On the Edge

“I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all  kinds of things you can't see from the center.” 
― Kurt Vonnegut


        What do you think about this notion?  It appeals to me so much but I can't seem to put my finger on why the attraction.  That's me on the edge of that fire engine's 175 foot extended ladder.  It was  a demo for the school kids and they asked for a volunteer (adult!) to climb the ladder.  And so I did.  And I hung out there on the edge and experienced the adrenaline and watched the world below me.  I saw all kinds of things I could never have seen from my feet-firmly-planted-on-the-ground place on earth.

       I am a huge fan of the ocean in all its glory.  The ocean sits on the edge of the earth.  I am spellbound by ocean breezes, depths of color,  dangerous cliff edges, and the potential drop to the sea. Scared but  alive.

    Sometimes edges have warnings.

    But, just as often, they don't.

     In everyday life, I encounter edges, places where you can see the end of something.  Sometimes, it is a storefront jumping to the sky or the edge of humor touching the edge of hurt.  It's common stuff but it is the edge.

      There are the times when the illustrious sit on edge with the commonplace.  I sometimes get the feeling that  expectations are on the edge of reality, ready to jump off and see what really is.

    Edges don't have to be straight, you know. Edges can be torn or undulating.  They can start and stop, appear and disappear.  Sometimes you find edges with cracks.  I think I find those edges with cracks on the most interesting days, the days when I am no longer sure of who I am, what I am doing, or where it is I am going.  Nothing is sure on those days, except uncertainty.

  It isn't very often but the edge can be soft and gentle.  It can feel warm and fuzzy, not at all sharp and, well, edgy.  It can feel like, if you were to jump off the edge, the landing would be harmless and maybe even fun.

 
    Edges don't have to be high up there like that first picture.  No, edges can be small but, if you miss a step, the edge can make for a painful fall.  And, when edges are small, you have to look more carefully before you step, lest you crush something of beauty.

     I don't know about you, but sometimes I make my own edges.  I create the excitement, the fear, the messiness, and sometimes I go over the edge and sometimes I don't.

      A week or so ago, I had a dream in which I was walking on the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge.  Impulsively, I decided to climb the chain link fence along the edge (is there even a chain link fence there in real life?) and, yes, leap off the bridge. In the instant that I jumped, my self yelled at my body, "NO! THIS IS IRREVOCABLE!"  Too late.  My body dropped through the air, sailing from the bridge's edge to the edge of the sea.  CRACK!  I broke the surface of the water, body snaping the cold, mind catching the flash of light.  What an edge!  Interesting end to that dream.  As I gurgled my way in the cold, murky Pacific Ocean, I thought, "Ah, but I am still alive!"

     Edges.  What do you think?  Do you like to stand as close to the edge as you can?

I Can Hear

Silence.
Silence is safety
If you don't say anything, no one can get you on anything.
They can think all they want, but they got nothing.
You can hide.  You can be as invisible as you need to be.

I have been silent in this warm world of bloggers.
It is nothing about any of my strong and supportive blogger friends.
It is me, digging deep and coming up short.
It is me, lost and preferring to stay lost.
When you are lost, you are in survival mode
and I am lost.
I am in survival mode.

It's not about work, although work can suffocate me.
I don't know what it is about but I am hoping summer will reveal secrets.
I crave safety right now.
Not the physical safety.  That has never been my issue.
I crave what? emotional safety?
What the hell is that?
And how do you find it?

Sounds so trite.
Sounds so weak.
Nope.  Not me.

I just want you all to know that I am still here.  I am practicing silence and listening to the fish
so that I can hear.
I want to hear what it means to be the salt of the earth.
I want to hear what is ordinary.
I want to hear about predictability and safeness and
what does it sound like to take risks.
Does courage have a voice?
If yes, I want to hear that voice.

I want to hear what it feels like to be alive.

Why Write?

     The blogging world threw out a question the other day that was worth my consideration.  Tangled Lou wondered in print why do we do what we do?  Specifically, she was curious about the details of her readers' writing lives.  Why do we write?  How do we decide about what to write? Do we wait for inspiration or do we just write?  Is there an editing process for our writing?  Compose on the computer or with pen and paper?  Does your mind shut off when you write or is it alive?

    My answers are essentially yes.  I write for lots of reasons.  My work world is full of writing and that writing is very clear cut.  It is purpose driven and needs to be well thought out, organized, succinct,  engaging and without mechanical error.  It often becomes public so I always keep my audience in mind when I write at work.   However, although I never object to communicating at work, that sort of writing is not the same as the recreational writing that I most enjoy.

    I write daily.  The first thing I do every morning is to check my email and respond to whomever I see there - my sister, any one of my brothers, my children, my cousins, one or two very close friends.  On a typical morning, I will wake myself up over an hour's time with solitary writing and reading.  In large part that is about staying in touch with my people but it is also a forum for me,  a place to begin something that will later take on a new direction.   I often return to my keyboard at the end of my work day and review some idea that I started in the morning.  There are so many unfinished posts on my homepage.  I hold on to my drafts, all waiting for further inspiration.  Sometimes some idea pops into my head, often while reading something else (a book, another's post, an article I am reading on line or in a periodical), and I throw some words down so that I don't entirely lose the thought.

