Remembering Who We Are

Blossoming                                                                                                                             Catherine Meyers

At a point in between one phase of a project, in this case a book, and the next, in this case the edit and revision stage, there is a lull. A time to stretch my legs, air out the house, clear my mind, desk, and calendar, and a time to take stock. As part of this in between time, I continue to write and today my reflections on May, seem to have streamed out of a place, a place alive within me, that is bursting forth. Each step I take, each breath, each turning of the clock, and each incoming and going out of the tides, reminds me, of Life. 

May is a month for remembering. For centuries May was the month when the Ancient Greeks revered Artemis, the Goddess of fecundity. The Ancient Romans honored Flora, the Goddess of Blooms and Blossoms. Traditionally in many cultures, May is the time for the start of new growth. Today, with the New Moon in Taurus, we are at the threshold of another new beginning. 

For those of us who honor the Blessed Mother, May is the Month of Mary. Sometimes called the Lady Month, it is a time when special devotions are done to honor the place of Mary as a light and model for all women. It is also a time to revered those whom we have lost; a time of remembrance and reverance to the special place those people held in our lives while they were living. This weekend marks the anniversary date of my Father's death. This year it falls on Mother's Day. 

During the Lady Month, we crown and celebrate the beauty, grace, and strength within each of us...that light and energy that we share in common with all women and with those special women who have set for us an example of what we can be, what we can bear, and what we can overcome and thrive beyond. The month of Mary is not about worshipping goddesses or venerating vestal virgins, at least not for me. For me it is a time when I celebrate life and being alive. Being a living, breathing, growing, aging, and ripening part of humanity that is bursting into blossom like some Tulip Tree or Magnolia. Big, fragrant, dipped in honey blossoms. 

It's about breathing in and out, the fresh air, the salty sea spray, the rich fragrances of roses, the pungent smell of day lilies, or the swampy, boggy odor of the camas, willows, and grasses growing on the riverbed. It's about the sweaty smells of joggers running for their lives along the riverwalk, or the bundled up children running barefoot at the waterline along the beach. It's the river's ebbing tidal pull and they muddy, silty riverbottom's odors and patterns and temporary revelations that speak to me of May and remembering. 

May is about dressing up in lighter, frillier, and more pastel shades and fashons, and about letting our hair down, and smiling more and feeling lighter and less burdened down if for no other reason than we're wearing fewer clothes. Bare feet, bare arms, skinny dipping in frigid streams, and toes turning blue in the arctic, icy waters of the Zig Zag, its streams nothing more than freshly melted ice off W'east. Gentle breezes. Longer days, stretching well into the purple sunsets that blaze like fire in the sky at day's end. Bodies stretching out of their introverted modes to emerge into the sunlight and play with others dancing along the path of life, laughter, and the endless search for be-ing. 

May is the month for remembering the gifts of being women. And it is also a time to remember our needs as women to share our lives with the men in our lives who celebrate and honor life in the same direction. Time to throw off the capes that we use to hide or protect ourselves from living. Time to walk, dance, swim, sing, propel ourselves beyond the edges of normalcy into the stream and flow of Life's great river. Flowing in the channel, across the bar, into the open Sea, and out onto the highways of new adventures, new chapters, and new beginnings. Equipped with the past's lessons learned, and fortified with the graces that allow us to be free, it is time to celebrate Life as we find it, and let ourselves once more simply be.

Books Make Better Lovers

Bleeding Hearts and Pines                                                                                                      Catherine Al-Meten Meyers

Many would disagree with me that books make better lovers. I might not always think so, but today I believe it's true. Just completed the first rough draft of a book I've spent years thinking about and working on. We've had a real love affair along the way. Sometimes we have refused to speak to one another, and often I had no time for my love. About  8 months ago, we had a recommitment ceremony with one another, and we pledged our loyalty til death do us part. So you know it was a serious commitment.

Every day we'd wake up, look at one another and spend much of the day together. When either of us was away, we'd be thinking about one another. There were times during that eight months when we ran into challenges and had to surmount some pretty big obstacles. I was called out of town a few times, and had to leave my love all alone. Pining at home, waiting for me, I hoped, I would return at the end of the day only to discover that nothing had been done while I was gone. Not a thing. No cleaning up messes. No preparation and rest for the next chapter or the much-needed edit. We would spend time in counseling with our Reader-Editor. In our case, therapy with her really helped us out.

