Posts Tagged ‘women’s issues’
Cindy on February 4th, 2009
“The imagination needs moodling — long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling, and puttering.” — Brenda Ueland
Right now, the landscape outside my office window looks more like the moon than southeast Michigan. Even when the sun shines, my seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is always at its worst in February. Meanwhile, several of my friends are heading to Florida this week. And I’m not.
When SAD strikes, I find it hard to concentrate or to get motivated. I get crabby and impatient and fed-up with people I’m usually fond of. But after years of battling it, I’ve learned that the best antidote — barring a trip to Bermuda — is a long afternoon of guilt-free puttering.
Cheaper than air fare or psychotherapy, puttering lets your mind wander while your body hangs out around the house. And unlike fall housecleaning, which involves physical energy and high-powered appliances, puttering puts you in a Zen-like state of bliss. Not to be confused with slacking, fidgeting, fiddling, or piddling, puttering is good for mental health. In fact, Brenda Ueland, author of the classic If You Want to Write, insisted that long periods of “moodling” (her word for puttering) are essential to the creative process.
Sadly, ours is a goal-directed, work-till-you-drop culture. And since most of us like to boast about how terribly busy we are, puttering is never easy to pull off.
For those who practice on the sly, like I do, puttering styles are varied and highly personal.
Puttering can be the act of sorting through a box of college textbooks in the basement; tinkering under the hood of an old Chevy; or rearranging things on a shelf while you listen to jazz on the stereo. In other words, puttering is a way of clarifying life’s myriad details, especially when it’s done with reverence for the objects at hand. It’s an opportunity to reconsider what we most enjoy in our homes, and to make a mental list of what we’d like to edit later.
Feeling sluggish and blue last week, I decided to putter in the kitchen. Taking inventory of my good china, I lost myself in happy memories of the two grandmothers who had actually used all the serving pieces for holiday dinners. I marveled, too, at how both sets of dishes have survived several moves and kitchen renovations â and somehow outlived their original owners.
If puttering still sounds like a chore you’ve postponed, it’s only because you haven’t found a method that cheers or relaxes you. One man’s notion of drudgery, after all, can be another’s idea of soul craft.
“I can’t explain it, but I enjoy doing dishes,” writes Thomas Moore, a former Catholic monk and author of Care of the Soul. “I’ve had an automatic dishwasher in my home for over a year, and I have never used it. What appeals to me, I think, is the reverie induced by going through the ritual of washing, rinsing, and drying.” Thomas Moore can come over to my house and wash dishes any time he visits Detroit (especially if his visit coincides with another power failure). Meanwhile, I’ll keep loading my dishwasher.
Still, there’s merit in savoring the ordinary tasks of daily living.
A lot of us spend our lives reaching for lofty goals, or at least trying to look productive 24/7. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing if so many of us weren’t scratching our heads and wondering what’s missing even after we’ve won all the trophies. (Consider all those baby-boomer executives who can’t wait to retire.)
âMy life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I’m happy. I can’t figure it out. What am I doing right?â observed Charles M. Schulz, creator of Peanuts. Charlie Brown, after all, was pretty good at puttering. — Cindy La Ferle
– Parts of this essay are excerpted from Writing Home –
Cindy on January 21st, 2009
Last year, a dear friend of mine fell from a ladder while working on a home-improvement project. She needed emergency surgery to repair her shattered knee, and had to spend weeks recovering at home with a battery of medical equipment.
My injured friend had a family to care for — not to mention a full-time office job that had to be put on hold while her injury healed. Meanwhile, she practiced her physical therapy, learning how to use crutches and trying not to collide with the furniture. But her biggest challenge, as she put it, was “learning how to give up control” while she rested on the couch with her leg propped up.
