“Instructions for living a life: pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.”
I keep the quote above by Mary Oliver on the corkboard at my desk. It seems as good an instruction for writing, “for living a life”, as any. Writers are supposed to be noticers: to pay attention and look around at the often mundane in life and be able to capture it in a way that rings true.
Despite having just finished an eight-week writing class - you’d think that might make it easier - my words have seemingly vanished. I’ve been working to pull up even the simplest of phrases. It’s felt like “dredging up words from the bottom of the ocean” as Jen Hatmaker once said on her podcast.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I did write a poem I’m pretty proud of. (Which came to me in the shower. It was all I could do to finish rinsing out the shampoo instead of scrambling over to my computer naked and dripping wet.) Two essays were born during that class - I’m trying to find homes for them. And I made progress on a much larger project. But your average post or essay or even Instagram caption? Seemingly nonexistent. I began this piece you’re reading nearly a month ago; I’ve been meaning to hit that “publish” button for three straight weeks.
I’ve already written that it’s been a busy fall. As we move toward the holidays, things are only growing busier and moving faster. In a good way — this is one of my favorite times of year. But planning our Thanksgiving menu and researching Christmas gifts and finding a new couch before we host a few gatherings (because our eight-year old couch decided that NOW would be a good time to give up its back support) has taken both my brain space and lots of plain old time out of my day.
To be fair, I like these tasks; I generally enjoy them. The mental load takes its toll, but designing Christmas cards happens but once a year and I revel in it. And I sure as hell am not giving over couch shopping to anyone else. The thing is that I want, as always, to have my cake and eat it, too: I want to have the same amount of time I usually do for writing and hobbies and still have all the time in the world to wrap presents, bake Christmas cookies, and cook two batches of my great-grandma’s dressing for Thanksgiving.
Noticing much of anything has been hard in the chaos. I’m more prone to be astonished by the car who didn’t use their signal to cross over three lanes of traffic as much as anything these days. I notice how sore my fingers are after folding 800 little booklets for the Kindergarten classes in the volunteer workroom in school. (You might think I’m exaggerating with that number. I assure you, I am not.) I’ve been paying attention to the leaves which have changed color and carpeted the ground but have zero new words to say about that.
Mindfulness is a word I see a lot. I hear I should concentrate on the task at hand, I should be focused on the present moment. I can get behind this idea in theory. It sounds so practical, so grounding. It’s easier said than done when the present moment involves a flailing, sobbing preschooler or the same dishes I’ve been washing in the same spot for the past four years or when I sit down to write and my mind wanders and I get distracted by the people walking past our house or the lure of Instagram.
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Caden and Brooklyn have been obsessed with creating lately. Pages and pages of drawings and sheets full of practicing what words they know (the, a, Mommy, Brooklyn, Caden, Nolan, Daddy, and, we, cat, see, go, I).
Brooklyn has taken to drawing what can’t be called anything other than still lifes. The pumpkins on top of the bookshelf, a bowl of apples on the table, her favorite, ancient stuffed Beanie Baby cat named Toby. All she needs is some blank paper and crayons and whatever is closest to her becomes her muse.
Caden has been writing stories using the words he knows or can find from other books and things. I found one the other day called “The Sad Train”. (Which explains why I found an old board book about an elephant obsessed with trains laying around.) (Also, spoiler alert, it’s basically a plagiarized version of “The Little Engine That Could”.) Another one, untitled, reads, “I can go on the school bus. I can go to school.”
They’ve been drawing Mario levels and making Christmas lists, drawing pictures of our family and adding to the lists of words they know.
And as I watched them the other day, I realized, they didn’t sit around just waiting for inspiration to strike. They start drawing, putting pencil and crayon to paper before they even knew what they’re making; begin creating before they even know what they want to create.
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The blank page is daunting. The cursor and this machine with all it’s shiny-ness, the pristine white page awaiting its black marks, all seem to demand perfection. Or maybe that’s just me. With that inner critic in my head ready to pounce on every word choice, punctuation mark, or mistake.The delete key is only a pinky’s reach away. Though, usually, it’s starting that’s the problem.
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I’ve been trying to pay attention, though. Maybe I can reclaim those words again. I suppose that’s all Brooklyn is doing when she starts drawing - she notices the pumpkin on the shelf or the stuffed cat in her hands. She’s paying attention, and she’s telling the world about it through her drawings.
I love to cook. In theory. In reality, it’s burned me out lately, just one more thing to do in the chaos of the early evening and the holiday season. Another thing as the kids burst in the door and ask for snacks and pull papers out of their backpacks and ask for snacks as I rinse out their lunchboxes and they ask for snacks and I clear the kitchen table of its paper and crayons and they ask if they can go play with their friends in the neighborhood and also can they have a snack?
But I’ve been trying to pay attention to that, at least, in the evenings. Chopping things up evenly, the sound of the knife thwack-ing through an onion and hitting the cutting board. Maybe, by paying attention to these mundane tasks, I can reclaim some of that joy.
I don’t know how astonishing it is, another round of this soup (because I have a mild obsession) or chorizo tacos or chicken and rice. Maybe I’m not paying close enough attention to the way simple ingredients become a full meal. I’m distracted by thinking about who is going to eat what and we have to leave for gymnastics in 35 minutes and I had a genius idea for a Christmas gift yet now it’s vanished from my brain.
I try to watch, though, as the olive oil shimmers in the pan, when the chicken hits and it sizzles. I listen for the sound to change, to become more intense as the onions caramelize and I watch the batter expand as I beat eggs into butter and sugar for a batch of brownies.
The transformation of ingredients to food to fill our bellies. I suppose that’s pretty astonishing when I take a moment to pay attention to it. Maybe what’s right in front of me every single day is inspiration enough.