Counseling sessions often revolved around trying to remember who had been married to whom, what someone's name had been in Chapter 6 and how it changed 4 times by Chapter 80. Often we found ourselves repeating, verbatim, a conversation and story plot that we had already covered in the past. I often thought bringing up the past over and over was getting us no where. We spent a lot of time counting pages.  I hate it when someone keeps track of everything that has happened, but in this case, it somehow seemed relevant, and since we love one another and are in it 'til the end, I figured I'm be tolerant of the list-keeping. We laughed a lot, especially over Renee...a character who seemed to have multiple marriages. Not that I'd know anything about that. But it cause our Reader-Editor-Therapist and I to laugh until we cried.

Coffee, tea, and soda have been important parts of our relationship. I never have coffee at home. Ours is a house dedicated to the tea and the daily and nightly tea ceremonies. But my need for Cafe au Lait mid afternoon and occasionally in the morning, are also related for my need to sit and gaze out the window occasionally. I used to do a lot of writing in cafes, but since my lover and I have been together, we stay at home more. I sneak out to meet friends or just have a quiet time to myself at my favorite coffee shop on the pier. They know me and know how to make my Cafe au Lait just perfectly---more milk than coffee. One sweet gal even adds the right amount of sweeter I like.

Yesterday our relationship changed drastically. I finished writing the rough draft. It's a lot like getting through the first decade of a marriage and being too far in it to get out but not fully into it enough to believe you'll make it to the bitter or sweet end. So before I met the challenges, I rushed off to the coffee shop to share the news of my joy. Then I ran back home and spent some time fantasizing about a long vacation and some rest before getting back to work on fixing things that have to be done before we can go to publication. Plans were made to celebrate with our therapist-editor-reader over a martini at Happy Hour next week, and another friend and I made plans to pop the cork on a bottle of celebratory champagne. I put my head on the pillow last night envisioning a leisurely week of doing nothing but catching up with exercise, housework, and long walks along the river.

This morning though, I woke up late. That cats were sitting one on my pillow the other on the other side of me, both waiting for the first signs of life. Once I opened one eye, they both proceeded to greet me with lots of attention and indicated that they'd waited long enough for me to wake and get back to the business of filling their bowls with kibble, fresh water, and fresh food out of a can, not that half can left over from last night. I obeyed, and then picked things up around the house. Now, I thought, I have time to make that coat rack I so desparately need. I thought this as I picked up, folded, or hung up about 5 jackets and sweaters that had been draped around chairs, over the back of the couch, or hung on a door handle. Around noon I made myself a big breakfast, and the thought I'd just catch up on a movie or read a book or do the dishes again.  After doing the dishes for the umpteenth time (I have yet to learn to eat and cook without making a total mess of my kitchen. At this point, I doubt that's going to change), I had these strange stirrings.

What was it I was feeling? I had some time off from writing. I was no longer chained, day and night to my lover. My love was fine where it was, for now. It would just have to wait until I was good and ready to return, and maybe continue on. Today was a free day. The world was mine. I had all the time in the world until I had to be somewhere. But this niggling feeling crept over me, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to pick up my lover and get completely lost in the words and images that I'd grown to love so dearly. To give myself some place to process those feelings, because my Therapist-editor-writer is not about, I decided to write about it.

I have to admit that loving what I'm writing as I do this book, is something unlike any other kind of love.  It has taken on a life of its own. And being away from it is not really something I need to do and that's a sure sign that the passion and love affair with a book has the power to keep me captivated and devoted. I know this from other kinds of books I've written and writng I have done, but this journey into fantasy and fiction and imagination is a lover I hope to devote myself to for the rest of my long, lovely life. And I know when this love affair is over, I will be able to return to it any time I want. I will be able to open it at night and look deep into its depths and find pieces of myself that I didn't know existed. I will be able to see the world reflected in places and pieces of conversation. Memories  reawakened after years of being hidden or dormant or lost in some maze of expectations or unfulfilled desires...and they will find their place in the context of what is created through this new love. I love that I am the Lover.

