Fire Woman and Gin & Tonic Man . . . or Letting the Story Find You

campfireA deadline looms, and a voice tells me, once again, that I have nothing to say.

Mostly, I’m tired from helping repair my in-laws’ house, which involved hard physical work tearing down and rebuilding a 44-foot long deck over Labor Day weekend. I spent the weekend grunting and screwing—not the good kind.

Then, back to the office on Tuesday, where I was met with a slew of problems incurred by a new employee who quit suddenly.  The week loomed before me with nary a break in sight. When would I have a chance to think about what to write, let alone write?

That’s when I engaged a writing super power: Listening . . . a.k.a. letting the story find you.

It’s a trick I learned some time ago when I discovered that inspiration doesn’t really come from me so much as to me.

In other words, to be inspired, I don’t necessarily need a good long stretch of structured time to think, or the perfect writing desk, or a ready-made topic. No, I just need to pay attention—to listen with a writer’s ear—to the stories that naturally bump into me in the course of living my busy, sometimes, stressful life.

Which brings me to Fire Woman and Gin & Tonic Man.

During my crazy last week, while I was trying not to stress over what to write, I would periodically get calls from my 78-year-old mother and 83-year-old father, who were on a “little RV trip.” Gulp.  Were they up for that?  I hoped everything would go smoothly for them, but with each of their calls, I came to appreciate they didn’t really care if everything went smoothly.  In fact, each mini-disaster was an integral part of their adventure—they thought it was fun—and they handled these mini-disasters by accepting each as it came along, relaxing anyway, and engaging their ingenuity.

“The first day I was driving,” Mom (a new driver of the old RV) relayed to me, “we suddenly heard a terrific noise.  So I pulled over and instructed your father to take a look around the RV for any problems. He came back saying everything looked fine.”

That’s my dad’s usual response these days—everything is fine.  He doesn’t have quite the critical eye he used to.  So, they started out again, only to discover the noise was much worse and the entire RV was shaking.

“It’s the tire, Rick. I think it’s the tire!” my mom called out.

She pulled over again.  This time she got out to look around and found the left front tire had completely shredded. Whoops.

Never mind.

They called Triple A and found a tire store willing to replace all four tires—which they knew was needed, but had put off in order to get started on their trip.

Eventually, they made it to a campground and went to sleep.

The next day she called again.  I asked how it was going.  She said it was going well, that she had been Googling survival methods. She was calm. I was not.

“Oh? What’s happened now?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “Dad went off to fill the windshield wiper container and check the oil.  When he came back we checked the wipers, and they worked great, but I noticed he was carrying the transmission fluid . . . ”

“Oh no!”

She giggled a little.

“No worries. I just got on Google again, and apparently, people used to use transmission fluid instead of oil all the time.”

I interrupted my riveted listening, to ask, “Mom, are you sure you guys are okay?”

“Oh yes. We are having fun! Every day is a little adventure. Tonight, for instance, we decided to make a big bonfire. We went on a walk to all the deserted campsites and gathered up bits and pieces of firewood and dragged them back to our campsite. It’s our exercise,” she explained and went on, “Now, Dad’s making us a cocktail and we are going to relax by the fire I just built using a cotton ball dipped in Vaseline and a flint fire starter.”

“Did you say you started a fire with a cotton ball covered in Vaseline and a flint starter?” Apparently, she’d read about that in her survival guide.

“Yep,” she said cheerily. “Dad and I have given each other new nicknames. I am Fire Woman, and he is Gin & Tonic Man.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. They were a beautiful example of not only embracing life as it comes, but making it fun and creative too, making the best of whatever bumped into them.

And, lucky for me—daughter of Fire Woman and Gin & Tonic Man—their happy story just bumped into me, reminding me that I don’t have to go out and find a story, the story is very likely to find me, if only I relax, pay attention and listen.

Photo Credit: Photo by Timothy Meinberg on Unsplash

Bring on the Taskmaster!

chains wrapped around a woman's anklesI admit it—I am a slave. Sure, I hide it, presenting myself as a fiercely independent woman in control. Often, I resist it, attempting to ignore my fevered fetishes. But in all honesty, there are significant aspects of my life to which I am unquestionably, albeit joyfully, fettered: my morning latté, my husband, and, most especially, my writing.

