Question of the day: DOES RUNNING AWAY WORK?

So I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts the other day (WTF, with Marc Maron) and he was interviewing one of my favorite authors (David Sedaris) and at one point, David said this about why he has traveled so much in his life: "Running away works."

I almost drove off the road, I was so happy to hear someone say it.

You've read my books. You must know by now how I feel about the powers of — at times — running away. I know, I know. Running away gets a bad rap. You get called a coward if you do it. And honestly, I guess sometimes you are a coward if you do it. Because it doesn't aways work, and here are two very sane adages to warn you against it, when you have serious problems to work out:

1) Wherever you go, there you are.

2) You can change seats on the Titanic, but the ship's still going down.

So certainly there are times when you have to hold your ground and face whatever it is you are going through, because if you keep dodging it, you will never be free of it.

BUT...there are other times when, honestly, I think the very best thing you can do for yourself is to run like hell — as far away as you can possibly go. Because there are circumstances in which a change of scenery CAN change your mind. Putting an ocean between you and somebody you really need to stay away from CAN help you to move on healthily. Taking a running leap CAN, at times, give you a better chance of learning to fly.

I've been thinking about this all week, and then, in this month's O magazine, I came upon this gorgeous quote, by another of my favorite authors, Rebecca Solnit:

"The bigness of the world is redemption. Despair compresses you into a small space, and a depression is literally a hollow in the ground. To dig deeper into the self, to go underground, is sometimes necessary., but so is the other route of getting out of yourself, into the larger world, into the openness in which you need not clutch your story and your troubles so tightly to your chest."
- Rebecca Solnit, from THE FARAWAY NEARBY


So what do you guys think? Share your thoughts on the virtues and vices of running away. How do those words "running away" even make you feel? Liberated? Tempted? Terrified? Angry? Appalled?

To me, I can't help it, those words carry a dangerously heavenly thrill...and always have. Some of the most glorious views I've ever seen were in a rearview mirror.

What do you think?

Big love,
Liz

rockskipping

In morning when the light wasn't

quite touching lake's hem, like fingers

reaching into the bottom of glass,

he spoke from the reeds and reeds

of rockskipping.  How we would need

to dig maybe and be flat like

the tide.  In hints of herring hidden 

and hemlock, we'd find small stones, raking

then tucking them denim deep.  Each

a little planet palmed and skipping

like pulses do.  His heart facing

the water, he told how the secret

lay in our letting go.  So we

stood back to back to the shoreline

flicking our wrists of shadows and stones

until our eyes became still pebbles.

words of wisdom (liz gilbert style)

Thought of the day: BRINGING UP THE LIGHT.

Dear Ones —

So there have been a lot of questions posted on this Facebook page lately that all seem to be of a theme to me. They are questions like: How do you fight fear and anxiety? How do you find happiness? How do you learn to love yourself? How do you forgive yourself and others? How do you conquer your demons? How do you defeat loneliness? How do you know when it's time to move on? How do you move past the traumas of your past in order to become a more contented person in the present? How do you make yourself brave?

You know...the simple stuff, in other words. The really easy sorts of questions which a person like me (who has a BA in Political Science) is TOTALLY qualified to answer.


The truth is that I don't have the answers to these huge questions. Though I do love you guys. And I do know intimately what every single one of those questions feels like, because at various times in my life, I have inhabited them all and suffered through them all. They all go under the sub-heading: HOW ARE WE MEANT TO LIVE?

There isn't an easy answer to that. Nonetheless, I'm going to offer you an easy answer.

(OK, not an easy answer, maybe...but certainly a reductive one, which I nonetheless hope may help.)

I've attached here a photo of some paint strips. You know how, when it comes time to paint your house, you go to the hardware store and they have all these paint strips available to choose from? And you know how each paint chip has a signature color, which is then presented on one strip in a range from darker to lighter?

So several years ago, a friend of mine introduced to me the idea that we humans are not unlike these paint strips. Each of us is born a signature color. This is called your NATURE. We come into life with a certain personality, a set of emotional inclinations. (Every mother I've ever met confirms this — that her child was "born that way".) Some of us are just born bubbly and cheerful, some are pensive and shy, some are over-sensitive, some are temperamental, some are brave, some are cautious, some are talkative, some are suspicious. I'm not even going to posit any theories as to why we are born this way...but it does seem we are born this way. That's just your native color.

