My Desk

At the center of my desk--and taking up the largest chunk of real estate--is my computer, the very heart and soul, it seems, of all that I do. ‘If this thing goes into cardiac arrest,” I tell my husband, “take every heroic measure you can think of.”

Tucked in behind the monitor, more or less, is the stack of bills, permission slips and other important papers that “someday” I should do something about. Every now and again, I flip through it and say, “oh, that,” and “I better do this,” and “yikes!” But thenI return all to its place, a little neater perhaps, but no closer to “someday” than when I picked it up.

Scattered here and there on my desk are pictures of my dog (I swear she can smile) and my children at various ages and stages of their lives. While they were in them, I thought some of those ages and stages would never end; the terrible two’s, housebreaking (kids and dog), preschool. Now, suddenly, I find myself wondering what happened to those children in the pictures and how my dog got to be so old.

On the corner of the desk, there sits a pile of scrap paper, unused copies of my résumé torn into quarters (I wonder: is this how the résumés I send out wind up as well?). On these scraps I have written notes to myself: ideas for stories, drafts of emails; important dates; my grocery list. Sometimes, turning the paper back to front, it is an odd juxtaposition: the organized, professional me I would like the world to see; and the more scatter-brained me who couldn’t remember a thing if it wasn’t written down.

Which brings me to the drawer where I keep pens and pencils at the ready. It must be one of Murphy’s Laws that the first pen you grab from the drawer never works. Nor the second or even the third. Then again, there is a lot on my desk—old Kleenex, leftover food, coffee mugs--that once its usefulness has been exhausted can’t seem to find its way to the wastebasket or the sink.

You may wonder, perhaps, how I get anything accomplished in this mess and, most days, so do I. But, every now and again, it happens. A story is written, a bill is paid, or a memory is recaptured, banana peels and all.

One foot in front of the other

I was reading about Abraham today. Abraham, the one who God promised to make the father of a great nation; the one who was told at the ripe old age of 100+ to take his one and only son, Isaac, up a mountain to make a sacrifice of him. Usually, when I read that story, I jump right to the ending, the part where Abraham has the knife to his son’s throat and he spots a ram caught in the thicket. Today, however, this line caught my eye: "On the third day."

The third day! Abraham was climbing toward an uncertain fate for three days. For three days, he put one foot in front of the other not knowing the outcome, not even knowing, exactly, where he was going. The conversations he must have had with himself; the conversations he must have had with God. “How could you?” “You promised…” “What gives?” The very things I have been saying to God myself lately.

I wonder though, once it was over, what Abraham would have said. I imagine if given the chance to do it differently, or not at all, Abraham would choose to make the trip exactly the same way. Because what matters is not the way the story ends, but what happens along the way. In those three days, with each difficult step, each painful conversation, Abraham was moving one step closer to God, which was the point all along.

image: "Der Engel verhindert die Opferung Isaaks," Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn, www.wikipedia.com

What Gives?

I have been asking God “what gives” a lot lately. What gives with the economy? What gives with the election? What gives with all the rain?

The closest to an answer that I have been able to divine so far is this: “take care of the small things, and the big things will fall into place.” Actually, it was a middle school principal who said that to me but, under the circumstances, it seemed to fit.

Before I started writing, I used to think that if you had a good plot and a good outline then the rest would follow. A good story, no matter how poorly it is told, is still a good story. I now realize, however, that the devil is in the details: the turn of a phrase; the memory that is triggered, the feelings that are stirred. After all, the idea of an entire world existing just on the other side of the wardrobe door is an intriguing one, but it is the crunch of the snow under the children’s feet, the sweet and all too familiar taste of Turkish Delight, and the horrific sight of Aslan on the stone table--“still quiet, neither angry nor afraid, but a little sad,”—that moves us and changes us.

What does this have to do with the economy and the election? Just this: I may not be able to do anything about the big things—the plot that seems to be unfolding out of control—but I can take care of the small things. I can be more creative in the way I use the resources at my disposal by carpooling more or initiating a soup swap. And I can do my best to stay informed on all the issues and respect the opinion of those who don’t see things as I do.

As for the rain, there’s not much I can do about that except maybe listen to the way it sounds and remember the way it feels so that when it stops I can write about it in such a way that it moves and changes someone else.

Heroic Measures

A loved one recently asked me to serve as his healthcare proxy.
"Okay," I said, "but you have to tell me what you want."
"That's easy," he said. "No heroic measures."
"Got it," I said, as if I understood, but I don't. Not really.

Whenever I hear that phrase, I picture a doctor in a superhero costume, hands on his hips, his cape billowing in the breeze, a stethoscope around his neck. He is standing by the bedside of my loved one when I look up and say, "Oh. That won't be necessary," and he simply turns and walks away.

When my mother was dying, a doctor asked me if we had come to "a decision."
"A decision," I said not sure what he meant at first. Then, suddenly, catching his drift, I blurted out: "we never even had a conversation!"

"You'll know when the time comes," my husband assures me. "If the time comes," he adds. But I'm not so sure.

Labor Day

Labor Day always seems so much more like New Year's Day to me than January 1. For one thing, it signals an end: of summer; of carefree days living by the sun and the moon rather than the clock; of friendships forged simply because you happen to be in the same place at the same time; of long evenings spent outdoors.

It is also a beginning, however: of new routines; new ventures; new experiences to be created. Even Mother Nature helps to foster a sense of change in September, turning warm days cooler and hazy skies bright blue in contrast to the unending cold and gray of December into January.

On Labor Day, my kids are instantly a whole year older. I can no longer say “she was a freshman,” or “she will be in the 7^th grade.” After today, I must say “she is a sophomore," and "she is in the 7^th grade.” My marriage, too, ages on Labor Day. “Seventeen years ago today,” I remind my husband across a dirty breakfast table spotted with milk stains, “the honeymoon was over.” And, of course, it was in September of 2001 that a new world-consciousness--a new way of seeing ourselves and the world--was so violently and irrevocably thrust upon us.

Come January 1, I will probably join in singing “Auld Lang Syne” and I will make my list of resolutions. But, for me, the year will be half over and I will already be looking ahead to the next Labor Day and to the new year ahead.

Driving Slowly

I have a tendency to drive slowly when I’m on vacation. I’m not really sure why that is. I guess it could be partly genetic; my father drove slowly, even when he was in a hurry. It could also be part wishful thinking. If it takes longer to do things on vacation, maybe my vacation will last longer. But, there’s more to it than that. I like driving slowly. When I drive slowly I feel better, fuller, richer.

“It’s kind of like ‘the meek shall inherit the earth,” a friend said to me the other day.
“How so?” I ask.
“People who are content with who and where they are,” he begins.
“People who drive slowly?” I interrupt.
“Yes,” he said, “people who drive slowly- discover that they are the proud owners of the real treasures on earth – peace, joy, happiness.”
“The good stuff,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “The good stuff.”
And I realize he’s right.

When I drive slowly, I feel better, fuller, richer, because I am. I’m not racing to get a jump on anyone or running from store to store trying to buy happiness. I’m not trying to be someone I am not, or to do something I cannot. Driving slowly, I am who I am. No more. No less. And for those few precious moments I inherit the earth, one small stretch of roadway at a time.

photo from photoshoptalent.com