the hospital – that very minute – due to a mysteriously bruised and swollen leg. Her call came while Doug and I were having dinner with our son Nate, who’d been visiting from Chicago for the weekend and was preparing to leave. So, I finished my dinner and said good-bye to Nate, who soon headed off to the airport with Doug while I drove Mom to William Beaumont Hospital’s emergency entrance. (I drive Mom to the ER often enough to call it a routine, and to know the doorman personally.) Regardless, that short weekend visit with our son brought a flash of sunshine to us, making up for the inevitable shadows cast by our visits to the hospital.
August is my birthday month, so it often inspires a few moments of retrospect, if not a twinge of melancholy or nostalgia. And from this vantage point, I can see that the decline of my mom’s health — combined with my father-in-law’s move to a nursing home — unearthed some tender strands of grief that I thought I’d buried after my beloved father died in the summer of 1992. Not to mention my only uncle’s slow death from pancreatic cancer two years ago in August. When loved ones have been gone awhile, everyone will remind you ever-so-gently that you really should be “over it.” And of course, you are over it, most of the time. But Lord knows, that doesn’t mean you just stop missing people.
Anyway, I hadn’t fully realized how numbed out I’d been this summer. Once again, gardening was my sanity saver, my best antidepressant, right up there with reading a fabulous novel and having birthday lunches in outdoor cafes with old friends. I dead-headed perennial blossoms and transplanted hosta and watered thirsty ferns every chance I could get until I felt whole again. And I spent more time with people who make me feel loved and supported, just for being me.
Meanwhile — and I won’t go on too long about this — my enthusiasm for my writing career seems to have wilted like impatiens in the August heat. The national crisis in print journalism has left several of my friends jobless, and seriously impacted the type of work I do. I’d love to resume column writing, but the only columns available to me now are in the form of online blogs that offer zero (or minimal) payment.
Like most professional writers who’ve been in this business for more than 25 years, I find it hard to feel “honored” when magazines or newspapers offer me non-paying assignments. I miss the days when a byline came with the heady scent of newsprint or shimmered on a glossy magazine page … and generated a decent paycheck. Blogging is something just about everyone can do quite well, and everyone is doing it. And so, with apologies and some reluctance, I have to admit that it’s a stretch for me to think of my blog posts as “published writing.” The magic just isn’t there for me.
Which is partly why I’ve taken some time off. I’ve needed to pull back and rethink what’s next for me. I will continue to post here weekly, but otherwise I’m waiting for a bolt of inspiration or a new streak of luck. Maybe there’s another book in me. Or maybe I’m just burned out and lazy. I dunno.
While trying to figure it out, I’ve been pouring my energies into helping Doug work on the Frank Lloyd Wright home we purchased last year in western Michigan. Designed by Wright in 1957 and completed in 1959, the house is one of Wright’s Usonian models and could function perfectly as a set for the popular Mad Men television series. (I can picture Don Draper in our living room, swilling a martini and chain-smoking.) It’s cool and modern and space-agey — so unlike our cozy but cluttered English Tudor here in Royal Oak. For that reason, I suppose, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.
This summer, the Wright house also gave us an immediate goal, a deadline. The renowned architectural photographers, Balthazar and Christian Korab, had been contracted to photograph it on July 29. Prior to that date, Doug and I spent every free moment we had making the three-hour drive out to the place to get it ready for the big shoot. As soon as we arrived, we’d hit the ground running with our to-do lists. Wash windows. Scrub rust out of sinks and tubs. Steam carpets. Rearrange furniture. Fix leaky shower heads. Power-wash concrete. Weed and revive gardens….
Meeting the Korabs was another incredible summer highlight — second only to our son’s aforementioned visit. While Christian (Balthazar’s son) hauled his equipment around and set up shots of various rooms, Balthazar, now in his eighties, regaled Doug and me with stories of his native Hungary, his studies in Paris, and of course, the time Frank Lloyd Wright examined and commented on Korab’s extensive portfolio of architectural photography.
The physical acts of polishing and scrubbing, of purging our Wright house of its old demons (including the crap left by previous owners), was a saving grace for Doug and me. Earlier this summer, I was watering a new crop of day lilies when I noticed Doug on the roof, repairing a leak in the scorching July sun. Of course, I worried about him passing out in the heat or losing his balance and tumbling headfirst to the pavement below (no more trips to the hospital, please!). But then I saw the look of pure satisfaction and happiness on his tanned face — a look I hadn’t seen in quite a while — and I calmed down immediately. I wanted to wrap my arms around that whole house and the late Frank Lloyd Wright himself, and thank them both for giving my architect-husband something incredible to believe in and look forward to. Something other than sick parents and nursing homes and long good-byes. — Cindy La Ferle
– The middle photo shows one of the gardens in front of our Wright house. Bottom photo is of Balthazar Korab and my husband Doug, taken on the day of our photo shoot. –
