This is year four of naming my birthday year. The three before have all been named with a word or an idea to help me navigate the months and minutes of the 365 days before the next one offers me cupcakes and presents once again. It's surprisingly powerful. Training your mind to find that particular pattern in the chaos. Slowly cataloging all the proof of how the universe offers up what you ask for, even when you only ask in one word. Maybe two. But there you have it. A theme year that seems to magically come true. So, be careful what you wish for.
1) Debauchery 2) Consciousness 3) Actualization and now.
Gratitude.
It's more for me than it is for you. There. I said it. Out loud. But don't we all know that anyway? Giving is receiving. And as I spend a few minutes a day in metta meditation and writing down the happy. The goal is to free my heart and float a little above the sidewalk. Setting down the brewing skepticism I sometimes find myself acting upon. Sprinkling a little sugar on the parts of me that need it. Watering the parts that don't. I do hope that as I change I can help raise the collective compassion of my neighborhood, city, country, world by a couple percentage points. That there is power in a smile to a stranger. And even more in a wish for their happiness.
Long walks. Sunny days that happen to land on your birthday. Plum cake. Pretty stamps. Short stories written by friends. Clover. Health. My never ending supply of wacky ideas. The people who will go along with them. Idealism. These giant purple-pink flowers on the trees up the street. The smells and sights of the Market. Walking shoes. My parents. Baths. Mentors and friends. My awesome umbrella. Those moments where you get IT. The smell of honeysuckle. Strong legs. Seeing how saying no to something is saying yes to something else. Laughing so hard that I start to cry. Catching up. Reading. Right now.
Showing posts with label wishes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wishes. Show all posts
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
alaphabet super
I got some writing advice today.
I was lamenting about how I want to write a book but can’t seem to get past the ideas. The free floating nameless characters. The makeshift plots that change and shift and only make sense to me. My total lack of respect for gra. Mmar. And sentence. Structure. I get mired down in it. Stuck. The idea of sustaining 300 pages on one idea. One story. It sticks me to my chair. My hands in my lap. Keyboard quiet.
I was wishing out loud for discipline.
And she, she being an editor who I love at a newspaper worth fighting for, she said I write like Faulkner or Joyce. That it flows. That I have a voice. I said this then and I will say this now. Those comparisons are clearly too kind. They are generous and wonderful and day making. But too too kind. After such a head pat. After such a glowing review. She said:
Beware of structure. It’s like a straight jacket that you might not be able to take off.
She’s watched it. She’s lived it. Writer after writer putting it on. Tightening the belts. Living inside an inverted triangle. Tidy. Clean. They get stuck in the proper of it all. And set aside their risk taking. Their shooting from the hip. Signing up for writing seminars 5 years later where they are encouraged to write like they use to. You know. When they didn’t know how they were supposed to. She said:
Tread lightly.
I think a lot about writing. About what I’m supposed to do with it. If there is a book inside me. Or if this blog lives by itself. When I talk about writing, I talk about how it just seems to happen. 15 minutes. No edits. Maybe spell check if I’m feeling nice. And while I don’t write every day or even every week, I pay a price. An antsyness. A slow trade of inner calm for outter busy. Until the scales are tipped too much. Until the balance is threatening. And I sit down with my iBook on my lap and.
Write.
I was lamenting about how I want to write a book but can’t seem to get past the ideas. The free floating nameless characters. The makeshift plots that change and shift and only make sense to me. My total lack of respect for gra. Mmar. And sentence. Structure. I get mired down in it. Stuck. The idea of sustaining 300 pages on one idea. One story. It sticks me to my chair. My hands in my lap. Keyboard quiet.
I was wishing out loud for discipline.
And she, she being an editor who I love at a newspaper worth fighting for, she said I write like Faulkner or Joyce. That it flows. That I have a voice. I said this then and I will say this now. Those comparisons are clearly too kind. They are generous and wonderful and day making. But too too kind. After such a head pat. After such a glowing review. She said:
Beware of structure. It’s like a straight jacket that you might not be able to take off.