I‘ve discovered this: embracing my servitude, instead of ignoring it, brings me to a whole new level of happiness—a kind of oneness with and deep appreciation for my aforementioned masters.

Thus, at 6:30 a.m. when the alarm rings, I rarely crawl back under the covers, because the coffee is calling me and I must answer its call. Truth is, my servitude to my morning latté makes me a better person; it makes me willing to face the day. It encourages me to start slowly, to ignore my “to do” lists for a spell, to forego my anxiety, to resist listening to any negative and critical voices in my head—in other words, to “wake up” before I carpé diem.

As for marital bliss, I’m done. I’m done ignoring that when I let go of my fear of being dependent, my fear of appearing weak, my fear of being in servitude to another—and instead, openly bowed in humble devotion to my husband for some spell every day—our connection grew stronger, our loving more passionate, our experience of “oneness” more complete.

I am not alone in discovering this. It was Rumi who poetically captured one married couple’s bliss:

“Their secret was this: That once every day, for an hour, they treated each other as if they were gods and would, with all their heart, do anything, anything their beloved desired.”

Which brings me finally to writing—my most demanding of masters—and you.

Perhaps you, too, (like I used to be) are currently unwitting slaves to your writing. Maybe you hear the call; you feel the pull; you know the sense of completion that comes when you finally put pen to paper, when you sit down and write.

Perhaps then you also know the sick feeling when you fail to write—the loss of connection to a deep yearning within your soul. The failure to write might be spurred by an innocuous but compelling voice in your head saying you are too busy to write, or a judging voice saying that writing is just too hard, or a voice of anxiety projecting a low-level fear that your work won’t be good enough (these certainly all have shown up for me).

In truth, these excuses—these “voices”—are conditioned fearful responses to anything that might awaken something powerful within. I say that because I’ve seen behind the veil. I’ve seen writing for what it truly is in my life: My Guru. I now bow before it and use it to pay attention to life as it unfolds, to practice ruthless honesty, to be courageous before the pen, despite the voices. And to write no matter what.

But it didn’t come easily. I had to work at it. I pussyfooted my way along at first, dipping my toes into the writing waters. Dabbling. Sure, I read the value of adopting a predictable writing practice, but couldn’t quite manage to do it. I “tried” to establish a writing practice instead of committing to one. Frustrated, I carved out time for a writing retreat at some point, but the voices came along. That’s when I discovered the value of having someone else—a friend, a close relative, a writing coach—hold me accountable. Someone who would ask me, “How much writing did you do today?” Someone, who would respond to my squirming resistance that it “just wasn’t happening today,” with a firm, “So?”

In short, I discovered the value of having a Taskmaster.

And sure enough, my Taskmaster primed my writing pumps. My Taskmaster helped hone my servitude to the page. My Taskmaster focused my attention and helped me see that writing does not always flow.

Having just completed Open, master tennis player, André Agassi’s memoir, I appreciate that just as he had bad tennis days (years even) and still kept practicing tennis, so too must I continue to practice my writing. And, just as his fitness coach, Gil, helped him, my Taskmaster helps me. In remaining committed to my writing practice, I have forged a trustworthy connection with that deep yearning within my soul to write. I honor the unwritten contract.

These days, I make a reachable commitment and then bow humbly before my Guru and do its bidding. I write. (And if I don’t, my Taskmaster calls me to the table.)

So if you find yourself faltering, I say, “Bring on the Taskmaster!” It is time to get serious.

Photo Credit:

Wabi Sabi Writer, Wabi Sabi Life

A meme that says A beautiful thing is never perfectIn college, I was a straight A student who once took a class “pass/fail” to give myself a break. Turns out I didn’t know how to relax my effort and ended up getting an A anyway—though that only showed up as “pass” and I suffered in the process. At the time, though, I thought perfection was an admirable goal. I patted myself on the back for it.  

Then I lived more of my life and learned something valuable.