Lessons of the Road

One Closed Door                         Catherine Al-Meten Meyers

(Introductory note: Since some readers have had trouble accessing this blog through the new website, I am returning to this format. It works and hope it puts you in back in touch with Coasting Along: A Writer's Journey)

Lessons of the Road

Since last August, I have spent most days working on one project. It's not just any project, it's a project that has allowed me to depart from my normal way of writing. It's also a project that is fast becoming a fulfillment of a dream I've had for quite some time. And, as it turns out, it's a new role that doesn't quite make everyone I know happy. Before I get into that, let's just say that living out a passion is something I have never regretted in the past, and I have no regrets now. For as a writer, it is my desire, indeed my calling, to write. And to write what I feel I need to write. The need has very little to do with what other people want or need, but more to do with what is inside me--inside my mind, my imagination, or my psyche somewhere, that wants to have some kind of expression. For that's what writing is. The expression of someone's ideas, dreams, perspective, vision, or desires through their written words. 

For most of the last 50 years my writing has included works written in academia including books on trauma, stress, PTSD, healing and spirituality, and pastoral theology and inspiration. I've written several books of poetry, books designed to inspire, and numerous articles featuring artists, writers, musicians, or some aspect of the artistic community. I wrote a Grandparenting column for over 8 years, and wrote a home organizer column during the same period of time. Recently I have revised my home organizing job via my own blog on organizing for home and office. I did the latter when I realized my home and office were in shambles as a result of my having given up that weekly advice column.

My new project though is something different from any of these. While still living and working in Claremont, California in the late-1980s, I made regular trips to visit my Father who was living on the Oregon Coast. During that period of time, I would stay in a little hotel on the cliffs overlooking the ocean in Nye Beach, a neighborhood of Newport, Oregon. Newport is on the Central Coast of Oregon. While staying there, I began writing a mystery novel, set in a little town much like Newport. Upon returning to Claremont and my work, I put the writing away, and let it sit on the shelf until the next time I went to Oregon or the next time I felt compelled to add a few more lines. Over that time, I continued to build settings and create characters in my imagination. I carried the characters and the places around with me. I also continued to read mysteries, a lifelong passion, with an appetite that was voracious. I read books on "how to write a mystery", my daughter gave me books like Writing a Police Procedural and the Writers Market to spur me on. 

Other things in life became more important, and so for many years, the little idea remained in a three-ring binder. Before word processors were the norm, my writing was done on a manual typewriter, and so the first few versions were typewritten, and then later transferred to a floppy disk. I moved home to Oregon in the early 90s, and within a year or so, had returned to graduate school. For the next 10 years most of my writing related to my graduate work and for the work I was doing in teaching. Throughout each phase of life, poetry remained a mainstay, and my three-ring binder and now growing piles of index cards and handwritten notes about characterization and plot was getting larger. After completing all the graduate work, I began writing for newspapers and magazines, and I wrote poetry and essays. The essays became the meat of blogs I began publishing, and later grew into collections for books or chapters for other books. And still, the three-ring binder and the cast of characters were left hanging in the limbo of my imagination. 

Late last summer, I did a reassessment of some of the writing gigs I was involved in. I began eliminating those that I no longer wanted to continue, and felt it was time to 'fish or cut bait' with the idea of ever writing a mystery novel. As much as I loved reading the novels, I wondered if I was 'good enough' to write as well as some. And then I recalled all the books I'd read that weren't the best writers but which were still entertaining and fun. To decide, I asked a new friend to read the first few chapters of the book, and give me her honest appraisal of whether or not she thought it was at all engaging or worth continuing. I'd lost all perspective by that point, and valued someone who knew publishing to give me some honest feedback. When she told me she liked it, and we worked out a way to work together on the book, I set forth. 

