Posts Tagged ‘personal essays’
Cindy on February 15th, 2010
Enjoy a tiny adventurous moment close to home. It changes your perspective, reminding you that the world is deep and rich and full of color and miracles.” –SARK
A lot of us are stumbling over creative blocks lately. Those who live in the wintry Midwest and Northeast blame it on lack of sunshine. Or cabin fever. Even if things are going reasonably well in other areas of our lives, we might gaze out our windows at the icy moonscape that once bloomed with roses or black-eyed Susans and feel twinges of ennui, or even despair.
Whatever the cause, it’s hard to get inspired when you’re sluggish and blue.
Last month I tripped over a huge creative block and hit a wall. For starters, what began as a satisfying home renovation project was abruptly stalled by a carpet order gone wrong, thanks to the evil Home Depot. (As a result, our master bedroom stayed torn apart for weeks.) Meanwhile, my elderly mom’s dementia-related health problems took a turn for the worse, requiring several trips to her doctor — and the hospital — for tests. As her sole caregiver, I felt helpless and exhausted.
Worst of all, I couldn’t seem to write or talk my way out of any of it. It was time to work from another side of my brain. Time to shift creative gears and to make something tangible and fun.
Bead therapy
Just in time, I received a clothing catalog featuring one of the coolest fetish necklaces I’d ever seen. Strung with African trading beads, brass trinkets, and a wild collection of charms, it evoked long walks on Caribbean beaches and cabana cocktails under the stars. A summer-fantasy vacation on a string!
I was tempted to pull out my credit card and purchase the fetish necklace online or over the phone. Instead, I decided to treat myself to the pure fun of making it myself.
Things were slow at the local craft store when I arrived on a gray Wednesday afternoon with the catalog photo in hand. The salesclerk working in the bead section was just as intrigued by the necklace, and eager to help with the project. Taking my time, I chose a few imported beads that had special meaning to me: a wooden bead with a butterfly motif (symbolizing transformation); another with a Celtic spiral; others that simply caught my eye.
At home I played with the beads until they became a necklace, stringing them together one by one and finding myself in a sunnier frame of mind. Of course, our master bedroom was still in chaos, beyond my control. And my mother’s dementia-related “episodes” were still unresolved. Regardless, I’d made something cheerful and new. The necklace wasn’t exactly like the one in the catalog — but I’d made it my own.
I often tell my workshop students that writing an essay or a chapter is a bit like stringing beads to form a beautiful necklace. Like the right bead, each word or sentence must do its share of the work to bring meaning or sparkle to the whole piece. You need to take your time, choose carefully, and take pleasure in the process.
That said, no matter what you’re working on, you could find yourself getting tangled up in “the process” at some point. When that happens, it helps to take a break. Or try making yourself a real necklace. – Cindy La Ferle
– Fetish necklace in photos by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on February 6th, 2010
“By the time you become Real, most of your hair has been loved off. Your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.” –Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit
Earlier this week, my friend Alice posted this empowering Caitlin Crosby video on her Facebook wall and I was moved to share it with everyone. The video reminded me of an essay I wrote, published in a metro-Detroit women’s magazine three years ago. Here it is:
How scars make us real
Once the anesthesia wore off and I could wiggle my toes again, my first concern was the new incision running down my left side. Ten inches long and an angry shade of red, it marked the place where my hip had been removed, packed with a bone graft, and totally rebuilt with a prosthetic implant. A long row of tiny staples closed the wound, making it look as if Dr. Frankenstein had sewn a zipper into my birthday suit.
Still woozy in the post-operative station, I imagined how awful the scar would look after it healed. And I wondered: Would I ever find the courage to wear a bathing suit in public again? Would my husband think my body was less attractive?
Coming to my senses the next morning, I tried to focus on my blessings. Those blessings included the skilled orthopedic surgeon who had agreed to perform the complicated three-hour surgery. Most orthopedic surgeons, including mine, prefer to reserve total hip replacement for elderly patients because they are less likely to need revision surgeries in the future.