Although still conditioned to strive for perfection, I’ve come to appreciate the haphazard, the imperfect, and the uncontrollable.  I see that at the untidy edges of life, passion escapes its shackles and truth is revealed. Messy, incomplete, and broken are beautiful, too.

The other day, I was cleaning my office, trying to create order once again. The recycling bin had overflowed, and the piles, stacked everywhere—comprised of random bills, things to remember, upcoming events, and business notes—no longer made sense. I sighed, thinking it was a disaster.

However, as I sorted the papers into keep and throw away piles, I came across all kinds of random thoughts jotted down and forgotten. My writings were on scraps of paper, half-written spiral notebooks, and yellow note pads, interspersed among “to do” lists, travel itineraries, and business documents. These random introspective thoughts perfectly reflected my experience of late—haphazard, messy, and unfocused, but unexpectedly poignant. It was as if, in the periphery of my hectic life, there was a part of me reading between the lines, noticing the beauty, enlivened by life and appreciating it.

On one scrap of paper I had written:

“Out of the corner of my eye, I see the truth . . . that life is good, that existence itself is a miracle. I sense the glory often—but too often I see life face on. I see the content of life. I see suffering. And suffering comes from the weaving of sad stories—stories that weave webs of fear and loneliness.

Just today a friend of mine was struggling, unable to see anything but a broken arm and a broken car. She said she’d been up all night, stuck in the loneliness of the wee hours in a blackness that felt bleak, not deep. I know that place too.

 I want to enfold her in my arms—to tell her everything is okay; nothing is wrong. That life is a rich tapestry and that she is an integral part of that.

Soften your gaze I want to say. This too shall pass. And, while I may not have arms big enough to enfold all of suffering, Life does.

Just out of the corner of my eye, I can see the truth, can you?

Another note said:

My life—all of it: spiritual worldview, material worldview, being happy, being stuck—is my practice. There is no part of my life that is not an opportunity. Of course, I have known this intellectually, but it hit me viscerally this morning on my walk.

Another, referencing a Japanese worldview centered on the art of imperfection, said more simply,

I am Wabi Sabi, and that’s okay.”

Life itself, I reflect, now—like my office, like my random thoughts, like the tree growing crookedly between other trees—is Wabi Sabi perfect, just as it is.

As a writer, this understanding has freed me. I’ve gently let go of the student constantly striving for an ‘A’ in a pass/fail setting—the perfectionist holding my writing hostage. I now throw all kinds of ideas down on bits and scraps of paper.  I capture random moments and insights. Some I use, others I don’t. Sometimes, wildly disparate ideas from different times and places and different scraps of paper find themselves together in an article.  

Truthfully, I am never sure where the inspiration comes from, but I appreciate that it is the messy edges of life that pulse with vitality—and that is what I want to write about.

I am a Wabi Sabi writer writing about Wabi Sabi life.

Photo Credit:, 6593552.png

Enlivenment Along the Way

White Jasmine Blossoms in San Diego
White Jasmine Blossoms in My Yard

When the jasmine plant comes into bloom, first two or three tiny petals open, whispering the hint of what is to come.  Soon another and another burst forth.  Others die off, but the tempo increases until enough have bloomed that a symphony of scent reaches its climax.

Sometimes, whole climbing arms die off, leaving the plant looking a bit withered and worn, but a little water and warmth revitalize it.

Before long, the tempo increases and the plant comes back again into full bloom, delighting me with its sweet, faintly musky, sensuous and intoxicating scent.

It is a delicate scent, however, that dissipates quickly in the night breeze. Hopefully the trace left lingering invites me to seek more—to stop and sit awhile in the bounty, like a child with a pole at a great fishing hole, enjoying one of life’s prolific, if fleeting, offerings.

Enlivenment is like the night blooming jasmine.

When I became an empty nester, it was as if one entire arm of my inner jasmine bush withered and died. Being a mom lit me up. Sure, cooking and cleaning, dealing with tantrums and making sure they did their homework exhausted me, but I relished it. Every day offered a whiff of something precious—a moment to notice, a memory to cherish. When the kids were little we’d dive into spontaneous crafts together, make homemade pasta noodles, and grow vegetable soup. We’d read books, play games and laugh—a lot—well, almost as much as we cried, anyway, but even that was enlivening.  

