Social media hums with electricity. It vibrates with a massive chorus of voices. It’s no wonder it shook something out of place.
The shift I referenced in Enter Your Cave was that something fitting back into place.
It’s about the writing. It’s only ever been about the writing.
Take away all of the glitter and static, hurt feelings and intoxicating relationships, wheel-spinning and momentum. What you have left is the writing. The size of a mustard seed in the palm of your hand, it is our writing that propels this massive medium.
Perspective shifted back into place as my captivation with the writing process shivered its deep, cool roots. I delved deep into my cave and I found writing there.
Writing is an indulgence that we can all sink into, regardless of economic status, niche interest, education (beyond a few minimal barriers to entry), or talent. No one said your writing had to be good before you could enjoy writing. I would say it works exceedingly well in reverse, as your words find their bearing the more vigorously you shake them out of yourself.
Sink into the writing process with me. What inspires you to stop what you are doing and record your thoughts? Where do you write? What do you use? Do you involve any form of ritual? Must you wear a writing sweater in order to truly tap into the good stuff? Do the words ring truer at night? Is the process incomplete without coffee? Tea? What are your favorite pens? Must-have notebooks? Don’t tell me you don’t have favorites.
Are you your harshest critic? Do you get sick of yourself? Bang out the words and not look back? Comb each sentence for bits that won’t absorb? Read your work aloud? Cringe at the sight of older pieces? Find comfort in yourself?
I have so much I want to talk with you about that we might as well make it a series. Complete with a graphic, because this is blogging, after all. I invite you to join me. (pssst… I worked harder on that graphic than I would have for myself alone, in case you want to use it, too. It’s linked to the series category.)
Have you never given the writing process much thought? You aren’t alone. That’s no excuse to not start now. Is this right up your alley? I’m dying to hear your peccadilloes. You have no idea.
Sitting next to me, at my big black desk in our family room, is a flip-top spiral notebook full of the peccadilloes that make up my writing process. A jumble of “ooh, and I have to have…” and “I wonder if anyone else adores…” and lots of “plus this one and this one and that one and those…” that I’ve miraculously organized into three sections:
Tools
Space
Self
That sounds like three posts, but who are we kidding? I can’t mix pens and notebooks into one post that would come in under 1,000 words! To combine where we write with what we wear when we write our best stuff would be blasphemy! The books that model my practices and the bloggers that inform my voice would be a mass of hyperlinks that would serve no one.
The art of selecting the right coffee shop for a writing session deserves room to stretch out all on its own, don’t you think?
In other words, there are no hard and fast rules to this series. All I ask is that you consider, maybe for the first time, what your writing process is and what it means to you. You need not consider yourself a writer. There’s nothing to compel you to say, “I’m just a blogger.” We all have a creative process. We all do.
I’m asking you to poke your creative process with a big stick. Does it poke back?
The next time you sit down to write, stop and look around. What do you reach for first? Where do you sit? What time is it? What do you hear? Where do you look? What do you touch?
Because our writing implements are our most basic tool, regardless of time, place, and talent, that’s what I’ll write about first and next. Pens, to be exact. Would you believe that a simple search for disposable fountain pens introduced me to a whole new world of office supply blogs? I mentioned that fact on twitter and there was an audible gasp and swoon. We are all, at the end of the day, geeks at heart.
So I’m going to write an ode to my favorite pen.
When I say this is an indulgent focus on tools, space, and self, I exaggerate not. What else do you want to talk about?
click photos for source-- credit to Sorta Crunchy for leading me to the incredible Poem Store series
*If you write about your writing process as a part of this series, be sure to send me the link and I'll add it to the bottom of this post and/or whichever post in the series inspires you.
The air in my cave is cool, damp, clean. It reminds me of my grandmother’s basement. I enter and take my breath for granted, then catch its smell in my periphery and stop myself. Breathe deeply. Close my eyes and exist in the air.
The walls in my cave sparkle. Leave a light residue on my fingers that feels like powdered marble. I can hear water dripping leisurely down the walls. I want to cover my arms but I don’t want to lose the sensation of floating.
Clothing would anchor me to the earth.
From a safe distance, I hear my great-uncle’s voice in the quarries, carved deep into the sides of the Southern Illinois earth in Prairie du Rocher, reminding me to watch for sudden drops into nothingness.
I have yet to discover a cave in South Mississippi. Two blocks from my house is the bayou. Drive two minutes south and you are in the Gulf of Mexico. Nary a cave in sight.