Already in a daily routine of writing, the daily writing of fiction was a new experience that found me lost in a world of imagination and fantasy that I had not experienced before. It was a little like feeling like you could fly or transcend all kinds of boundaries. Which of course, when writing fiction, is true. The need to prove or back up or state the f'acts ma'am, nothing but the facts' was not needed. What was needed was to make the characters believable and the plot line and setting something the reader could get lost in. And I decided early on that I would let myself write and shut the critic out during the first time through what Anne Lamott calls the writing of the first shitty rough draft. My reader/editor person took that burden off my back, and so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

When I had to be away from writing for any length of time, I thought about writing. While writing, nothing much got done around the house. I'd come up for air and feed myself, get out to do yoga periodically but not nearly enough, and felt like I was being put upon when I had to take a break to do the dishes or laundry.  About a month ago, I took two trips. One trip was a brief vacation, during which I slept, walked, and wrote three chapters. The other vacation was to spend Easter Break with my granddaughter, so I had a lot of fun with her, read a lot with her, and exercised my imagination and my City legs up and down the hills of San Francisco. We talked about writing, my granddaughter and I because she too is fascinated with being a writer and doing drama. She made the remark when I was with her last, "We've got a lot in common Yaya. You played soccer, I play soccer. You loved to act, I love to act. You love to write and read, and so do I." And so I recognized with her, the common thread that feeds our souls--the longing to live out of our passions to express ourselves.

My Mother never emphasized the need to keep a perfectly clean house. Time was better spent singing while she played the piano. Time was meant to be spent discovering what adventures there were by reading Swiss Family Robinson, A Tale of Two Cities, Captains Courageous, or Little Women before bedtime. Life was meant to be lived from the  center of our curiosity, not from the end of a broom or from the observation of dust or grime on the stove. Nevertheless, my Virgo Moon (ruler of emotional balance) can't stand a mess. I can overlook my early childhood programming (as wonderful as it was) long enough to spend an afternoon cleaning the stove top or clearing out clutter so I can think again. I am glad that my upbringing allows me to feel free of the constraints of having to be on top of things when what really matters to me is getting the writing written down.

However  there are those among our friends and family who will always throw a wet blanket over whatever new path you set out on. I was in a marriage with a man who used the white glove method to determine if things were 'clean enough'.  After not seeing one another for 20 years, the first thing he said when he walked in my house is, "well you never liked to do the dishes, did you". For some time, I thought it was important to put a higher priority on such things. But I am glad that my ability to focus and to prioritize according to my own passions is in alignment with what really matters to me. So no, the house isn't as clean as it could be, but I manage to keep some semblance of order and cleanliness. It might mean I sweep at midnight or clean the dishes once a day instead of right after a meal. It might mean I drink my veggies instead of spending time cutting, chopping, and dicing. But I am happy and satisfied, and in relatively good shape, body, mind, and spirit. 

And when I've told people what I'm doing, I have gotten a variety of responses. Some say things like "I can hardly wait to read it". That's the good stuff. Then there are those who look at me with disdain and disapproval, and say things like, "So you mean you're not going to write anything serious again?" A if writing a mystery novel was about as low as you can go for an academic or theologian?  This wet blanket stuff does have an effect on me, but since I've chosen the life I'm living and not been forced into exile or something, I figure I'll just chuck it up to someone not being able to see their nose despite their face...although in this case, not being able to see who I really am in my present incarnation.

Leaving the world of academia and not pursuing a more traditional and clerical path in theology (I choose to do personal spiritual counseling with anyone who comes to me), is exactly the right path for me. It's the one I was born to be on, it's the one I've always traveled....just outside the bounds of traditions, just over the hill from the bulk of the crowd, or just off to the edge of the room, looking for the exit. Not having needed reassurance before setting off on some wild hair, "lame brained idea", I have been happily finding Nirvana all along the way. The real battle has been within. Whether to listen to and the make changes in my life based on what someone else, no matter how brilliant or well meaning, thinks rather than what I believe is right for me, or not. Well, at this point, it's no longer a battle, just a bit disappointing when someone seems to think I've lost my mind again. 