Nobody likes being injured or ill, but I’m convinced it’s twice as hard for mothers who suddenly find themselves incapacitated for weeks at a time. It doesn’t matter if we’ve been hit by a bus or a flu bug. Moms are programmed to be nurturers and fixers. We roll up our sleeves and pitch in when someone needs to be fed, bandaged, or chauffeured to softball practice. We’re more comfortable offering help than asking for it. Sitting still goes against our maternal grain.
While the moral of this story could be: “Girlfriends, never do home repairs that require a ladder,”I promise it is not.
Watching my friend move gingerly on her walker, I was reminded of the time I found myself in the same position seven ago after I had bilateral hip-replacement surgery.
A serious health crisis can be an excellent teacher — albeit a tough one. And this much I know for sure: I never would have grasped the full meaning of the word generosity had I not limped my way through several months of surgical rehab. During that time, a number of incredibly nice people conspired to make my life easier. Neighbors drove my son back and forth to school. Friends baked casseroles and delivered them to my family while I recovered in bed. In particular, I remember the savory chicken noodle soup a friend dropped off at exactly the moment I craved the taste of comfort.
I often wondered what I could ever do to return so much kindness. The answer came from one of the terrific nurses at William Beaumont Hospital who took care of me after my second surgery.
“Watch for opportunities to help someone else,” the nurse told me. “Be there when the time is right.”
Even the smallest acts of kindness, after all, are links in the great chain of generosity. Whenever we receive an abundance of love or care, our well overflows and we have more to share. Better yet, real generosity is boundless. It isn’t about keeping score or simply repaying the same people who’ve done favors for us. (I’ve been thinking about this a lot this week, after hearing President Obama’s call to community service.)
So, as soon as I learned about my friend’s accident, I headed straight for the kitchen and did what I’ve learned to do best in this type of emergency: I made enough minestrone to feed a family, then delivered it in Tupperware containers to my friend’s house. The following week, I made chicken soup and a batch of stew, alternating with other friends from church who had offered “meals on wheels.”
I don’t deserve special recognition for doing this; cooking for my friend was a selfish act. It made me feel better (or at least not so useless) in the face of her misery.
Recalling her long weeks of recovery, my friend told me recently that she couldn’t imagine how she’d ever repay all the generous people who’ve been so helpful. I told her that she doesn’t owe any of us anything in return, and I meant it.
“Next time someone else falls from a ladder,” I added, half seriously, “it will be your turn to bring the soup.” And I’m sure that’s what she’ll do. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on January 12th, 2009
“I take rejection as someone blowing in my ear to wake me up and get going, rather than retreat.” — Sylvester Stallone
This week I’m filling out entry forms and taking photos of my work for an art competition. I’m new at submitting my artwork to gallery competitions — and nervous about subjecting myself to a brand-new form of rejection. Here’s a column I wrote a few years ago about learning to deal with rejection as a writer. . . .
The Slings and Arrows of Rejection
I meet them every time I attend a cocktail party or a business function. They’re the stressed-out professionals who’d love to quit their jobs and try “something more fun.” Most of them want to get published. I was cornered by one of these aspiring authors at a seminar last month. A colleague of my husband’s, the man works as a designer for a high-profile architecture firm, but he really wants to be recognized for his byline.
The colleague said he wrote essays occasionally. He had experienced the fleeting thrill of seeing a couple of his pieces in the local paper — âa real high,â as he put it. He wanted to publish more often in Sunday newspaper magazines, and he wanted to earn some money for his writing. But after receiving several rejection slips, he was ready to give up.
“How do you handle the rejection?” he asked. “I just hate rejection.â
“Well, I deal with it the same way architects do when their designs get shot down,” I told him.
“Oh, no,” he said. “That’s not as personal.”
Rejection and its evil twin, Criticism, are part and parcel of the writing life. I don’t care much for either of them, yet both keep in touch with me periodically. And while it’s true that rejection letters can sting for a few days, eventually you get used to them. You learn to accept that you can’t hit the editorial bull’s-eye every time.
