Perception/Participation

I've been thinking a lot about my newly-acquired and appalling resistance to writing. It has something to do with the state of being I have to achieve before I can write. And no, this is not some ephemeral flash of creativity; it is something that happens with daily discipline and training.  It happens with work. I used to enjoy the work--even when it wasn't productive and was often frustrating. I still think about how I would like to write. I make plans to be disciplined. I make lists, long-term and short-term goals; I sign up for programs that will encourage me to write a certain number of words a day.

And then.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

I don't write. I doodle. I run errands. I clean. I cook. I call up a friend I haven't spoken to in a while. I read. I find a million other legitimate reasons to ignore that what I really need to do is set pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and just. freaking. write.

And then a day goes by. And then another. And a week. And then a month. And now it is almost the end of this year and I haven't written in weeks both for my book and for my own personal sanity. 

I initially told myself that this drought of words was sign of my depression. And there was nothing I could do about it. I spun a narrative that kept me trapped in a desert devoid of joy and creativity. I indulged in my acedia. I mentally hunkered down to just move through my life until I reached a better time for writing--until my life was worth experiencing again.

But what does that mean really?  Life is worth experiencing when we decide to actually participate in it.  I just didn't want to participate. I didn't want to expend the effort to really see my world around me. It is easier to put my head down and just let the days flow over rather than raising my face, opening my mouth, and drinking in all that my life is: the bitter, the sweet, the sorrow, the joy, the mundane, the heart-racing, the difficult, the peaceful, the wretched, the beautiful. It's easier to keep my head down and let the hours pass. And pass they do. That is one thing. Time continues. Life continues whether you are there or not. So then you have choice: to participate or to live without perception. If I choose the latter, I know for a fact that I will look back at my life with all of its amazing wonders with deep regret.

I don't know exactly what I am going to do with this new awareness. I know what I should do (and I am making plans to do it), but then I have days like yesterday where I consciously refused to actually experience the moment when the silvered air moved across a cobalt bay because I would have opened a door to experiencing other things too.  It was easier to keep my head down and let the hours pass. This attitude both disgusts and scares me.  Yet I don't stop. I can't stop. I am frozen.

I started reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird again. In the introduction, she talks about hope:

Hope is a revolutionary patience; let me add that so is being a writer. Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.

Trust.

Hope.

Wait.

Do good.

I think I can do that. At least, it's a start.

Occupied

Currently, in various cities around the nation (and world) people are participating in something called "Occupy [city of your choice]."  This movement started in New York with Occupy Wall Street and speaks for the 99% of the population who suffer under the current financial crisis.  I won't rehash all the information since I'm sure most people are more news savvy than I am and knew about this movement long before today. 

Occupy [city of your choice] is bringing together people of different races, cultures, and religions in almost 1000 cities (and growing) to speak out against exploitation and greed.  I love that.  Though the Occupy Movement has been criticized for lack of a cohesive focus and strong leadership, it has shown that individuals can take an idea from a certain source and turn it into a movement. Further, that this movement can spread from the individuals who read Adbusters to the larger masses is cause for celebration.  Occupy [city of your choice] is solid evidence that indeed one person acting truly from his or her convictions can have an affect on the world at large.  The movement is encouraging people to think, to speak with each other, and to consider what change we want to see in our culture.

I love love love that.

So now I would like to offer my voice.  Consider the above poster.  I downloaded this poster (for free) from the Occupy Together site. This site works to cohere all of the various Occupy [city of your choice].  It offers information and resources for those who wish to have their voices heard.  It brings together those who want to make a different and act for the good of humans rather than the good of the bottom line. 

Read the poster.  Read it again. 

"Right to remain silent."

"Let their money speak for you."

Apparently, there lies the problem: our silence and their money.


Though I can't find the original quote, Wikipedia cites Ron Paul as saying that the 99% of US citizens who are represented in the Occupy movement are victims: "the system has been biased against the middle class and the poor . . . the people losing jobs, it wasn't their fault that we've followed a deeply flawed economic system." We do indeed follow a deeply flawed economic system. Many of our corporations are indeed corrupt and exploitative, and our government has overtly perpetuated this corruption with bailouts and preference for big money lobbyists. What do we do about that? One of the demands at Occupy Wall Street was a 50 cent surcharge on all stock trades. Another demand is for higher taxes on big money (particularly investment banking) with fewer loopholes to get out of paying those taxes.  Okay, so we redistribute the wealth? But where does it go? What happens to it when it gets there?