Writing can be very solitary work. And in addition to writing, authors have other responsibilities and obligations. For the new breed of writers known as indie writers, there are many aspects of our work that remain a bit mysterious or hidden from what people think we spend our time doing. Indie writers and in my case and the case of a growing number of us, may also be running small presses. All writers are definitely involved in the marketing and sales of their own books. And the design and pre-publication processes that authors who publish with both traditional publishing companies or indie publishing options (self publishing, small presses, kindle or e-publishing) require a lot of time, energy, and ongoing learning and updating of skills and knowledge. All that is related to the publishing process itself is over and above the time and energy spent in writing. This is the part that few see and understand, and it certainly is an aspect of who and what a writer is that remains a misconception to people who think all there is to writing is the writing and the luck of finding a publisher. Even the most successful writers will tell you that the whole business of publishing has changed, and require more and more of writers.  So as solitary as the work can be, it also is demanding. I was astonished to find that one very famous prolific crime mystery novel author had a full time staff of 26 people working for him. Some  of us wish we had one or two people to help us once in awhile, and that's another lesson of the road...learning what it is we need, and then asking for help. Just like we might have learned in running a business or a department which we managed, learning to delegate some of the work we have to others, is a crucial step in becoming more professional about our work as authors. 

For the last 8 months I've been writing almost daily, and am now coming down to the last few chapters. I'm near the finish line, and in a state of bewilderment and a kind of panic. The whole experience of the last 8 months has been one of great joy. I love writing fiction, and to be so focused on one project has been a learning experience that is unlike anything I've experienced before. And that's why this morning I was reflecting on what I've learned over this span of time and through this experience. The next part of this book is the editing, polishing, and getting ready for marketing phase. And already, a new book or two have made their way into my imagination and have taken some form or another on index cards, spiral notebooks and outlines in a file for a new book. And how my characters arrive at their final destination in this book, is still revealing itself to me. They're calling. "C'mon, we're ready to go...", so I must say so long for now. When you hear the music blast from the car radio or from my home, and you see me out walking and dancing along the riverwalk, you'll know I have put the Finis at the end of something that has made my heart and soul happy. The harder work is ahead, but that's good because I love all aspects of this process of being a writer and author. There is so much to learn. There are so many lessons of the road. The journey and the process of writing are constantly allowing for a living a full and joyous life. 

Moments in Time

(Temporarily I am posting Coasting Along in its old format. This will be until I can access my website on Wordpress again. Ah technology!)

During July I am participating in a private writer's challenge. For a while I have been thinking about today's upcoming historic meeting up of the New Horizons spacecraft and the planet Pluto. Here is the piece I wrote today. Historic events like this mission to the distant parts of our Solar System, cannot help but have an impact on those of us who look to the sky, day and night, and wonder how it all fits together with the lives we live, the art we do, the writing that comes from us, and to the our perceptions of ourselves and the Universe. Here are some thoughts of mine.