A fellow writer once offered this consolation, and I believe she’s right: If you’re not getting rejection letters, you’re not aiming high enough or sending out enough material. You have to toughen up, get busy, and hold your breath every time you open the mailbox. And you must start the process all over again.
As I reminded the guy from the architecture firm, “personal” rejection is hardly the sole province of publishing. Anything you dearly hope to achieve, including love itself, holds the possibility of loss. That said, I’ll admit that the very word “rejection” dissolves bone marrow and turns warm blood to ice water. On a really bad day, it can make even the most aggressive self-promoter drop her best ideas and run home.
That’s why I often share a favorite story about Madeleine L’Engle, whose award-winning children’s book, A Wrinkle in Time, was rejected by more than forty publishers before it finally went to press. “Every rejection slip was like the rejection of me, myself,” L’Engle wrote. But she believed in her book, believed in its power to inspire children, and absolutely refused to let it die. Today it remains a beloved best-seller for young people.
It also helps to remember that the craft of writing offers second and third chances. As Frank Lloyd Wright said, “A doctor can bury his mistakes, but an architect can only advise his client to plant vines.” Thankfully, redemption is so much easier for writers. We can reorganize, revise, revamp, and send our stuff out into the world again.
But the real secret to coping with rejection â aside from keeping faith in your own abilities — is to enjoy the process, the work itself. You have to fall in love with words and take pleasure in the way you string them together. And it’s essential to remember that publishing, as novelist Anne Lamott once said, is an addictive drug. Your last hit will never feel like enough.
Still, the small victories are sweet. Not long ago, one of my favorite pieces was rejected by a regional magazine. Several postage stamps later, it was accepted by a national publication for more money than I’d expected — and I hadn’t changed a word. That doesn’t happen as often as I’d like, of course. Just often enough to fuel my hopes and make my work more fun than architecture. – Cindy La Ferle
*This piece was first published in The Daily Tribune, Royal Oak, MI, then in my book, Writing Home. Last year it was excerpted in Sixty Candles: Reflections on the Writing Life, published by the American Society of Journalists and Authors.
Cindy on November 13th, 2008
Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly?” — lyrics by Paul Simon, “Old Friends”
As busy as we are these days, it’s hard enough to find the time we need to nurture our most important family relationships. Keeping up with close friends can be twice as challenging. This month, my regular column in Michigan Women’s Forum addresses the delicate topic of how some friendships change or fade over time, and how, sometimes, we have to let go. –CL
Cindy on October 14th, 2008
Now I understand that all my hours aren’t billable; finding a quiet center in which to create and sustain an authentic life has become as essential as breathing.” — Sarah Ban Breathnach
Few things in life are more fun than rediscovering an old friend. Last weekend, while reorganizing my kitchen bookshelves, I found Simple Abundance sandwiched between two cookbooks. Written by Sarah Ban Breathnach, this popular daybook enjoyed only moderate success until Oprah endorsed it in the mid-1990s. Luckily, the book found its way into my hands when I needed it most — when my son was a child and I was trying to strike a healthy balance between my writing career and family life.
Compiled for women in desperate need of “sanctuary” from overbooked lives, Simple Abundance contains inspirational essays for every day of the year. In her introduction, Ban Breathnach explained that she wrote the essays while wrestling with her own discontent. She had many blessings to count, she said, yet she was never satisfied.
“Money was an enormous, emotionally charged issue that controlled my ability to be happy because I let it; money was the only way I could measure my success and self-worth,” Ban Breathnach wrote. “If I couldn’t write a check on my accomplishments, they didn’t exist.”
Glancing through Simple Abudance after years of neglect, I was struck by its call to practice simplicity, humanity, and gratitude. We’re all reeling from a massive economic crisis and the nastiest, ugliest presidential campaign in history. We’re wondering what’s in store. Who couldn’t use a little advice on how to find inner peace and happiness in the midst of chaos and uncertainty? – Cindy La Ferle