When the kids grew older we went on adventures: hiking and backpacking, rock hounding, swimming with dolphins . . .

For me, motherhood was naturally enlivening. Sure, there was a subtle underlying goal to help the kids grow confident enough to fly on their own from the nest, but it was never a goal I focused on. Never a goal I worried about. I didn’t set out with the intention to reach that goal as efficiently and quickly as possible. No. I caught the sweet scent of life in each moment on the breeze and happily lingered, like the child with a fishing pole, abuzz with contentment.

Of course, the kids did grow up and fly from the nest I built, and I—withered  jasmine vine that I’d become—had to regroup. I had to find new enlivenment.

I set out with gusto.  But without the kids’ blossoms lingering on the breeze enticing me to stop and play, to be content, I was left with only my adult conditioning, which seemed to alternate between running desperately toward society driven goals (make and spend lots of money) and collapsing into distraction (wine and movies.)  

I thought I was doing right for myself, actively going after my new enlivenment—a loftier title, a sexier product, a bucket load of more money, the respect of my peers. I thought when I caught that golden ring, I’d be enlivened again.  Someday.

Meanwhile more arms of my jasmine bush wilted and died.

It took a while to remember how to care for myself, how to offer my dry roots water and how to wrap myself up in my own warmth and inner encouragement.

Then the company I worked for went bankrupt and I lost my job.  All the goals I’d been reaching for disappeared.

But in their absence, I remembered: enlivenment is not something you go after—something you can grab on to. It’s more delicate than that. It’s the faint scent on a light breeze that tickles something inside and makes you smile. It’s a field of yellow flowers, a rainbow, a moment with a friend, an afternoon in bed with your beloved. Enlivenment grows by paying attention to this moment. This one.

I got out a pen and paper and started writing personal essays again, capturing moments. I took myself out of the “to do” list arena—out of the “make a deadline” or “meet a goal” mindset—and back into something that encouraged me to slow down and pay attention—to mull things gently over in my mind. To let things be.

One day a little blossom burst forth tentatively telling me I was on the right path, so I joined a writing group. It made me happy to be compelled to write regularly for no reason at all. When the juices got flowing, I found it easy to start a cooking and storytelling blog. Another blossom opened.  My world unfolded with potential writing fodder—so long as I paid attention to the nuances of each moment.  How would I capture that mood? How would I describe that setting or that moment with the hummingbird?

By and by, my jasmine bush came into full bloom again.

Enlivenment, I saw, is not something to go after with gusto, but rather something present along the way—a mindful essence, a sweetness that emanates from within. It comes forth naturally when I stop and listen, when I play—and, for me, when I write.

Maybe writing holds this potential for you too.

If you find yourself withering on the vine, try this: get out a pen and paper and write. Write what is before you right now. Write about the thoughts and feelings swirling. Write about what it feels like to be withering. Then get quiet and write about what you love, what you notice lights you up, what brings you to your knees in a simple moment of awe. Write about what enlivens you.

Photo Credit: Marijke McCandless

Write to Reveal

An almost naked woman laying provocatively on a white tableI cleared away the used Roy’s Coffee House paper cups I had collected over the week, then painstakingly sorted through multiple yellow pads filled with “To Do” lists related to my new job program managing for a startup telecommunications company. By and by I revealed my desk, which had become messy over the last few days. Ahhh. That felt nice. I had spent the week collecting things on my desk haphazardly, knowing I would need them at some point. Now, just the right things were left: one yellow pad with an updated action items list, one pen, a water bottle, and a neat stack of purchase orders.

Unwittingly, a thought popped into my head that good writing was like this too: carefully choreographed scenes revealing essential ingredients needed to create a setting and push a story forward.

Then I thought about the semantics we use to describe this process and noted therein was the problem. Instead of thinking from the perspective of “building a scene,” we might become better writers if we imagine we are unveiling a scene to our reader.

