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February 25, 1998
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A nasty URI is sweeping through the shelter. Bloody snot is my least favorite feline bodily fluid. And the litterboxes were particularly poopy today. I tried to focus on doing each task mindfully and not get distracted by the pressure to get everything done, and I did manage to stay in the moment more often than not. I am afraid what I wrote the other day about "washing dishes in order to wash dishes" as opposed to "washing dishes in order to have clean dishes" can be misinterpreted. There is nothing wrong with having goals and deadlines. In fact if I had more goals and deadlines, there might be a novel coming out of this keyboard eventually, not to mention Zsolt and Istvan's excellent web page, etc. But , for me, focusing on the goal at the expense of experiencing the process takes a lot of the luster off of life. Sometimes, it even hinders my achieving the goal. One of the things that regularly blocks me from writing is the overwhelming expectation of having a final, finished, published novel so my mother will stop worrying. And also the overwhelming fear of what will happen when people I know, especially my family, read it. In this case, the end result not only interferes with my experiencing the process, it prevents me from even starting it. Why would I want to be fully present to the task of cleaning litter boxes? Well, if I'm thinking of something else the whole time, I'll never learn anything from doing the work. Not to mention I might spill bleach on my jeans or splash soap in my eye! The lessons aren't restricted to how much bleach to use or how to stack the litterboxes so they dry quickly. I've learned which motions hurt my hands and which don't. I've learned how good it feels to get a stain out. And it's such an easy way to practice mindfulness! To pay attention and really see what's in front of you is a skill that can only be developed through practice. So I can learn about life, the human condition, the feline condition, and the path to enlightenment all by doing something that I might otherwise find unpleasant, attentively and meditatively. Why would I want to be fully present to the task of writing? I don't know how I could finish a writing project if I weren't. In order to access all the stuff stored in my head (or elsewhere) that can go into a novel or a poem or a journal entry, I need to be here now. Paradoxically, being in the present makes the past more accessible. When I turn off the internal editor and just keep writing, details that I didn't know I remembered come out the end of the pen fluidly. One thing I learned in Natalie Goldberg's Writing and Walking course in New Mexico is the power of writing practice to get at those details. The more I wrote the better I got. Keeping it going, stopping for nothing and being fully in the physical act of writing freed me up - it broke down blocks and barriers that kept me from using my experience in my writing. Another thing I learned is that it works better with a pen than with a keyboard. The physical sensation of the pen moving over the paper facilitates the smooth flow of thoughts more than typing does - I keep having to go back and correct typos and remember to save my file every few minutes or seconds, both of which break up the flow. That's not to say that one can't do writing practice with a computer - just that I find it easier with a pen. Writing practice. The notion of practice as preparation for something, rehearsal for the real thing often trips me up when I try to talk about "writing practice". Am I writing or am I practicing in preparation for writing? The first meaning listed for practice in the Webster's New World Dictionary is "to do, exercise, or perform frequently or usually; make a habit or custom of." I guess that would mean I make a habit of writing. But writing can also be a spiritual practice, as can washing litterboxes, or meditating in a lotus position, or reciting a mantra. Even with all of these thoughts, I still bristle when someone says to me "well, you're still practicing but you're not writing" or "you're just practicing". I felt tense when I wrote that sentence. I bristled. Maybe I feel guilty. Maybe I feel misunderstood. For a long time, I stopped doing writing practice - feeling like it wasn't getting me anywhere and it wasn't serious writing and was sort of beside the point. I write almost every day but I still don't do regular writing practice. I'm still so stopped in my tracks by the notion that I have less and less time left to produce something that will justify my writing, justify me. I don't feel free to write "the worst junk in the world" anymore. I feel like it has to go somewhere right now so I can prove to everyone that I really can write, I'm really worth something in the world, I wasn't wrong to try the writing life. All of that paralyzes me as absolutely as if my nerves short-circuited. I have to write a lot of junk to get to the good stuff, but if I can't let myself be free to write junk, I'm not free to write. | |
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