She’s watched it. She’s lived it. Writer after writer putting it on. Tightening the belts. Living inside an inverted triangle. Tidy. Clean. They get stuck in the proper of it all. And set aside their risk taking. Their shooting from the hip. Signing up for writing seminars 5 years later where they are encouraged to write like they use to. You know. When they didn’t know how they were supposed to. She said:
Tread lightly.
I think a lot about writing. About what I’m supposed to do with it. If there is a book inside me. Or if this blog lives by itself. When I talk about writing, I talk about how it just seems to happen. 15 minutes. No edits. Maybe spell check if I’m feeling nice. And while I don’t write every day or even every week, I pay a price. An antsyness. A slow trade of inner calm for outter busy. Until the scales are tipped too much. Until the balance is threatening. And I sit down with my iBook on my lap and.
Write.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
opening lines
The first word they read will be "Welcome." It will be black on a white background and it will be written in Helvetica. All uppercase, I think. Maybe not though. A mix of the two might be best. What comes next will be a reassuring sentence about why they have come to that web address. How it wasn’t entirely chance that their name was selected and it wasn’t entirely not chance either. I think it will say: “If you are here, you are meant to be here.” Yes. That is exactly what it will say. First it will say:
Welcome.
And then it will say:
If you are here, you are meant to be here.
I think that will keep their attention while also being two true statements. I could keep their attention with sensationalism or exaggerations but instead, I will chose to do it through sweeping but truthful statements. I will chose to do it through telling them things they secretly long to hear and by asking them questions they secretly long to answer. They might so secretly long for these things that they don’t even know they long for them. Those are the people that might get choked up. The people who when they read:
Welcome.
and
If you are here, you are meant to be here.
Feel the pluck of their heart strings and an increased dampness in their eyes. For them, maybe this will be like getting the answer they’ve searched for. For me, it will be an IP address. An IP address is a unique address given to your computer so it can communicate with other computers. And that’s how I’ll know them all first.
67.128.90.32
Them being the men who get the postcard. The men who demographically fit a profile. The ones who have filled out a warranty card or subscribed to a magazine. The ones in a database available for sale for just $25. Them. I’ll know them as an IP address and they will know me as a mysterious post card.
T::h::e F::o::r::e::v::e::r S::u::r::v::e::y
Welcome.
If you are here, you are meant to be here.
Welcome.
And then it will say:
If you are here, you are meant to be here.
I think that will keep their attention while also being two true statements. I could keep their attention with sensationalism or exaggerations but instead, I will chose to do it through sweeping but truthful statements. I will chose to do it through telling them things they secretly long to hear and by asking them questions they secretly long to answer. They might so secretly long for these things that they don’t even know they long for them. Those are the people that might get choked up. The people who when they read:
Welcome.
and
If you are here, you are meant to be here.
Feel the pluck of their heart strings and an increased dampness in their eyes. For them, maybe this will be like getting the answer they’ve searched for. For me, it will be an IP address. An IP address is a unique address given to your computer so it can communicate with other computers. And that’s how I’ll know them all first.
67.128.90.32
Them being the men who get the postcard. The men who demographically fit a profile. The ones who have filled out a warranty card or subscribed to a magazine. The ones in a database available for sale for just $25. Them. I’ll know them as an IP address and they will know me as a mysterious post card.
T::h::e F::o::r::e::v::e::r S::u::r::v::e::y
Welcome.
If you are here, you are meant to be here.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
how to let go
I’ve started this story a dozen times. Each time losing my way in setting the scene. Never getting it where it needs to be. Mentioning the light (it was navy blue) mentioning the sounds (just wind and cars) mentioning how I was sitting (in a way that made me feel very small) have let me down. My old couch, a curious cat and my hands wanting to hold his, but holding each other instead. It doesn’t get me there. What if I tell you he opened a beer with the base of a fork? What if I tell you I think that’s sexy? It’s still not right.
Sitting on my old couch in the 9pm navy blue light of summer. In the near quiet. We were talking.
See?
That’s not it.
We were hanging on every word.
No.
We were.
Maybe.