There you are, facing a blank page to which you must add words. Stop. Rearrange your thinking. See the scene in your mind’s eye. Now imagine, as you write, that each word or phrase you put on the page is designed to reveal more of that scene to your reader, slowly disclosing bits and pieces of critical content. Some words will show teasers of a physical description (not too much at once), others will lay bare the thoughts and feelings motivating a character.

Ultimately, we writers are not scene builders at all, but rather striptease artists, using our words to reveal the very essence—the naked truth—of what we want our readers to take away, and, perhaps in the process, baring a bit of ourselves as well.


Seeking the Super Bloom

California Super Bloom WIldflowers in Purple and YelloWe drove back from Las Vegas the other day, intentionally going three hours out of our way to drive through the Anza Borrego Desert to see the Super Bloom. I had envisioned fields of bright flowers carpeting the desert floor, so I was underwhelmed by the scattering of pale flowering weeds that I could see from the car window as we drove through.  Was this the Super Bloom?

Sure, patches of flowers were scattered throughout the desert, and the patches I could see did seem to be different colors: purple, white, pink, yellow. But I was tired. And there was a lot of traffic. I was slightly depressed and didn’t feel like getting out and walking through the desert for a closer look.

Truthfully, my attitude to life at this moment was dulled from an argument I’d had with my husband. We’d just returned from a somewhat stressful trip to Las Vegas—where all the individual pieces were fun—seeing old friends, helping our daughter move into a new house, climbing at Red Rocks. But the overall accumulation of activity had drained us—had overwhelmed our nervous systems.

It had been a crazy mess of activity while we were there, hooking up appliances, making dinner for big groups, walking “the strip,” watching Cirque d’ Soleil, driving around looking for houses with our friends, and rock climbing.  I had gotten scared on one of the climbs and snapped at my husband.

I had also gotten a sudden bee in my bonnet to look at houses—maybe Las Vegas was a place our family could live together again, I dreamed. But the sea of Stepford-wives in planned communities deterred me.  I tried to find something off the beaten track closer to the canyon lands. When a beautiful house showed up in Zillow in a tiny community near the Red Rock Canyon a half hour drive away, I called the real estate agent to see if we could see it.  That was a mistake. I was just chasing a fantasy dream—something I wasn’t even sure I wanted—and dragging my husband along for the ride. He wasn’t expecting a real estate agent to be there and was embarrassed since he had no intention of moving.

“We wasted her time,” he said later. I hadn’t seen it that way, but perhaps I should have. Anyway, the house was great, but I didn’t like the area—too far from necessities, like a grocery store.

Then we drove home, planning to go out of our way to see the Super Bloom in the Anza Borrego Desert.  A forbidding silence—not the good kind—filled the car.  I began practicing what I had been taught in awareness training—to simply notice what was going on. I noticed I felt bad. I felt bad for snapping at him. I felt bad for looking at the house. I felt bad for taking extra time to drive home. I felt bad that the Super Bloom he and I had recently experienced in our relationship appeared to be waning.

I noticed that these negative thoughts filled my mind as we drove through the desert, coloring my appreciation. What was so great about this “Super Bloom” anyway?  Where are the carpets of flowers? Where is the abundance?

We drove home, never getting out of the car. The minute we got back to Alpine, a proliferation of rich, vibrant flowers greeted us—right in our own backyard.  Great swaths of dark orange-y yellow flowers lined the freeway. In our neighborhood, the bright magenta succulents were in full color, “carpeting” the road near our house. Our own orchard had burst into bloom, too.

Later, I talked with others who had driven out to the Anza Borrego Desert to see the Super Bloom, curious about their experience. Some were underwhelmed, as I had been, but others were overwhelmed with the abundance they found.  My hairdresser described the most magical day out there in the desert with her husband.  They had gotten out of their car and hiked into the palm oasis, where the flowers showed themselves readily amongst the cacti.  She said it was one of the best moments she and her husband had experienced together.  They wandered in the beauty, appreciated each other, found a secret watering hole. They themselves bloomed out there in the desert.