I remember the day the first astronauts walked on the Moon. My husband and I were visiting friends we had met while on our honeymoon in Hawaii. This couple lived in Canoga Park way across Los Angeles County from our home in Long Beach. We were there for the weekend, and we all sat on the living room floor, watching the black and white television screen waiting for the moment when the first Earthlings would get out of a space ship, open the hatch, and enter the atmosphere of the Moon.
Since elementary school, children in the U.S. knew we were in a race against the USSR for being the first to reach the moon. This is all in retrospect, because at the time, the words we heard in the Weekly Reader, in classrooms, and sometimes in overhearing adult conversations, really had no impact on our rather simple and naive lives. At the time of the first lunar landing, I was in my early twenties, had just married, and looking ahead at the rest of my life. The Viet Nam War was raging, and was claiming the lives of old classmates, and had become a looming worry on the back of my mind.
That afternoon, on the floor of the living room with Carol and her husband, Tom, we looked at what looked like one of the early, blurry ultrasound photos, the kind you tried like crazy to 'see' the baby's movement or heart beat? That's what the live photography looked like to me. We all knew that it was a momentous event, a first in world history. It would also prove to be a momentous day for me, for it was on that date that I conceived my daughter.
Nine months, almost to the day later, my baby girl was born. She was born into a world that would be vastly different from the one I grew up in. Now all these years later, with all the changes that have occurred in her lifetime and mine, another event is occurring. This event is the culmination of a ten-year voyage into space by the spacecraft, New Horizons. The plan was conceived years before that, and all the people who work for NASA-JPL, and other supporting communities, brought the dream into reality. The ship was launched into space, and 10 year later, has arrived at its destination-passing Pluto.
Pluto, the Great Transformer in Astrology, is now within view of the cameras and equipment on the spacecraft, and if all goes well, for the next year photographs and information will be streaming back to Earth. I remember when photographs sent back from the Hubble Space Telescope revealed the first beautiful photographs of space, how amazing it all was. This morning an astrologer mentioned on the NASA website, that the Moon in Cancer is transiting (passing by) the Sun, Mercury, and Mars, that are all in opposition to Pluto. That person then wrote, since this is no random occurrence, astrology wins. I think we all win. Scientists, astrologers, carpenters, teachers, men, women, and children from everywhere, win when we move more deeply into getting to know who we are in the Grand Scheme of things, and discover a bigger connection and a wider perspective than we had had before.
While it may not seem to touch our daily lives much, it has and will have an impact on all of our futures. How we use the information and what we learn about our oneness, remains to be seen, but I feel we are so fortunate to witness such an event. To forget the uniqueness of our own individual lives and the responsibility we each have to live life to the fullest and not get caught up all the time in the mundane, trivial issues that tend to tie us down, is something that moments like this stir up in me. I think it was Meister Eckart, the theologian who whose own papers and ideas were burned up because they were too radical, said that we are spiritual beings having a physical journey. I for one am happy to be in human form, living out the dance I've fortunate enough to get to do.
At this moment, as we all get to see a first time discovery in our Solar System, there is a new Moon. I wonder what is being conceived on this New Moon to be born into each of our lives. I especially am curious to see what is being conceived in my own life, as this marks a time when Life reveals everything with a broader and deeper view of how we are orbiting through space together, bound for many other amazing and heart-opening experiences.
So today, I wait, this time before my computer screen, with millions of others worldwide, to see what's going to happen next. I wait in my own time and space too, and am open to what new mysteries appear to be experienced while I'm fortunate enough to be incarnated into this curious, and fabulous body, mind, and spirit that still loves to play in the sandbox of the cosmos, and still loves to wonder about, "What does it all mean?"

Looking for Inspiration, Finding Simplicitity

Frederico and Ginger Rose                                           Catherine Al-Meten

This morning, long before sunrise, I woke to find my two cats up and ready to face the day. Long before I was ready, I found myself taking care of the simple tasks that get life started around here. Water bowl filled with fresh water, kibble filling up white space in dishes, and window open so Homeland Security (what I call my two cats), can keep an eye on the river. After making myself a cup of tea, I returned to my writing perch (a lapdesk in my bedroom where I can look out on the river), and began writing my morning pages. 

For anyone reading this who doesn't know what I mean by morning pages, I refer to a practice I began over 20 years ago. When Julia Cameron's book, the Artist's Way came out in the mid-90s, I got it, and learned about morning pages-the simple practice of starting each day by writing 3 pages. Having been unsuccessful in keeping a regular journal or diary before that time, I wondered if I could do it. The guidelines were simple. Simply write. Write anything, but write and fill up 3 pages. I picked a basic spiral notebook. It has 70 pages, and when I write on front and back, that is 140 pages. About every month, I open a new spiral notebook, and begin again. At the start of the school year, I get a huge supply of spiral notebooks when school supplies go on sale. I hand out spiral notebooks to counseling clients and to people who come to my dream workshops. Anyway, you get the picture. 

For me, the morning pages have become part of my daily writing and spiritual discipline.  What do I write in my morning pages? What would you find? Records and chats about dreams. Prayers and  poetry. Lists of things to do or things needed, and check lists with items checked off (yes, I go back periodically and check off what has been done or completed). List of plans and outline for ideas and projects. Drawings, sketches, and  doodles. Sometimes the pages are incomplete. Sometimes there are more than three pages. You would find, upon close inspection, the pages were not morning pages at all but were written in the evening or middle-of-the-night pages. On a rare occasion, days will be missed, however this doesn't happen too often. 

Morning pages have become a habit--a good habit for me. They require that I pick up my pen and notebook, and start writing. From that point on, the writing begins to flow. Sometimes the flow is in short sputters, a few words at a time, but soon, the critic who lives in my mind, quiets down, and I simply write. 