My velveteen mind is covered in threadworn plush, resonating with noise and prodding questions, but deep in its center, toward the back, away from the vibrations of every day, is a cavern of quiet.
You ask me how I avoid becoming consumed by the static of social media. How the balance and juggle of mother, wife, writer, editor, procrastinator, friend doesn’t destroy my equilibrium. We all ask each other this question. We all compare the green through our fences.
I enter my cave. That’s how I do it.
I become overwhelmed and begin to feel a rumbling deep to my core. Something begins to shift, sending tremors to a part of my mind that signal a need to go dark. Go deep. Enter your cave.
Can you hear it? You have to be quiet. You have to be mindful. Can you hear? Place your hands on your chest. Can you feel the rumble?
A few weeks ago, I felt something shifting inside. I began spending my Saturday and Sunday mornings in my room, with Olive, focusing on the deep-water blue of my bedroom walls. My husband would ask if I was okay, why wasn’t I out in the noise factory of our living room. I grasped at thin air as I attempted to explain that I could feel a change coming and I needed to quiet down and make room. Clean up my edges so I wouldn’t miss it. I was fine, but I wanted to be ready.
Sounds mildly crazy. I swear I didn’t pronounce this while lounging in a flowing white dressing gown as I stared blindly out of our window. Picture me in four year old yoga pants, with a pile of laundry in front of me, Olive lolling about on the bed, and my saying this very much offhandedly as I watched Food Network or CBS Sunday Morning.
I have a patient husband. He’s learned to trust my instincts.
I’m only now beginning to trust my own instincts. Never have I regretted following my gut. Only not following it.
The other day, I dropped the boys off at school and wandered out to the Annunciation Church in Kiln. It’s the closest thing to a tangible cave that I’ve found, an old white washed building in the middle of what feels like nowhere, where every name on every mailbox is Favre.
After sharing a pleasant conversation with the last parishioner leaving for the morning, whose curiosity about my baby daughter and me got the best of her, I entered the church with Olive and delved deep into its quiet, cool solitude. She was mesmerized by the stained glass windows and sounds our voices made in the empty space, leaving me free to ask, “What am I looking for? What is shifting?”
This is not leading up to a big announcement today. But the answers did come to me. On the drive home that day, I began to identify a shift in direction. I began to recognize a growing desire to live boldly. Stop hesitating. Trust my instincts and step forward with a firm foot.
And encourage those around me to do the same.
On a phone call with Deb on the Rocks last week, I mentioned some changes that will culminate in some big announcements to share with you. She made an audible sigh of relief and admitted that she was wondering if I was getting fed up with social media or if I was simply stepping back. Reassessing. I told her a little about my feeling a shift coming and feeling a need to prepare myself so I could recognize it, at the same time admitting that I was a little burnt out online. She shared a reference to Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes. I asked her to repeat herself via email so I could share it with you in this post. I was going to paraphrase her email, but she says it so well:
In Women Who Run, she tells the myth of Demeter and Persephone, about the need to go dark, sometimes literally to go to hell, to be regenerated. Especially as creative women, we must allow the creative cycles of our words, poetry and thoughts to have their dormant stage, or we will burnout, very literally, just like a brittle match.
Deb has a thread on the creative process unlike anyone I know. She makes me feel like an artist and I selfishly treasure her for that. I begrudgingly share her with you. Tell her I sent you, so I can remain selfish and still share.
Tell me about your cave.Is it a cave? Is it a real place? Show me its resonance.
Changes are coming. I can feel their independent momentum and I can also make them happen. If I only would.
It’s exhilarating, this feeling of anticipation and impetus.
You don’t have to know exactly what I’m talking about to understand this feeling. The details are irrelevant.
It’s our willingness to enter the cave that matters.
The air in my cave is cool and damp. I breathe deeply. The walls beg to be touched and hint at something rich and ancient. I soak it in. I look for myself in its elements.
My arms are covered in bruises from blown IVs. My back hurts from too much time in bed. My brain is slight mush from hours of dehydration and television.
One by one, our family was taken down by Norovirus. It wasn’t pretty. My hands and forearms are red and swollen from bleach burns. Don’t get Norovirus, kids.
I have been a mom for five and a half years now and I’m still surprised when I discover that we don’t get sick days. There should really be a stunt mom we can call in.
But that’s the job. No amount of “I’m sicker than all of you!” gets us out of it.