One thing years of therapy has taught me is that only pointing fingers at legitimate wrongs done to you enables you to avoid pointing the finger back at yourself. It allows you to avoid your complicity in the problem. And when you avoid complicity and take the role of the victim, it's hard to act.  Yes, there is harm being done.  Yes there is inequality.  Yes corruption is rampant.  But remember, these corporations didn't just seize control over us: we ceded it to them.


What happens a month, six months, a year, when we can't camp out any longer? All the evil corporations have to do is wait us out. After all, unlike them, we don't have an unlimited supply of money. And most of us have jobs we'll have to get back to. So they can wait us out . . . or maybe just release the iPad3.  Then another sort of campout will form in front of Apple stores.  One with the sole intention of consuming the latest and greatest product a giant corporation has to offer.  I think that sometimes we are so conditioned to see our participation in consumer culture as normal that we don't see the connection between corporate greed and the Starbucks coffee we hold in our right hand and the Smart phone we hold in our left.

See we aren't exactly silent.  And it's our money too.


See, if there really is 99% of us out there who have been hurt by greed and corruption, then that means we have the majority.  And even if those 1% are richer than any one of us, there is no way that they can out-money the collective.

99%

That's sort of a lot.

That's more than sort of inspiring.  Especially now that we are all getting together and talking.  The possibilities of what we can do is endless. 

I emphasized we because I am less interested in investment bankers giving back their bonuses or big corn lobbyists having to curb their manipulation of public policy and more interested in what we--the 99%--will do with our money.  Because that's what we have direct, immediate control over.  Our money is what we'll be working intimately with for the rest of our lives.  And while I know that many of us don't have a lot of money, in a country where even our poorest is rich by many other countries' standards, I believe that even a little money used consciously has big potential for change.

If money talks, let's start doing that. 

What I am saying is that we need to stop mindlessly participating with our rampant consumption in a culture that has corporate and political greed as a product.  We need to opt out.  We need to stop being mindless consumers.

This is a photo I took of my dining room window (I rent--and Monterey rarely looks this gorgeous).  On it I have three headings: Unthinking Consumerism, Thinking Consumerism, and Conscious Stewardship.  Under these headings, I've written what I do that falls into each of these categories.  The lists are by no means complete.  They are what I quickly jotted down yesterday morning.  But they are a start.  A beginning of a thorough analysis of where I spend my money and how it contributes to the current system of greed and corruption. 

Above the Conscious Stewardship list, I wrote out my goals:  Empty unthinking consumer list. Move as many thinking consumer items to conscious stewardship [as I can]. 

The biggest problem is that we just don't think about how we consume.  We don't assess the downstream (or upstream) consequences of what happens when we buy a particular product.  We allow ourselves to be lulled into mindless consumerism by advertising and slick talking. 

We do it every day.  We see something shiny or pleasurable or convenient or "cheap" and spend our money on it.  Often we don't think twice; the money just goes to what we want at the moment.  And our culture has grown to cater to that mentality.  We live in a culture where everything is disposable--where it is actually easier to throw away a perfectly good item for the next new thing rather than deal with the outdated.  Everything is disposable--even people. 

When we mindlessly consume, we are directly contributing to what the Occupy Movement protests against.  Actually, Ron Paul, it is our fault: we gave our money to that 1%.

But no longer.  Because once we start talking and thinking, then we aren't silent anymore.  We can make decisions to become thinking consumers who choose to buy things for specific reasons because they have a specific value, not just because we saw it advertised during the Super Bowl.  We can choose used rather than new.  We can choose sustainable rather than convenient.

We can choose, when the romance of the Occupy Movement has ended and we are all back to our everyday mundane lives, to make the really hard decisions between wants and needs, between what seems like it will make us feel good and what actually does good. 

These aren't easy decisions.  These are decisions made every day for the rest of our lives.  These are decisions made when we are all alone and tired and the energy of a group of people connecting for a cause is not immediately evident.  These are decisions made after taking a good hard look at ourselves.  These are decisions made that may make you go without because it just isn't right.

But these are decisions that if made consistently will affect change in our world.