I was only in my forties when I was diagnosed with degenerative osteoarthritis in both hips. But this sympathetic doctor understood that the quality of my daily life was “seriously impacted by my disability,” as he put it. Practically immobile, I’d already qualified for a handicap parking permit, and couldn’t even stand at the kitchen counter long enough to open a can of cat food or prepare a simple family meal. I’d been missing band concerts and mothers’ club meetings at my son’s middle school because I couldn’t climb the steps to the building. I’d started turning down lunch dates with friends, preferring to nurse my pain in bed at home.
I needed surgical intervention.
Of course, I knew I’d have several weeks of physical therapy and rehab during recovery. But I could also look forward to walking pain-free without canes or crutches again. So why did I let vanity dampen my hard-won victory?
Facing up to flaws
Scars of any kind are a challenge to recovering perfectionists. For years, I was one of those worried women who followed the advice given in beauty and fashion magazines. I invested ridiculous amounts of energy trying to conceal every personal flaw and foible. To expose my weak spots — or admit that I was ever damaged in any way — was too frightening to imagine. No matter how many skin-perfecting creams I bought, or how many self-improvement books I devoured, I couldn’t stop believing that I didn’t quite measure up.
Ironically, I’ve always admired quirks in other people and in most of the stuff I own. One of the early practitioners of shabby chic, I can list several rooms in my home that are furnished entirely with faded flea-market treasures and garage sale rejects. Overgrown cottage gardens, non-pedigree pets, freckles, rusty tools, crow’s feet, and crooked smiles intrigue me. I’ve cherished childhood toys covered in stains and stitches, and I’m partial to an old leather jacket burnished by seasons of wear.
Scars and wrinkles are the emblems of a richly textured life — a survivor’s life. They document our personal histories and bear witness to how far we’ve traveled. Our scars and wrinkles prove we’ve survived childbirth, car accidents, skin cancer, military combat, messy divorces, failed business opportunities, and lost loves.
My long recovery from hip replacement surgery gave me a lot of extra time to think about these things.
Practicing my physical therapy, I was reminded that becoming real requires bumping up against adversity – and sometimes falling apart. It’s a deconstruction process. Whether you’re nursing a shattered limb, a bruised ego, or a wounded heart, it can take time to reassemble and repair the broken parts. But ultimately you heal and, hopefully, grow more interesting. You tighten the loose seams in your character along the way.
Five months after my first hip replacement, I returned to the hospital for the same surgery on my other damaged hip. And today, six years later, I’m sporting a beautifully matched set of titanium joints that have given me back my mobility – and identical scars on each side. Over time, the scars have faded considerably, though you can still spot them several yards away on the beach.
Now I celebrate them – these two ten-inch valleys marking the surgeries that gave me a miraculous second chance. I have earned them, and they have made me real. – Cindy La Ferle
– In photo: collage detail from “On Beauty” (an altered book page) by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on December 5th, 2009
“The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; the secret anniversaries of the heart.” — Henry W. Longfellow
More than 24 years ago, my ob-gyn predicted I’d have a Christmas baby, give or take a few days. The doctor wasn’t too far off the mark, really, since Nate was born on December 6th, the feast day of St. Nicholas.
Known as the Bishop of Myra (now Turkey) in the 4th century, St. Nicholas earned his reputation for secret gift-giving by putting coins in the shoes of those who left them out for him. Word of his generosity echoed throughout the centuries. According to one legend, medieval nuns honored the eve of December 6th by anonymously placing baskets of clothing and food on the doorsteps of the needy. And not surprisingly, St. Nicholas was the role model for Victorian England’s merry Father Christmas. Outdoing the three wise men of the Nativity, the original St. Nick can be credited for establishing Christmas as the season of gifting.
Feast days aside, I remember the day my son was born as though it were yesterday, thanks in part to a three-page “birth report” I’d been assigned to write after returning home from the hospital.
Everyone in my final Lamaze class was instructed to write such a report in less than two weeks after giving birth. (Sleepless nights and postpartum depression were no excuse.) We were told to record every detail we remembered, every emotion we felt, as accurately as possible. Keeping us honest, the instructor insisted that we mail her a copy on deadline. At first, the whole thing seemed like a cruel homework assignment; another task to juggle between midnight feedings. Now, I appreciate it as the gift it was meant to be.