As I mulled over these observations in the weeks following, odd thoughts and comparisons came to mind.  I thought about 9/11.  I thought about the photos I saw in those initial days of the destruction, chaos, and terrorism.  I remembered that, despite the fear and sadness, I felt something else blooming within me as I saw at ground level people helping people—forgoing past prejudices, ignoring race and gender, overlooking economic status. I saw people reaching out to one another. I saw and felt a Super Bloom of compassion in those days following 9/11.

And today, in the wasteland of our current political climate, I feel something of the same thing. On the one hand, I look out and see a barren desert threatening to lay waste to things dear to me. I feel fear and negative thoughts reigning. But when I stop and look closer—when I get out of the car to walk into a palm oasis, when I notice the proliferation in my own backyard, when I override the feeling of being overwhelmed and the dull attitude taking hold of my heart—I see a Super Bloom unfolding.  Again, I see people supporting each other, rising up among the thorny cacti to offer love and compassion despite the climate—despite the polarity of views. I see people engaging with the “other” political side, asking questions of one another, striving to understand one another. I see people wildly increasing their donations to organizations they appreciate, people finding the time to volunteer, people speaking out against oppression, people holding the light.

I see myself pausing and wondering how I too can contribute—wondering what I, as a writer and awareness practitioner, can offer.

I think, too, of the conditions that lead to a Super Bloom—a long drought followed by a generous rain that encourages the long dormant seeds to shed their protective covering.

I see that as a writer and an awareness practitioner I have a choice. I have a choice of what to write about, what to notice, what to draw attention to.  I see that my first glance at something—out of a car window while harboring a dull attitude—may not be the juiciest one, the truest one. It might not be the message I want to share or the feeling I want to cultivate. It might take a little more perseverance. It might be something simple, like noticing what’s going on in my own mind instead of being consumed by it, or appreciating what’s in my own backyard instead of seeking it elsewhere. It might take wandering deeper into the desert for a closer look.  It might be remembering good things not bad, and appreciating the great patches of flowers popping up everywhere, despite everything.

And, if I am truly dried up, overwhelmed, and encased in a protective coating unable to flower, I can trust that abundance will flow again. I can remember that even the dormant stage is part of the process, and I can always notice and write about that.

Photo Credit: Marijke McCandless

Bring the Lover to the Bedroom

An old-fashioned typewriter sitting on a deskA Buddhist teacher once said, “If you want to make wild passionate love, bring the lover to bed.”

Sounds obvious. But is it? This teacher was pointing out that each of us is comprised of many different sub-personalities and in learning to be compassionate and kind to ourselves, we must allow each of them their time to shine. There can be a tendency for one aspect of the personality to dominate—to demand all our time. When that happens, our life gets out of balance.

Take me, for instance. I have many sub-personalities: nurturing mother, playful little girl, competent program manager, passionate lover, storytelling cook, feisty writer, awareness practitioner . . . I’ve learned it’s important for me to schedule time for each of these aspects of myself because if I don’t, life feels stressful and out of whack.

If the nurturing mother demands too much attention, the passionate lover dries up, leaving life less than juicy. Meanwhile, if too much time is devoted to program managing while home and family still demand attention, the nurturing mother begins to feel overburdened and resentful. And, if the writer never gets a voice and the awareness practitioner never sits in silence, I forget to step back and pay attention to life. I forget to notice the beauty of any particular moment and instead get swept away in the “busyness” of life.

As I become more familiar with the aspects of myself that legitimately require time and attention (note: NOT the voices of self-hate and self-criticism, mind you), I begin to appreciate the importance of scheduling time to work, time to nurture, time to be juicy, time to stop and pay attention, or as I like to think of It now, time to “Listen, Play, Write.” I begin to see this approach as a commitment to my whole self—to supporting each of my sub-personalities.

That being said, it still requires focus. If I have made a date to make love with my husband, then I better be darned sure the passionate lover shows up! I need to intentionally let the “to do” items of program managing and the worries of the nurturing mother recede to the background before climbing into bed. I need to bring the juicy playful lover to the fore. And, coincidentally, when I do it brings plenty of fodder to my writing table later.

I say all this because it is a particularly important reminder for us writers—we must schedule time to write. Our other sub-personalities will be vying for attention: devoted spouse, soccer parent, competent office worker, and we must give them time, too. But, during the writer’s time, give them all a break and bring the writer to the writing table. You’ll be glad you did.

