On This Day...

Ever look at your calendar and remember what you were doing on this day, one or two or three years ago?

Three years ago (well, April 25), I found myself in church. In western Ireland.

With only about 10 regular attendees, there were more people buried in the churchyard than alive inside the service. It was rather quiet. 

Aftewards, some friends and I went horseback riding! I hadn't been on a horse since I was eight years old (when veterinarian topped my list of career choices).

This horse was named Rua (Gaelic for "red"). As we neared the hilltop, she bolted. Bouncing around, as in control as a sack of flour, I clutched the English saddle, watching my life flash before my eyes...and arrived at this incredible vista of clear sea and sky (with the Blasket Islands visible across the bay).

Having survived our adventure, we limped off, saddle-sore, to reward ourselves with...

...the world's most amazing chocolate cake! Murphy's is an Irish ice cream/sweets shop that makes absolutely the best chocolate cake in the world. If you're ever in Ireland, find some. It's an especially good way to forget about being saddle-sore. 

I still miss Ireland some days. Especially when I think about what I was doing on this day two years ago: editing my senior project in college. 

With scissors. Helps rustle up the necessary ruthlessness. No better way to visualize transposals or deletions. I also think I killed an entire rainforest's worth of post-it notes. But I graduated!

One year ago, I was...

...at my desk, finishing the second draft of my novel. I'm now partway through the fourth draft, which (I hope) will be the last. Maybe this novel will see the light of day before I start getting a senior discount on my office supplies. 

And today, I am here, typing up this blog post:

Freelance life may not often take me across the world on exciting adventures. I don't often find myself bolting up hills on a runaway horse or violently editing a story with scissors. It's not every day I get to celebrate the accomplishment of a completed novel draft. But my imagination doesn't starve. And that is a blessing.

What do you see when you look back at this day in past years?

Running

I don't love running. Really, exercise in general doesn't thrill me, with the exceptions of hiking and ballroom dancing.

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But I do it, at least sometimes, because I know it's good for me.

And ironically, it's taught me some things about life.

Pace 

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You run differently for a 100-meter dash than you do for a 2-mile loop. A 26-mile marathon is a different skill entirely. You have to know in advance how far you're planning to go, then pace yourself accordingly. At the Olympics, the long-distance "run-walk" stride may look slow, but you know those runners are going to last til the end. Some efforts in life are short-term and you give your utmost for a few hours, days, or weeks, knowing you can then flop down, exhausted. But if you're going to last and continue having resources to give over the long-term, sometimes that means curbing your pace, conserving your energy.

Rest

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When I first started my running route through my neighborhood, I made it my goal to jog to the top of the hill without stopping. I made it, but then I stood at the top, bent over and gasping for breath, for at least five minutes. My lungs burned, my calves burned, and by no means did I want to run anywhere else after that. But a few weeks ago, as I started getting tired and sore halfway up the hill, I...stopped. Realized I didn't have to achieve high marks on my imaginary goal. I listened to my pain, stopped to catch my breath, then ran on to the top feeling good and ready to continue (like pacing, rest is an element of long-term survival ). I realized that I didn't have to wait until I was completely exhausted and feeling horrible to take a long rest. I could take a short one when I just felt tired. And then I could continue on with energy and a good attitude.

Thanks

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When running, there are two possible things to think about: the pain, or everything else. I can focus my mind on my screaming calves and how hard my heart is hammering, or I can enjoy the blue sky and the quiet places my routes take me. Sometimes even my body's exertion is a cause for thanksgiving--legs that can move, lungs that can fill with clean air, eyes that can see the beauty around me. The act gives me a rush of adrenaline, helps me find the good even in an activity I don't love.

Have you learned any life lessons from running? From any form of exercise? 

Wandering Bards

Okay. Before you read any further, stop! And click on this link. 

That's a recording of my most influential college professor, Dr. Luke Reinsma, reading the Prologue of The Canterbury Tales--in Middle English. 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote...

That cadence takes me back to cozy firesides in the British Isles, where I was studying abroad three years ago. (Three years! How is that possible?) 

Assigned to read The Canterbury Tales in Middle English for our Medieval Literature class, most of my classmates and I felt overwhelmed. Middle English is similar enough to modern English that it can mostly be understood--but it takes a lot of effort. Medieval non-comprehension set in. Frustration set in. 

And so Dr. Reinsma began hosting semi-weekly reading sessions. His background is in medieval literature, and he reads fluently in Middle English. And so we students would sprawl all over hostel couches, chairs, benches, carpets (sometimes beside an English fireside so quaint it looked like a painting) and listen to The Professor read. 

It's amazing what reading aloud can do for your appreciation of books. One of my earliest memories of literature is hiding under the couch cushions when my parents got to the part about Black Riders in The Fellowship of the Ring. It was a rite of passage when I got to take a turn in intoning the passages of Little House on the Prairie. And even in college, as an adult living in another country for three months, having The Professor read aloud took me back to that childhood place. 

A human voice reading does not just transmit information--it conveys experience, wisdom, and a passion for life. We learn from being read to, but it's much more than an academic exercise. The vocal rhythms whisk us back to a time when wandering bards passed down ancient traditions--history, legend, theology--through oral song and story. 

To read aloud from a book proclaims your investment, both in the book and in the person being read to. Now that I am an adult, reading aloud to my students is one of my favorite parts of our lessons--getting to use my voice and presence to bring alive the literature I believe in. It's a manifestation of care through quality time, combined with the wisdom and learning contained in the book itself. 

Though The Canterbury Tales may never be my favorite work of literature, listening to the recording of it today brought tears to my eyes. Much more than a homework assignment, reading aloud became a memory. 

Do you ever read aloud? Have any special memories of someone reading to you? 

Imagine

Lately, my lunchtime reading (out of the enormous stack) has been the book Imagine by Jonah Lehrer. It's a fascinating investigation into the conditions under which creativity occurs. While the book has attracted some bad press recently, the main messages ring true with my own experience.

I've been thinking a lot about creativity lately, because my novel is chugging slowly toward completion. I'm now in the midst of a 4th (and hopefully final!) draft of this 4 1/2-year project, so fostering the conditions under which creativity can blossom is a major preoccupation. While I may not be as scientific about it as Jonah Lehrer, I do have a few favorite ingredients for effective creative work.

First ingredient: chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better. Especially if it also has coffee in it!

Second ingredient: post-it notes. Definitely multicolored (although I've heard rumor that the yellow ones are the stickiest). I'm currently using them to color-code my revision notes: pink for introduction, green for body, blue for conclusion, yellow for characters. I use so many that I should probably buy stock in the post-it note company.

Third ingredient: English tea. Yesterday I even got lucky and found a scone to go with it. Tea, scone, post-its, favorite pen, and double-spaced manuscript. Perfect recipe for a productive novel-writing afternoon. 

I must have picked up this habit while I was in Britain. I never even liked black tea until I drank it in a window seat overlooking the rugged Welsh countryside. With a book, of course. (That's Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia, if you're curious.)

Of course, I don't take pictures of the long hours I spend slouched in my office chair, or the late nights when I have to push up my eyelids to keep them open. The ones pictured here are the nicer moments. But they're important to the creative process. Says Lehrer:

"This sort of mental relaxation makes it easier to daydream and pay attention to insights; we're less focused on what's right in front of us and more aware of the possibilities simmering in our imaginations."

I'll buy that.

What are the ingredients of your creative process?