Back then I wasn’t comfortable typing my feelings on paper — especially feelings that were new and raw and deeply personal. Up until then, I’d been writing newspaper stories about art gallery openings and local hamburger joints. Regardless, I took up the challenge. I recorded the hour my water broke (I was watching Bill Bonds on the 11:00 news); the snowy drive to the hospital; the waves of contractions I surfed after my labor was induced. I confessed the irrational fears and worries I’d nursed prior to delivery. I wrote that I was grateful to be fully awake during the birth, and grateful that I was able to witness the miraculous first moment when Doug, Nate, and I became a family:
I recall the medicinal smell, the colors, the faces, and sounds in the delivery room, and even though there had been no time for the nurses to get the mirror up above me for the delivery, I loved being able to turn my head and see Nathan wiggling on the table right next to me, and to have my husband on the other side of me….
While I didn’t realize it at the time, the birth report was my first real attempt at a personal essay. It’s riddled with too many adverbs, and weighted with TOO MANY WORDS IN CAPS for emphasis. Parts of it sound wooden and clinical. Even so, it’s one of the most important pieces of writing I’ve ever done, and today I keep it with a collection of precious letters in my writing office.
Nate hasn’t been home for his birthday in several years. While it took a little time to adjust to his absence during and after his college years, I’m at peace with the fact that our lives are moving ahead just as they should. Nate has his own place in Chicago now, and he travels to other parts of the country for his job. His dad and I are fiercely proud of him for having crafted a remarkably good life for himself.
So we celebrate his birthday a few days early when he returns to Detroit for Thanksgiving. And after he heads back to Chicago, we still honor the ritual of mailing another birthday card and another small gift (maybe something from the cats) that will hopefully arrive in his mailbox on or near December 6th.
St. Nicholas Day is my birthday too. It’s the day I was born into motherhood, the most rewarding work on my resume. Once in a while, when I’m alone at my desk, I’ll open the file where I keep the faded blue envelope scrawled with the words “Birth report.” I unfold the pages and reread favorite parts, still amazed by the gift of a day it describes. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on May 8th, 2009
The creative space is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself. — Alan Alda
The “Summer at the Center” catalog just rolled off the press, listing a variety of creative classes at the Birmingham Bloomfield Art Center. Of special interest to suburban-Detroit writers will be the Writer’s Retreat series, which includes my weekend workshop in writing and publishing short personal essays on June 20 and 21. This will be a relaxed workshop, with plenty of encouragement and writing time. Weather permitting, I hope we can spend some of the time outdoors.
From songwriting to screenwriting, this new series offers several classes for both new and experienced writers. Concluding the summer series on August 8, the “Writer’s Life” afternoon forum gives new and aspiring writers an opportunity to discuss the realities of freelance writing with a panel of Detroit-area journalists and editors. (I’ll be on hand to moderate the panel.)
Space is limited, so you’ll want to register for your classes soon. The summer catalog is now available at the BBAC, or click here to check out the PDF version. Copies of Writing Home will also be available for students to purchase in the BBAC Gift Shop. For class fees and additional info, contact the BBAC, — CL
–”Imagine” garden stone photo by Cindy La Ferle–
Cindy on March 3rd, 2009
“Planning to write is not writing….Writing is writing.” — E. L. Doctorow
Ready to start writing this spring? Limited space is available in my April workshop, First Person Singular. Whether your goal is to write for pleasure or publication, this three-week personal essay class will help you conquer your fear of self-expression and flex your creative storytelling skills. (Registration deadline: March 25.) If you live in Oakland County, please visit my newly updated “Workshops” section for dates and details on this and upcoming writing workshops. — CL
A lot of us are stumbling over creative blocks lately. Those who live in the wintry Midwest and Northeast blame it on lack of sunshine. Or cabin fever. Even if things are going reasonably well in other areas of our lives, we might gaze out our windows at the icy moonscape that once bloomed with roses or black-eyed Susans and feel twinges of ennui, or even despair.
Things were slow at the local craft store when I arrived on a gray Wednesday afternoon with the catalog photo in hand. The salesclerk working in the bead section was just as intrigued by the necklace, and eager to help with the project. Taking my time, I chose a few imported beads that had special meaning to me: a wooden bead with a butterfly motif (symbolizing transformation); another with a Celtic spiral; others that simply caught my eye.