As the bleach-filled days swirled around me, I spent a lot of time thinking about this parenting gig. Right up until I was carted off to the hospital, I was amazed at my ability to hang onto just enough consciousness to take care of our two boys and baby girl.
You just find the strength. Regardless of circumstances, you do the job. You train your focus on your children. You don’t drop the ball.
Or at least I don’t. You don’t. But some parents do.
MTV reminded me of that during this fiasco.
I ingested hours of MTV reality programming while I recovered. Curiously, as VH1 seems to be moving into more dumbed-down territory, MTV is growing up. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
Shows like Teen Mom and The Buried Life draw me in. Whereas I used to watch The Real World as a 16 year old in order to, on some level, figure out how I stacked up with other kids of my generation, I watch MTV today for a different reason: I watch MTV as a parent, trying to pin down how these kids turned out the way they have.
Crib notes: Teen Mom is a reality show on MTV that follows the lives of several teen mothers whom the audience first met on the show 16 and Pregnant.
The Buried Life documents the efforts of a group of four boys as they methodically tick off their list of answers to the question:
For every item they accomplish on their list, they help a stranger check off an item on theirs.
Subscribers click through for video.
Nature vs. nurture comes into play here, but at the end of the day, I aim my glad hand and stink eye at the parents. What makes the boys on The Buried Life turn their ambition into philanthropic reality yet a girl like Farrah on Teen Mom think that having a baby in high school should not hinder her freedom to go out until 3 a.m.?
While we don’t see the parents of The Buried Life’s boys, we do see Farrah’s mom quite a bit. She lost me when she dissuaded Farrah from breastfeeding because, according to her, it gives you floppy boobs.
My heart sinks.
Is it ignorance?
I don’t pretend to have all of the answers, but I sure as hell try as I go. As parents, how much of what we do counts? Where is the line between the helicopter and the high speed train? My own parenting style lands along the middle as more Hang Glider Parenting; while I don’t hover, I glide through at a slow enough pace that I can recognize when I’m needed, but otherwise try to let my kids find their own bootstraps.
I’m willing to let my children fail.
The pervasive sense of entitlement is the bane of my existence. Teach a man to fish. Not everyone gets a trophy. Red ink is not the equivalent of calling a kid “stupid.”
So I watch MTV and try to figure these kids out. I’m not interested in judging young girls for becoming pregnant. I’m not focused on what makes the kids on Jersey Shore think that “gorilla” physiques that imply steroid use are attractive. No, I’m enthralled by how their thought processes developed.
Does Farrah really think that her teenage desire to stay out late with friends sets her apart from the other teen moms? Farrah, becoming a mom hasn’t made the other teen moms stop wanting to go out. What sets you apart is the fact that you continue to feel that your teen age entitles you to continue to go out.
Subscribers click through for video.
Of all the teen parents, Catelynn and Tyler would have probably made the best parents, yet they were the couple that made the painful decision to give their baby up for adoption. “Painful” is a sad little word to describe it, as I cried deep-body tears when Tyler covered Catelynn’s face with his own as their daughter was born, to shield them both from seeing her. From where does that strength originate? Their parents surely don’t seem to be the source.
I keep watching.
My arms fill with goosebumps at the end of every episode of The Buried Life. Not due to whether or not the boys managed to cross off an item from their list, but because they invariably help a stranger realize an item on their own list. It’s the end segment where the audience watches a montage of strangers identifying things they would like to do before they die that steals my breath.
The Buried Life boys are living a self-awareness that I honestly want to smack into the heads of their generation. They take “living in the moment” to a place their peers can’t seem to grasp. Their “now” is informed by their future. Foresight is invaluable and seems to me, as a parent, a foreboding mountain to teach.
The broad view can be dizzying. Our children’s futures stretch out before us and make me feel faint.
Focus down.
I focus down to their “now.” I err on the side of caution and parent as though it all counts. Who knows what sticks. Who knows what Catelynn and Tyler picked up on along the way that made them selfless and strong and simultaneously stunningly irresponsible in the short term and beautifully responsible in the long?
Who knows what sticks. So I focus down. Our children are under six years old. We keep it simple. We play games together. We eat dinner together.
In fact, it's the experts in adolescent development who wax most emphatic about the value of family meals, for it's in the teenage years that this daily investment pays some of its biggest dividends. Studies show that the more often families eat together, the less likely kids are to smoke, drink, do drugs, get depressed, develop eating disorders and consider suicide, and the more likely they are to do well in school, delay having sex, eat their vegetables, learn big words and know which fork to use.