I am ashamed that the only thing I could legitimately put on my Conscious Stewardship list was my CSA. I'm ashamed that after a year of opting out of consumer culture that I jumped right back in with both feet.  These are things I am going to rectify.  I intend, rather than watching an episode of Mad Men, to put in the time to assess where my money goes.  I intend to research all my purchases from toilet paper to investments.  And I intend to then change how I spend the money I have.  I am going to move beyond the emotional fulfillment of a massive movement with big talking to actually act as an individual.  I am going to possibly spend more money on something because it is not tainted by greed and exploitation.  And I am going to have say no to something else because I just won't have the extra funds for it.  I am probably going to screw up sometimes and mindlessly consume because the product is shiny and convenient and cheap, but then I am going to remember that this is the rest of my life.  And then I will make a decision for conscious stewardship next time.

I want to commit to a life of conscious stewardship.  If that means not watching TV because the broadcast company is doing something with its money I don't agree with, then so be it.  If that means switching my phone company because they are violating our rights and making our private conversations available to the government, then so be it.  If that means wearing secondhand clothes because clothing companies continue to exploit child labor in other countries, then so be it. 

I want to live a life that does good and affects change.

Some might call these actions radical and too extreme.  Are they any more radical and extreme than a bunch of people around the world squatting in various financial districts so that their voices can be heard?

I don't think so.

Do good.

Nothing Better

Than that first airport beer as you embark on a child-free weekend . . .

Unless it is the two glasses of wine you've drank at home in anticipation of that airport beer.

Mammoth

Every time I plan a trip to the Sierras, I begin to feel I'll finally get to be me.  Not that I'm not me at sea level, it just seems that at altitude in the range of light, the non-essential me, the me that gets wrapped up in the petty stresses of life maintenance will burn away in the crystal thin light and all that will be left will  be the me of pure joy who can just be.

Because really, I struggle the most with just being.  I am constantly five steps (if not five years) ahead of where I am, uncertain how I will maintain this pace forever (because, of course, if you are constantly looking ahead, then you will project the fatigue and anxiousness of the now onto the future while exponentially increasing its intensity). 

But in the Sierra Nevadas, I can't do anything about anything, so I let it go.  For a few glorious days, I wake up with the sun and let the day have its way.  I make time to sit in the hot tub before going to bed to look at the deep black sky that is peppered with more stars than my eyes can make sense of.  I can actually take the time to wait for my eyes to adjust to the utter darkness of night so that more and more and even more pinpoints of starlight become visible framed in the silhouettes of pine tree shapes as the milky way dusts across west. 

I am fully aware that I can CHOOSE to do the same in Monterey (though the stars would be hard to see through the perpetual marine layer).  So when I say "I can" do something in the Sierras, it is not that I am not physically unable to do that here . . . yet it sort of is.  Somehow, I am conditioned in the Sierras to turn off the incessant patter of "you should's" that pepper my waking (and sometime sleeping) mind in other places.  I can't seem to stop that patter anywhere else.  So while I have a choice other places, actually enacting that choice is not as easy as knowing that I have one.

But I guess that knowing is a start of sorts.  And also choosing to go to places that offer respite is another start.

If you want to put a positive spin on it.

One of the things I love about the Sierras is that the light there is completely clear, causing everything to fall into sharp relief.  It's as if you could, if you could focus your eyes right, see clearly to infinity.  There is very little to no blue of distance there--the jagged peak that is 5,000 feet above you seems close enough to cut your finger on. 

Maybe that's one of the reasons I find peace there: in the true light, the future doesn't seem so convoluted and tedious.  In the thin air, the marine layer of uncertainty can't sustain its clawing scrabble over the ridge to smother joy. 

Though I love the fading blue of distance, sometimes having perfect perspective can offer a bit more hope that is sorely needed.

Hiking Essentials

Random wrecked car about 4 miles in at Portola Redwoods S.P.

Mid-August, I will be doing a long-ish hike in Mammoth with some friends.  Initially (over a few beers), we envisioned doing 28 miles of the John Muir trail in one day.  One of our party, who is from that area, mentioned that she had done that stretch in 4.5 hours when she was in her twenties, and that comment set all of us off on visions of doing the same with small allowances for 15+ years of aging, living at sea level, not currently in training for marathon-length distances, etc . . .


Because I really don't have a realistic idea of how long it takes to hike specific distances on rough terrain (I know my marathon and half times, but running in a city is very very different than hiking trails), I started hiking the areas around Monterey to get an idea of time needed as well as how much water, food, and other sundries I will need to carry.  