I had given him a book to read. Stumbling on Happiness. It’s one of those socio-philosophical-pop culture books that slices and dices together a picture of how we are. We as in humans. Are as in our often talked about condition. One part. Early on. Making the point that it’s our frontal lobe that is responsible for all of our future plans the author interviews a man who lost his. Tragic accident. Instant science experiment. This man said when he thinks into the future all he sees is a white room. All he sees is nothing. Like me thinking about really hard math. Or you maybe thinking about the endlessness of space. You open the door and there is nothing to see.
“It’s like that.” he said. We were talking about falling in love. “I open the door and all that’s there is a white room.”
“Does it have furniture in it?”
“No.”
“Are there windows?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Do they look out to grass and sky or just to more whiteness.”
“Just to more whiteness.”
When he said that, when I heard it, my entire response was seen in my open palm on the pillow between us. Sending him wishes of sky and grass. Of furniture and cans of paint. Just like 20 minutes before when he tried to fix me. With his hand in my hair and tilted head look into my wet eyes.
On an old 1950s couch. Navy blue light. It’s summer. It’s 9pm. She is sitting in a way that makes her seem small. There are pillows between them. They are not holding hands.
Man: “I hate that you beat yourself up for that.”
He puts his hand in her hair. A car drives by. She is glassy eyed and tired.
Woman: “I don’t want to be the kind of person who doesn’t.”
Sitting on my old couch in the 9pm navy blue light of summer. In the near quiet. We were talking.
See?
That’s not it.
We were hanging on every word.
No.
We were.
Maybe.
I had given him a book to read. Stumbling on Happiness. It’s one of those socio-philosophical-pop culture books that slices and dices together a picture of how we are. We as in humans. Are as in our often talked about condition. One part. Early on. Making the point that it’s our frontal lobe that is responsible for all of our future plans the author interviews a man who lost his. Tragic accident. Instant science experiment. This man said when he thinks into the future all he sees is a white room. All he sees is nothing. Like me thinking about really hard math. Or you maybe thinking about the endlessness of space. You open the door and there is nothing to see.
“It’s like that.” he said. We were talking about falling in love. “I open the door and all that’s there is a white room.”
“Does it have furniture in it?”
“No.”
“Are there windows?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Do they look out to grass and sky or just to more whiteness.”
“Just to more whiteness.”
When he said that, when I heard it, my entire response was seen in my open palm on the pillow between us. Sending him wishes of sky and grass. Of furniture and cans of paint. Just like 20 minutes before when he tried to fix me. With his hand in my hair and tilted head look into my wet eyes.
On an old 1950s couch. Navy blue light. It’s summer. It’s 9pm. She is sitting in a way that makes her seem small. There are pillows between them. They are not holding hands.
Man: “I hate that you beat yourself up for that.”
He puts his hand in her hair. A car drives by. She is glassy eyed and tired.
Woman: “I don’t want to be the kind of person who doesn’t.”
Monday, May 28, 2007
next year, i will wear a sparkly dress
It was my friend Buster’s birthday party last night. I admire his dedication to having the party on his actual birthday. Even if it’s a Sunday. Like last night. A Sunday night birthday party is usually just dinner somewhere, a few presents and if you’re at a Mexican restaurant, some complimentary flan. But Buster goes all out. It’s really commendable.
Buster is the only other person I’ve ever met who names their birthday years. I name my birthday years. This is year three of me naming my birthday year. I look at the name as more of a theme, he refers to it as his “birthday wish” and believes that birthday wishes have special powers. This sounds silly when I type it but if you’re ever in a conversation with him about birthday wishes and he tells you this theory, you just believe it. He has conviction.
I’ve only known Buster for two birthdays. Below is a chart:
Buster’s Birthday Wishes / Heather’s Birthday Year Themes
2005 : unknown / Year of Debauchery
2006 : Higher Highs, Lower Lows / Year of Conscious Choices
2007: Double Down / Year of Actualization
As you can see, his are more abstract. Mine are like fortune cookies. We both agree however - your wish/theme will make itself known. In other words, if you are considering naming your birthday year - be careful. It comes true. If you remember nothing else from this story, remember that. I’d hate for you to have an accidentally crappy year. You don’t deserve a crappy year. You deserve a year filled with as much good stuff and as many valuable lessons as 365 days can fit in. To that end, I don't recommend having a Year of Debauchery.