"If it were just about food, we would squirt it into their mouths with a tube," says Robin Fox, an anthropologist who teaches at Rutgers University in New Jersey, about the mysterious way that family dinner engraves our souls. "A meal is about civilizing children. It's about teaching them to be a member of their culture."
We get on their level and look them in the eye. One of the games we play is from one of the sponsors of Velveteen Mind, a board game called Blurt! It’s not necessarily for kids under 7, but we effortlessly make it work for us by making up questions that fit our age range and learn so much about our boys every time. One of those great rapid word games where you offer prompts like “Dirt that is wet and sticky” and they yell “Mud!” The belly laughs come when we prompt “What you eat after dinner” and one of the boys yells “Chicken!” with such conviction that it takes even him off guard with the absurdity.
We don’t care who wins. The boys ask to play it before bed at night and we rarely make it a quarter of the way around the board. It just feels good to sit “criss cross applesauce” on the floor together and laugh. Hint: The best laughs and reveals come when you take it a step further and ask, “Why do you think…?” or “Oh my gosh, can you imagine if…?!”
Blog Nosh Magazine will be giving away a copy this week, but I’m going to cheat and say that everyone that comments on this post is entered to win, too. I meant to mention this game months ago but never found a relevant place to fit it in. There’s a reason I’m not a review blogger. Just now, I started telling you about it without even thinking about a “review.” It’s simply become something we do. When I think of the game, I think of my boys’ eyes.
Look them in the eye. Listen to what they are saying and what they are not saying. That’s all I can figure out to do right now. The most I can offer them is to be present and really try.
Parenting can be inconvenient. Dinner at the table together doesn’t always fit our schedules. Half the time, our table is covered in clean clothes waiting to be folded. The last thing I want to do is move that stuff onto yet another surface to be ignored. “Let’s play Blurt!” is not always my favorite thing to hear when I’m tired and just want to toss everyone in bed. Ten minutes can seem like a lifetime when you are exhausted and no amount of smiling eyes can change that.
But we have to try.
MTV has become my homework. I watch Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, My Life as Liz, and The Buried Life every time I catch it on. If I had a DVR, I would record them all.
I received an email a while back asking if I would like to interview one of the moms from Teen Mom. I never responded because my first reaction was, “Oh my God, this is a horrible idea!” Unleashing bloggers on these teenagers seemed not only irresponsible but slightly reckless.
My instinct was to talk to Catelynn, but my competing instinct is that she would be much further along in her post-adoption recovery if it weren’t being actively analyzed even more than she would naturally be doing herself. When she wrote her worst regret as “Maybe I could of done it.” my heart broke. A single sentence so loaded.
Subscribers click through for video.
I’ll have to email the rep that contacted me and show her this post. I want people to watch these shows, but there’s a chance I want people to watch them for different reasons than the company had in mind. They are a valuable research resource for parents if you focus down and lift the numbing veil of reality programming.
But letting me talk to Farrah didn’t seem like a good idea, either.
I know there’s a small Google-able chance that Farrah might see this post. Which sucks because I’d like to make my point to you without hurting her feelings. So what would I say to Farrah? Good God, girl, keep trying. Don’t give up. Just keep trying.
That’s the point of this, isn’t it?
Nature vs. nurture. Maybe there’s no rhyme or reason to how our kids end up the way they do. But what if there is? What if we are their key? We owe it to them to never quit on them. Never give up on ourselves as their parents. Never give up on them.
That’s my reality as a parent. What’s yours?
***
Check out MTV.com for informative links, including resources about pregnancy prevention and birthparent support. Catch the season finales of My Life As Liz and The Buried Life Monday night at 9ct on MTV. And no, I wasn’t paid to tell you that.
Social media hums with electricity. It vibrates with a massive chorus of voices. It’s no wonder it shook something out of place.
Don't miss an update! Free delivery of new posts via email (recommended) or feed reader.
Subscribe to Velveteen Mind on 
and 
. 
It’s not necessarily for kids under 7, but we effortlessly make it work for us by making up questions that fit our age range and learn so much about our boys every time. One of those great rapid word games where you offer prompts like “Dirt that is wet and sticky” and they yell “Mud!” The belly laughs come when we prompt “What you eat after dinner” and one of the boys yells “Chicken!” with such conviction that it takes even him off guard with the absurdity.
Writer. Mother.