This morning, before the sun had come up and before I had even thought about writing, I began to observe the simplicity of life. Today, I woke with a dream and a number of thoughts in my mind. In the space between sleeping and waking, thoughts about a friend and her grandchildren started flowing through my mind. Pretty soon I was trying to count how many grandchildren she has. I made it to 20, and then remembered another son who had a child. Also on my mind this morning was my own granddaughter and my daughter. And I thought of other writers. Thoughts of what made their lives similar or different from my own. How two writers in particular seemed to have mastered the art of dedicating themselves to whatever book it was they were in the middle of writing. 

And then the thought came to mind, advice given to writers and artists and other children by their mothers everywhere--don't compare yourself to others. And so I came back into my body, and observed who I was and where I was, and what my life was. Quite simply, it is a beautiful life. I sat in the dark morning hours watching the lights on a ship. The lights looked like a constellation of bright stars in the shape of a whale, hanging over the river. I heard the early calls of the ducks and geese upon the water, a few yards from where I sat. Beyond that, nothing much stirred. My neighbor's light was on, I noticed as I made tea. Picking up my notebook, I began writing my morning pages, and just as the thought came (that critic again) "Maybe you'll never write another poem. Maybe the well has run dry." I reached for my pen, put pen to paper and wrote. 

Now Julia Cameron says never to share what is in your morning pages, however, just this once, I am sharing a portion with you. As this column is about the writer's life, this passage fits perfectly into what the process is like for me.

"Just when I think --always a big problem and we create big problems in our own minds--there's nothing more, no more poetry, once again I find, the well is not dry. The words are ready to flow when I get out of the way and act as a writer. Writers write.  So maybe my problem, if there is one, is that I'm more than a writer."

And so it is. We are all more than one role or another that we are devoted to. We are inspired by the lives we live, and by our willingness to be present to how we are living. For me, devotion comes from a call to express myself to reach others who might need inspiration. Connecting is a form of sacramental living for me. Connecting through my writing, my art, my counseling, and especially through my relationships and service to others, is driven by a strong spiritual need to find meaning in life and to support others as they do the same.

For a writer to fill the well of ideas, inspiration, and focus, it is necessary to be open and receptive to the flow of life, in even the most simple acts, in the smallest observations. The annoying nip of a kitten that is a way of saying "I love you", the rampant storms of the mind that occasionally wake us up to a flood of ideas, fears, or epiphanies. The raging storm, that stills and centers us. The quiet calm and sunlight that reminds us that change is inevitable. The constant outpouring of beauty against the horrifying reminders that all is not well at some places, sometimes, for all of us. Right now, being still in this moment, a kitten curled up quietly beside me and the clouds moving across the morning sky, I look into the golden eyes of my cat and see that "all is well for now". 

We've moved, once again, from darkness of night to light of day, as we accept the invitation to be grateful for this day. As we pray for those who need our prayers, and as we watch and listen for the signals and signs of what we are called to next. For now, in this one moment, Presence finds me. We are one in the Light of this moment. 

The Simple Act of Making the Bed

Most of us have some kind of routine or regular pattern for getting the day started. Morning routines, seasonal routines, phases of the Moon, Sun, and Stars routines.  My morning routine this morning included reading some inspiring thoughts of other writers and of checking my email messages.  After being jolted by the news yesterday that Robin Williams, the beloved and talented actor and humanitarian had most likely died of a suicide, there has been a steady stream of outpouring from those who knew him, from those who knew him through his work, and from those who were shocked and sad that this man of light was now gone.

In the back of my mind, thoughts of Robin Williams' films, and of interviews I had watched over the years came back. I thought of all the places where we had walked the same streets though our lives and paths never crossed. When I sit in our home in San Francisco hearing the fireworks from the Giants' stadium, or when I hear the roaring of the crowd at the ball game as I walk by the stadium on our way to the baby park, I imagine Robin Williams sitting with his friends, cheering his favorite home team on. Walking around Sausalito, or the streets of San Francisco, or wandering around Marin County, past Tiburon, San Rafael, and San Anselmo, we never met. I never missed his movies, and often saw them each more than once. His wit never failed to entertain me, as it did so many others. There was always something so sad in nearly every role he played. There was a deep pathos that showed through as one who feels life so deeply and seeks to affect it so profoundly, often expresses.