At the party, there was a survey to fill out. Buster is making a friendbook. This is like a yearbook but made of friends instead. See, he really does go all out. Even on a Sunday. I thought I would share some of it with you. And that you would fill it out. Everyone likes surveys. It’s a chance to get to know yourself better. It’s a chance to feel like you are getting interviewed for a magazine.
Here are my favorite questions (and answers):
What’s your favorite food? (doughnuts)
What’s your spirit animal? (crow)
Would you rather bet everything on red or black? (red)
Squid are: beautiful, tasty or weird. (beautiful)
When is the last time you cried? (today)
Do you believe that black swans exist? (yes)
What are you striving for? (happiness)
Likely or unlikely that you’ll get what you’re striving for? (likely!)
Are you a good example of the kind of person you think people should be? (sometimes)
What’s something awesome? (resilience)
What’s something beautiful? (dewy grass)
You are beautiful and awesome. (So are you.)
That last one isn’t really a question. It’s a statement. It’s a statement that I liked reading. Just like when someone with a Sharpie writes “you are beautiful” across the bottom of the mirror in the ladies' room. The management probably isn’t very happy about having a written on mirror, but I love reading it anyway. I am beautiful. And so is the next girl who washes her hands. Beautiful. Look at us all. So different. So wounded. So healed. So optimistic. So cautious. So wonderful.
And you.
You are beautiful and awesome, too.
Buster is the only other person I’ve ever met who names their birthday years. I name my birthday years. This is year three of me naming my birthday year. I look at the name as more of a theme, he refers to it as his “birthday wish” and believes that birthday wishes have special powers. This sounds silly when I type it but if you’re ever in a conversation with him about birthday wishes and he tells you this theory, you just believe it. He has conviction.
I’ve only known Buster for two birthdays. Below is a chart:
Buster’s Birthday Wishes / Heather’s Birthday Year Themes
2005 : unknown / Year of Debauchery
2006 : Higher Highs, Lower Lows / Year of Conscious Choices
2007: Double Down / Year of Actualization
As you can see, his are more abstract. Mine are like fortune cookies. We both agree however - your wish/theme will make itself known. In other words, if you are considering naming your birthday year - be careful. It comes true. If you remember nothing else from this story, remember that. I’d hate for you to have an accidentally crappy year. You don’t deserve a crappy year. You deserve a year filled with as much good stuff and as many valuable lessons as 365 days can fit in. To that end, I don't recommend having a Year of Debauchery.
At the party, there was a survey to fill out. Buster is making a friendbook. This is like a yearbook but made of friends instead. See, he really does go all out. Even on a Sunday. I thought I would share some of it with you. And that you would fill it out. Everyone likes surveys. It’s a chance to get to know yourself better. It’s a chance to feel like you are getting interviewed for a magazine.
Here are my favorite questions (and answers):
What’s your favorite food? (doughnuts)
What’s your spirit animal? (crow)
Would you rather bet everything on red or black? (red)
Squid are: beautiful, tasty or weird. (beautiful)
When is the last time you cried? (today)
Do you believe that black swans exist? (yes)
What are you striving for? (happiness)
Likely or unlikely that you’ll get what you’re striving for? (likely!)
Are you a good example of the kind of person you think people should be? (sometimes)
What’s something awesome? (resilience)
What’s something beautiful? (dewy grass)
You are beautiful and awesome. (So are you.)
That last one isn’t really a question. It’s a statement. It’s a statement that I liked reading. Just like when someone with a Sharpie writes “you are beautiful” across the bottom of the mirror in the ladies' room. The management probably isn’t very happy about having a written on mirror, but I love reading it anyway. I am beautiful. And so is the next girl who washes her hands. Beautiful. Look at us all. So different. So wounded. So healed. So optimistic. So cautious. So wonderful.
And you.
You are beautiful and awesome, too.
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