   I have never felt competent in the fiction world.  I love good stories but I don't know how to tell them.  I  don't know how to make them unfold without seeming contrived.  I don't know how to make a story drive itself.  And, so far, I am not interested in learning how to do that.  I do enjoy reading and playing with poetry.  I like structured poetry but I have to have the challenge put in front of me before I do that.  I like the notion of creating images with words but it is always so personal to me.  I usually can't understand how anyone could make sense of my so called poetry but then I remind myself that my poetry doesn't have to make sense to anyone.  Even me.

    The essay is my favorite form of writing.  I usually do lose myself while writing a blog post, for example.  I just let the words roll off the fingertips onto the keyboard (and, yes, I write on a MacbookPro - his name is MacHenry).  I am ALIVE  when I write - much as I am ALIVE when I paint.  I do not want to be disturbed.  I prefer to be entirely alone when writing or painting.  No distractions. I don't even want another person in the room (though that is often impractical).  I generally write the better part of a post, for example, in one block of time but I will put it away and come back to it the next day or even the next week.  I always do at least a rudimentary edit but often return to the piece the next day to add or remove some thought.

   But WHY do I write?  Fundamentally it is about making something clear to myself, putting a box around whatever it is that won't stop nagging at me.  I do like playing with words, true.  I like to paint pictures with words.  I enjoy the challenge of selecting just the right word for this feeling or this sensation or this fear or this complex idea that is spinning out of control in my head.  I don't write so much for an audience.  I do write for the feeling of achievement and discovery that I often experience.  Sometimes I will be so surprised at something that I wrote.  It will be so perfect yet I am the only one who knows that.  And - here's the embarrassing part - I will go back and read it a year or more later to see if I still like it and, almost always, I will still be moved by that piece of writing.

   I do want to add that I am NOT that impressed with my writing from twenty or more years ago.  When I look at the journals I kept, say when my children were small, or the love letters I wrote in college (and, yes, I have been known to do that) I am not pleased.  I think I was writing for some audience that I didn't really know or trust and it shows.  Now?  Now I write for me.  My writing seems genuine and not designed to impress.  I just like to figure things out.

The Disappear-er

    A week or two ago blogger Tangled Lou posted a challenge.  It sparked my interest but, admittedly, I pushed it away.  In my head, I whined about insufficient time and insufficient talent.  But then Tangled Lou's challenge  reappeared today on  Masked Mom's blog and the challenge to myself was on. *

     The challenge comes from  The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises From Poets Who Teach.   The idea is to write ten lines in ten minutes using five out of eight specific words and incorporating an adage or familiar quote that you have in some way altered.

    What got me was the beauty of Masked Mom's lyrical prose.  She did such a terrific job of incorporating the words and effectively touching the hearts of her readers (just check out the comments).  I wanted to try it.  It was an interesting exercise.  Makes me want to check out the book.

Clouds break over my mind.    
They conceal the sun.
They make it cold in here.

The walls lock me up.
I can be so small.
Small enough to be the eye of a needle.

I am the disappear-er.
I can edge to the cliff.
I can fly.

Every day I can be scared and I can be alive.

 ("Do one thing every day that scares you".  Eleanor Roosevelt)


*  Besides the title of Masked Mom's entry was "All The Cool Kids Are Doin' It" and, lord knows, I gotta be cool......

Make It Your Friend

    Recently a  trustworthy, thoughtful, and loving friend lent me a book.  I'd heard of the book before but I had brushed it off as new age banter that somehow could never work for me.  The thing is that I have a great deal of respect for this friend and he does seem to have an aliveness and spirit about him that I both envy and enjoy.  If he is lending me his well worn, well marked up copy, there must be something to it. 

      At first, I had a hard time getting beyond some of the vocabulary.  I want real words, words with which I am familiar, words that make sense to me, that seem rooted in research.  "The truth is within you?"  What the hell does THAT mean? Or "Being is the eternal, ever-present One Life beyond the myriad forms of life that are subject to birth and death."  HUH? Or, one more, "...enlightenment...is simply your natural state of felt oneness with Being."  Oh no, I was thinking as I started the book, I can't do this kinda talk.  I am way too concrete for this.  But, again, given the respect that I have for the book's owner, I decided to put aside all my skepticism and read on.

       I read most of it over the weekend and the core message is 

- HA! - Be Here Now.  Be in the moment.  Whatever the present moment is, accept it as if you had chosen it.  Make it your friend.  Really?  and how am I supposed to do that?  Watch it.  Observe the moment.  Embrace the notion that it really is all that is.  The past and the future are not the moment and so they are not real.  What is real is right now.  Very tough to embrace.  I am  a thinker.  I have never felt particularly attractive or particularly gifted in any arena except, perhaps, intellect.  Genetics and a family atmosphere that valued reading, knowledge , and academic prowess made me strive hard to be an academic success.  To this day, I value reading, writing, thinking, intellectual conversation.  But, this book talks about the need to not be a thinker.  Rather, focus on being, focus on what you physically feel in the moment.  What do you see?  What do you hear?  What does your body notice?  Not so much what does your mind say but rather what does your body notice.  Perhaps that is why I enjoy my early morning bike rides so much.  On those rides I go FAST.  I must be completely present in the moment or I will not make it to the next moment.

     I am so fucking alive on those rides because I am in that moment.  I am all about what is around me in the now.  There is no thought to what was or what will be.  It is all about NOW.  And I am alive and loving it.  How can life be more like that all the time?