Simply Start
Yesterday after a poetry workshop with some high school students (Langston Hughes--yeah!), I sat down next to one girl and flipped through her sketch book. She stood proudly by, narrating the background for each sketch as I looked at it--her inspiration for one, another that she'd started but never finished, who her muse was, how long each had taken.
As a rather awkward appreciator of visual art, I tried to affirm her talent and work: "I really like your use of empty space here," I said, then remembered the right term--"I mean, negative space." She acknowledged my comments and went on quickly to describe the next piece: "I made that for a friend. It's kind of weird, but. . . ."
I admired the open way she spoke, as if she knew she had worked hard, was talented, and that her creations were good. (I often have trouble speaking with such authority and clarity about my own work.) And then, in the middle of her easy narration, she spluttered: "I didn't win a thing at State [art finals]!" Ah! Finally, something at which I can speak at great length!
Over many, many years I grew a thick reptilian skin as I opened each envelope (and now each e-mail): "Dear Writer, Thank you for submitting; however. . ." Often, the rejection slip is an outright lie and therefore laughable: "After careful consideration, we have decided not to accept Share Your Chair with Wizards." The children's picture book text I'd submitted was about a piece of Texas countryside, and it was called Share Your Chair with Lizards. At the time, I reflected that I would have likely been more successful the mistaken title instead of my intended one. Note to self: Next time, include more wizards.
Rejections were so much worse when I was younger and more tender, and I could hear it in the voice of the young woman as I looked up from her sketchbook to see (on her smartphone) the photo of the piece that she'd submitted. But despite not receiving accolades at State, she is still making art, still pushing boundaries of her skill and imagination. Near the end of our conversation she said: "But I guess it's pretty great I made it to State." I wanted to clap her on the back. It's amazing! You should be so proud of yourself!
Today, I am proud of myself merely because I am sitting down in front of my computer. I have shown up to my work, even though I must be honest: I am dreading it. I feel like the story I have to write today is too big for me, even though I have my research at hand (the research was the fun part). I know I will be stretched, and I'll get my writer's heartbeat up, and it will be uncomfortable, and it might amount to a pile of horse doodoo in the end. But here I am. Really, writing this post is in large part procrastination and in smaller part, my own pep assembly.
I often feel that way--when I stand up in front of a roomful of people, or even when I was a columnist five years ago, as I turned the tape recorder on, unsure of how the interview would proceed. In my rather muddled state during this time (often somewhat lost getting to the interview, flustered from arranging care for three children), I think I often projected a rather dismal, incompetent version of myself. Once after my profile about about a local man had been printed, the fellow found me and confided with a grin: "Boy, when you interviewed me I wasn't too impressed. But you sure wrote it up pretty well."
For some people, projecting confidence is a supreme gift; for most of us, it's more like rock climbing--we stretch out, fumbling for the next handhold, all the while realizing that at any point we could plummet. And yet, like my extraordinary godson, Corin, we show up anyway, faces set to the challenge. And every time we climb, we encounter newness. We discover what is within and what is without.
I do believe that my most effective writing, successful parenting, healthy relationships and inspired learning all occur best when I step up to the starting line with that trembly, uncertain feeling, when I show up with more questions than answers, more wonder than assumptions. Like another young woman yesterday who bowed her head over a blank piece of paper during exercise time and murmured with an embarrassed smile: "I'm not a writer. . . ." and then went on to cover her paper with words, I begin best when I feel a bit scared and uncertain, when I am in the midst of inquiry. In this blog post at onbeing.org, Parker Palmer writes:
Palmer goes on to articulate what I've felt intuitively for many years now: no writing is wasted. Even if the piece itself is not successful, the words "become compost for the next round of new growth."
I have had to constantly remind myself of this truth. Words, acts of love, teaching, parenting, moments of solitude--I can't quantify any of those things, weighing and measuring the product. None of it is wasted. I just need to find the courage to show up, the discipline to begin again, the faith to trust that all of it is my work and my great privilege.
Hmm. . .and now I've made myself somewhat woozy with my "words of wisdom" when really, all I am is this person sitting here in front of my computer, afraid to begin the first word of the first sentence of a new story. Wish me good fortune, friends.
As a rather awkward appreciator of visual art, I tried to affirm her talent and work: "I really like your use of empty space here," I said, then remembered the right term--"I mean, negative space." She acknowledged my comments and went on quickly to describe the next piece: "I made that for a friend. It's kind of weird, but. . . ."