Touriga for stamina

Things I've learned:
~I can do almost any hike on a well-maintained trail in flip flops if the distance is under ten miles
~I cannot do 28 miles in a day and enjoy it
~I live in close proximity to some absolutely gorgeous places
~I love redwoods and cypress trees
~banana slugs look like scary, skinny penises
~I tend to over pack and gravitate towards non-hike friendly foods
~arm-warmers are utter miracles of clothing science
~packing in a Klean Kanteen of beer or a bottle of wine makes even a 14-mile hike well worth it

No Focus

I woke up this morning and it was still winter (in Monterey, it is always winter and never Christmas).  But then about halfway through today, it became-if not summer-an absolutely lovely late spring day.  Clear, warm, slight breeze, all sun and varying shades of blue.  


It is so clear right now that you can actually see all the way across the bay to Santa Cruz--the first time I've been able to do that in the year that I've lived here.  Of course all this clarity of air and sparkle of sun will be short lived. Even as I was marveling at how giant this bay is and how beautiful Santa Cruz looked in the blue of distance, the marine layer started lapping at that city's coastal boundaries.  Soon they will be shrouded in cloud while I still have sun (pleased smirk). 


Since it is so gorgeous, I got all sorts of motivated.  I started sorting and organizing the multitude of bags and boxes I keep in my room to drop random stuff.  Started being the operative word here. I am very very good at beginning projects for organization and not so good at seeing them through to completion.  Often I live surrounded by piles of half completed projects.  Piles that I just shift around as guests come and go before finally dumping them into one of those bags or boxes in my bedroom.


I don't like that I do this.  I wish I could just focus on one task at hand before moving to another, but that is not how my brain works.  As I begin to pile all my already read books to got back to the shelves, one of them invariably triggers a memory or a thought about something else I have to do.  Like in Mourning Diary (Roland Barthes) there was a slip about the care of guinea pigs which reminded me that I need to feed them this morning. When I get to the refrigerator to get their lettuce, I see how a bottle of sparkly wine sitting in the door. I then turn and look at my east-facing porch that is in full sun right now but will lose it soon and decided that I should do my sketch for the day right now while I have the light.  So I open the sparkly and the patio door and see my plants which reminds me that I should water the plants.  I set down the glass, my pencil and paper, and turn to get my watering pitcher and my eyes light upon a  New Yorker which reminds me of the pile of them in my bedroom that I am organizing, so I return to my bedroom but then I hear an angry "WEEP!" from the direction of the guinea pig cage and  . . . .


You get my point.  The lack of focus isn't limited to household chores.  Once I was organizing and deep cleaning my son's room while he and his dad were out playing baseball.  They returned hours later to find me surrounded by a colossal mess (I had taken literally everything--everything, books, toys, blocks, stuffed animals--off the shelves and dumped them on the floor so that I could more easily determine where they would go once organized), reading  A Wrinkle in Time (Madeleine L'Engle).  But actually, I didn't start with that book.  I started by reading The The Wolves in the Walls (Neil Gaiman) then that made me want to read  The Sandman (ibid.) then I saw Diary of a Wimpy Kid (Jeff Kinney)--which my son hasn't read yet--and started reading that (since I was cleaning his room, I thought I should read a graphic novel that he could actually read--Sandman, while awesome, is a bit old for a seven-year-old).  Then I decided I would rather introduce my son to a classic I loved when I was a kid so I started The Indian in the Cupboard (Lynne Reid Banks) which then made me want to read A Wrinkle in Time.  


See.


Today, I didn't want to go down my rabbit hole of infinite connections and no productivity because I have a week of house guests planned starting today and didn't think it would be that fun for them to have to vacation around my mess.  I kept pulling myself back to the original task at hand: organizing my room mess.  And I did it.  With lots of aborted sidetracking where I physically jerked myself away from another activity to return to the one at hand.


So right now, my room looks clean (all the mess are in bags and boxes down in my studio).  The guinea pigs are not fed. My plants are not watered. My sketch is not done. But I do have a glass of sparkly to my left as I finish this blog.   And my guests have just arrived.


WEEP!

Technology Amazes Me

I can now email myself blogs?

It's like magic invisible sprites are taking my very unedited thoughts and whisking them into computers everywhere.