Try this:

The next time you sit down to write, check in with yourself. Did the writer show up? Or, is the “corporate executive” still planning tomorrow’s meeting—the parent still worrying about the child’s homework? If so, then stop. Take a breath. Let everything else go. Turn your attention back to the page and set the writer free.

Photo Credit:

Capturing the Sensual Art of Now

cup of coffee on bedside tableThe air is chilly this early January morning of 2017 as am I, having just brought coffee back to the bedroom from the cold kitchen.

My husband turned on the heated mattress pad as well as a space heater during my absence. I hop back in bed and sitting up against an abundance of pillows, I snuggle closer to my husband, sipping my coffee. After a bit, I set the timer for twenty minutes. We always start the day this way: coffee in bed followed by meditation.

When my mind wanders during meditation this morning, I bring my attention back to the sensations of Now. I notice a slightly bitter taste lingering on my tongue. I notice the rushing sound of the space heater as it persistently fills the void. My husband’s arm rests gently against mine, offering comfort and additional warmth. My chest and belly move of their own accord with each breath. I relax and allow the thoughts that had swept me up moments before to gently drift away on their own—to “self-liberate.” The room stills. I open my eyes, keeping the gaze soft and allow my awareness to expand to the edges of my peripheral vision: I catch snatches of color from the Indian saris draped around the four posters of our Malaysian bed frame and notice small movements of leaves fluttering and birds flittering about outside the window.

In this same way, we writers can help our readers feel the Now in our scenes, by drawing attention to the senses, not only the visual details. Each important scene should have a snippet of at least three of the five senses. Is there the whiff of something in the air of your scene? Is there an all-consuming background noise or only intermittent bird chirping? Paying attention to the sensations of the moment draws our attention and makes the scene a complete experience.

At a workshop, I teach, called “Awakening the Senses for Writers,” we practice focusing on our senses by experiencing them blindfolded and then writing about it. A sense nakedly experienced may evoke a fresh and vibrant—potentially entirely different—description. One of my favorite examples came from a woman tasting carrot juice while blindfolded. She did not immediately recognize the flavor of carrot juice—people rarely do. Instead, she wrote, “This is what green tastes like,” which I find to be an oddly perfect description of the orange beverage.

This type of exercise helps us to pay attention to the sensual details that are present in every moment and then to infuse our writing with that—capturing for our readers too the “Sensual Art of Now” in our scenes.

Try this:

Working with a partner, or even in a writing group, participate in an “awakening the senses exercise.” One person introduces sample sensations one at a time (taste, smell, sound, touch, sight) to the blindfolded others. Each sense is experienced on its own for some moments with the blindfold on. Then the blindfold is removed, and the participants are immediately invited to do a timed three-minute stream of consciousness writing. (In the case of sight, you start with a blindfold on while a visual phenomenon is placed in front of you; then you remove the blindfold and focus only on that item, before doing the timed writing.)

You may try to describe what has been experienced, possibly without even “knowing” even what it is as in the carrot juice example above. This encourages new and creative descriptions. Sometimes this exercise will evoke a memory or fantasy, and a story will unfold naturally and easily.

Whatever the case, bringing our attention to just one sense at a time, helps us isolate each experience—to pay attention not only to the minute details but to the ways in which we are moved by them—a practice that later enriches our writing.

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Write What You Know – Write Naughty

Full Red Lips with Cherry in TeethWhen I was first learning to write, I’d hear over and over again: write what you know! That would stump me because, at the time, after studying sacred sexuality for a year while combatting PTSD, I figured what I knew best was crying and orgasm . . . But somewhere along the line, I had adopted the belief that the heroine of a good story never cries. Never. Heroines are always strong and independent, tearless and stalwart, cheerful even, in the face of crisis—not a puddling mess of vulnerability and emotions. Which left writing about orgasm, but I was too much of an upstanding citizen to deign to writing Porno.