I admired the open way she spoke, as if she knew she had worked hard, was talented, and that her creations were good. (I often have trouble speaking with such authority and clarity about my own work.) And then, in the middle of her easy narration, she spluttered: "I didn't win a thing at State [art finals]!" Ah! Finally, something at which I can speak at great length!
Tonight:
Failure Expert KL Cockroft will address
The Art of Endless Rejection!
Don't miss this opportunity to feel better about yourself in the light of her colossal failures!
Over many, many years I grew a thick reptilian skin as I opened each envelope (and now each e-mail): "Dear Writer, Thank you for submitting; however. . ." Often, the rejection slip is an outright lie and therefore laughable: "After careful consideration, we have decided not to accept Share Your Chair with Wizards." The children's picture book text I'd submitted was about a piece of Texas countryside, and it was called Share Your Chair with Lizards. At the time, I reflected that I would have likely been more successful the mistaken title instead of my intended one. Note to self: Next time, include more wizards.
Rejections were so much worse when I was younger and more tender, and I could hear it in the voice of the young woman as I looked up from her sketchbook to see (on her smartphone) the photo of the piece that she'd submitted. But despite not receiving accolades at State, she is still making art, still pushing boundaries of her skill and imagination. Near the end of our conversation she said: "But I guess it's pretty great I made it to State." I wanted to clap her on the back. It's amazing! You should be so proud of yourself!
Today, I am proud of myself merely because I am sitting down in front of my computer. I have shown up to my work, even though I must be honest: I am dreading it. I feel like the story I have to write today is too big for me, even though I have my research at hand (the research was the fun part). I know I will be stretched, and I'll get my writer's heartbeat up, and it will be uncomfortable, and it might amount to a pile of horse doodoo in the end. But here I am. Really, writing this post is in large part procrastination and in smaller part, my own pep assembly.
I often feel that way--when I stand up in front of a roomful of people, or even when I was a columnist five years ago, as I turned the tape recorder on, unsure of how the interview would proceed. In my rather muddled state during this time (often somewhat lost getting to the interview, flustered from arranging care for three children), I think I often projected a rather dismal, incompetent version of myself. Once after my profile about about a local man had been printed, the fellow found me and confided with a grin: "Boy, when you interviewed me I wasn't too impressed. But you sure wrote it up pretty well."
For some people, projecting confidence is a supreme gift; for most of us, it's more like rock climbing--we stretch out, fumbling for the next handhold, all the while realizing that at any point we could plummet. And yet, like my extraordinary godson, Corin, we show up anyway, faces set to the challenge. And every time we climb, we encounter newness. We discover what is within and what is without.
 |
| My extraordinary & inspiring godson, Corin, scaling a rock face. Thanks to LJI for the photo. |
I do believe that my most effective writing, successful parenting, healthy relationships and inspired learning all occur best when I step up to the starting line with that trembly, uncertain feeling, when I show up with more questions than answers, more wonder than assumptions. Like another young woman yesterday who bowed her head over a blank piece of paper during exercise time and murmured with an embarrassed smile: "I'm not a writer. . . ." and then went on to cover her paper with words, I begin best when I feel a bit scared and uncertain, when I am in the midst of inquiry. In this blog post at onbeing.org, Parker Palmer writes:
For 50 years I've been writing almost daily. I'm driven not be expertise but by my own bafflement about many things--some of them "in here" and some of them "out there." Every time I write, I'm surprised by what I discover about myself and/or the world.
So I no longer wait until I have a clear idea to start putting words on the page. . .I simply start writing, trusting that the writing itself will help me dig into my bafflement, uncover what I already know, and point toward what I need to learn next.
Palmer goes on to articulate what I've felt intuitively for many years now: no writing is wasted. Even if the piece itself is not successful, the words "become compost for the next round of new growth."
I have had to constantly remind myself of this truth. Words, acts of love, teaching, parenting, moments of solitude--I can't quantify any of those things, weighing and measuring the product. None of it is wasted. I just need to find the courage to show up, the discipline to begin again, the faith to trust that all of it is my work and my great privilege.
Hmm. . .and now I've made myself somewhat woozy with my "words of wisdom" when really, all I am is this person sitting here in front of my computer, afraid to begin the first word of the first sentence of a new story. Wish me good fortune, friends.
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