Though I did not know this wonderful man, actor, and humanitarian, I feel the loss of him. He gave more than he could ever know, hitting us where we feel the rawness and tragic humor of life. He touched us because we could feel that he saw something of great beauty and sadness in being human, fallible, and vulnerable. As I walked into my bedroom this morning, I leant over to spread my coverlet across the pillows, as I made my bed. And at that moment it struck me that Robin Williams would not be making his bed today, or any other day. He would not be doing the same things he usually did each morning, afternoon, or evening. He would no longer greet his wife and settle into their comfortable routine, nor would he hold his children again, or make us laugh in new and ever-surprising ways. He is no longer living in his human form, and has made his way into another level of being. He carried great sadness with him, and we can only hope he feels some release and relief from whatever drove him to seek a way out.

My thoughts this morning are with those whom he left behind, who now have to carry on with their lives in ways they probably never imagined. My prayers are for his family and his good friends who now have to make sense of last words, or last encounters. Who have to wonder if there weren't something they could have or should have said or done. For those who suffer such great anguish, loss, and grief, no words can comfort, and time is but a slow balm that never promises healing. Instead we fumble with the sheets, and tuck in the blankets. We wash up the last cup left on the counter, or put the shoes and toothbrush somewhere--anywhere but out to be a reminder of loss. Or perhaps, we leave everthing in place, just as it was, hoping somehow that will help us retain the scent or feel of that person's presence in our lives. For those of us who have lost someone to death--something that will happen to all of us--we know how we settle into routines of grieving to help us bear the weight of loss, to keep us numb from the shock of knowing, that we have to go on without someone who filled up a part of our lives. For family and friends, that is a huge part of life. For the rest of us, it is whatever he meant to us, whatever his films touched in us, or whatever our experience of this iconic figure in our lives was.

Anyone who has lived through the past 40 years or more has known Robin Williams as a voice of a generation that has spoken out, acted out, and made attempts to live life with heart and soul. Robin Williams became the one among us who wasn't afraid to make us laugh at our feeble attempts to live right, or to make us see what lay under the coat of pretense, political double speak, or help us face our inhumanity to one another.  He was not afraid of pointing out our foibles, tragedies, and failures, and he was not afraid to be human and share in that humanity in so many ways.  We lose a voice who spoke to us, for us, and over us to give us a reason to go on. We are sad that you have gone on and left us a little bit lost without you, a little bit richer because of you, and a great deal sadder and confused about how to make sense of such a great loss.  We didn't want you to give up hope, and wish we could have made it better for you. Rest in Peace, the Peace of a Compassionate and Loving God,  dear Robin Williams.

Announcement: New collection of poetry and essays available now!

 

                                  Whales & Nightingales Press 

                                      releases-

                          








Woman on the Run: A Collection of 
Poetry and Essays 

                           by Dr. Catherine Al-Meten

I am happy to announce that my second book of poetry, Woman on the Run: A Collection of Poetry and Essays, has just been released in print and Kindle versions. I encourage you to get your copy either by going to amazon.com, or by ordering directly from me at Whales & Nightingales Press (c.j.almeten@gmail.com). Woman on the Run: A Collection of Poetry and Essays catches glimpses of how I experience and view life.  

The poetry reflects life on the Oregon Coast, up and down the Columbia River, and travels to and from San Francisco and Monterey, California.  The 118-page volume includes full color photography also reflecting life along the waterways of the Northern Coast. Looking forward to sharing this new collection with you all.

The essays included in Woman on the Run are some that were written while I was living in Monterey and San Francisco, and while I was publishing the online journal, Voices of Women’s Wisdom. 

Get your copy of Woman on the Run: A Collection of Poetry and Essays by visiting:

Woman on the Run (paperback)

Woman on the Run (Kindle)

Looking forward to scheduling poetry readings and book signings. If you would like to schedule an event, contact me at calmeten@gmail.com.