Still, my mascara-streaked, tear-stained, moaning face was right in front of me. I knew it well. Then Fifty Shades of Grey hit the bookstands. And I got it: juicy is what the world wants—and crying and orgasm are both juicy. So I began rereading my journals where I had documented the intricacies of crying—the taste, smell, and texture of sadness. I began, too, to pay attention to the moments leading up to letting go in orgasm. Essentially, I began looking closely at what it feels like to move from composure to surrender, from control to abandon. In doing so, I discovered an honesty and strength in my writing that had been missing before. As much as I had wanted to be Pollyanna, that had not been my life’s path. Pollyanna was not what I knew best. Eventually, I wrote an entire memoir—at the heart of which is a whole lot of crying and orgasm—and discovered the experts were right: Write what you know.

And my additional advice? Make it a little naughty. We could all use more juicy.

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Want to be a Feisty Writer? Sit Down and Shut Up.

man scolding happy dogMeditate that is.

But that’s just sitting still, inner peace, no thoughts, and silence, right?  What’s feisty about that?

It takes true courage—that’s what. Meditation puts us in direct contact with the self-critical voices in our head. You know, the voice that says, “I can’t write!”, “I have nothing to say.” Or maybe the voice that says, “You can’t write that!” The voice that pulls us back from the hard truth, from the gory (or glorious) details. Meditation helps us to see these conditioned, self-critical voices for what they are and to disidentify from them. Through meditation, we learn to turn our attention away from those voices and listen instead to our authentic voice. This is the magic of meditation and a great benefit for writers.

I call it, “how to become a feisty writer,” but scientists these days call it rewiring the brain and mindset. Did you know that meditation has been proven to significantly alter the regions of the brain associated with stress, overall well-being, and fluid intelligence?

For my part, I’ve discovered that meditation and writing, in particular, are fundamentally complementary. Meditation works by employing a writer’s best friend: the power of paying attention.

We sit in meditation and learn to notice everything as an observer—a witness: bodily sensations, sounds, smells, tastes, visual phenomenon, emotions, and thoughts. This is particularly true if we are suffering. Instead of being consumed with our emotions, we act as a journalist, taking detailed notes to describe this phenomenon accurately, freshly, without cliché—outside the realm of our conditioning. As meditators, we pay attention to see how we cause ourselves to suffer so we can drop that. As a writer, we pay attention so that these details can become rich fodder which we can later employ to make our writing honest, rich, and vivid.

Sure, developing a meditation practice requires commitment. But commitment is something we writers need. Bottom line, to enliven the feisty writer within we have to commit to a practice of writing. And, to be free from the self-critical voices that keep us from writing, it helps to meditate.

You game?

To start:

  • Make a commitment to meditate five minutes per day for two weeks. Then just show up. That’s all.  I call it, “making it to the cushion.”
  • Arrange for an undistracted time and quiet place; find a comfortable position.
  • Below is an audio recording of a short guided meditation to use if you choose.  (Note: you can email this audio recording to yourself and listen from your smartphone if you prefer.)
  • Alternatively, read the guidelines below and guide yourself.  If you do it yourself, SET A TIMER. (This is critical for it keeps the mind from incessantly worrying about “how long has it been?”)
    • Start by closing your eyes and taking a couple of long slow breaths through your nose to center yourself.
    • Then, still breathing through your nose, start to count your breaths deliberately until you get to ten. If you notice that you have gone off on a train of thought, don’t worry, everyone does! Just bring your attention back to the breath and continue. Breathe in deeply, silently count “one” on the exhale. Breathe in again, silently count “two” on the exhale, and so on.
    • Once you’ve reached ten, bring your attention from your breath to your bodily sensations. Notice the feeling of the ground or chair beneath you; notice any discomfort anywhere.  Pay close attention to what it feels like:  prickling, heavy, tight, etc.  Scan your body for tension.  Are your shoulders hunched?  Is your jaw tight? Gently relax any physical tensions and repeat silently to yourself, “I release any tension, any pressure, any thoughts, any desires.”
    • When the timer goes off, bring your hands into prayer position and bow, honoring yourself for keeping this commitment.

Being a feisty writer takes courage and commitment. By doing this simple exercise, you acknowledge your intention. Critical voices berating you? Bring on the meditation!

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