You cannot change that. To keep with the paint strip metaphor — if your essential personality was born sunny orange, you will die sunny orange. Red is red, forever. Plum is plum. Grey will always be grey. You are who you are.

That said, life happens to us. If we're lucky, good things happen. (Good parents, good friends, good education, good health, good fortune.) If we're unlikely, bad things happen. (Horrible parents, abusive situations, poor health, violence, trauma, neglect.) If we're normal, probably a combination of good things and bad things happen. This is NURTURE. And these events can shape the lightness or darkness of your native character. In other words, your essential color doesn't change, but as life occurs, it either darkens you down or brightens you up. You're either at the top of your paint strip, or at the bottom. A good life can make you into a brighter version of yourself, a bad life can make you into a more shadowy version. So you are still "purple", let us say — and you will always basically be purple — but that can be a really dark coagulated sort of bruised purple or a gentle pale violet purple, depending on how things are going.

So here's what it comes down to. The part of your life that is your responsibility, as you become a self-accountable adult, is to do EVERYTHING IN YOUR HUMAN POWER to stay at the lightest possible version of your essential color. If you were never a sunny bright orange, you will probably never be a sunny bright orange, and that is fine. Maybe you were born forest green, instead. Cool. Just become the lightest version of your forest green nature that you can be. It is neither necessary nor possible to change your essential personality/color. But once you've figured out what your essential personality/color is, try to become the brightest possible version of it. That's your work.

Which means: Find out what brings in your light, and pursue it. Find out what brings in your darkness, and renounce it. Is fear holding you back? Fight it as though your life depended on it. (Because it does.) Jealousy is a problem? Battle it with endless love. Resentful that others have ruined your life? Wracked by uncertainty? Sad every moment? Torn up by addiction? Find something — anything — that brings forth your own light and pull yourself up as high as you can.

I can't know what will bring in your light. Only you can find that out. And you gotta find that out.

It isn't always easy. It isn't alway cheap. It isn't always convenient. It isn't alway appreciated by those around you. There are times when I have looked at people whom I have loved for years, and I can see where they just gave up, and settled on, like, the fourth stop down on their paint strip. They just embraced their deepest darkness and quit, and choose to live there for ever. And that is very much a choice. But you don't have to live there forever. I think it's your only job to live your life at the lightest possible end of your paint strip. Get whatever help you need to take you up there. Every inch of upward movement counts. Don't be proud. Don't be afraid to ask for assistance and inspiration. Don't be afraid to look dumb. Most of all, don't stay in the safety of your own darkness out of loyalty to other people who have chosen to stay in the safety of their own darkness (your family and loved ones, as a possible example.) Fighting for the light is messy as hell and it requires both vulnerability and stubbornness. It takes energy. It takes a lifetime commitment. It's often totally exhausting. Do it anyhow.

Because nothing is worth more.

Also, seriously — what else are you gonna do with your time? NOT bring in the light?

See what I mean?

ONWARD,
Liz

for auld lang syne

How nice and neat it would be if, at any given time, we could take a step back from our lives and say (in our finest of Scarlet O'Hara impressions), "Now, I do declay-uh, they-uhs a nice junction!"  And then we'd proceed to take our seat on a nearby log (preferably one blanketed in moss and a-flutter with bluebirds) and contemplate all of the little stepping stones that brought us to said resting place.  Well, pardon my saying, but (fiddle-dee-dee) rarely does one encounter such smooth-edged segues.  Or at least, I've not found too many privileged moments of clarity.  But all fun-poking aside, I feel like I might as well go ahead and settle down (log or no log) for a brief stint of some much-needed and deserved reflection.  Because, the truth is, if I waited around for the fairy tale moments to show themselves, I might never make heads from tales...let alone appreciate the charms I already have right in front of my very nose.

Justaboutexactly a year ago, I packed up my suitcase(s), hopskipped over a few county lines, and have been nesting in The Music City ever since.  And, I'll be the first to admit, it's been one of the most humbling experiences of my life.  By no stretch of the imagination can I even pretend that I moved here to call Nashville "home."  Since my arrival, I've made it a point to nag about the lack of barns or friendly faces here.  Heck, I've made it a point to nag about justabout everything.  I've had near-blackout experiences while contending with rush hour in the rain.  Truth be told, I've even managed to complain about the over-abundance of coffee shop options in a one-mile radius, which, for anyone who even remotely knows me can tell, is purely absurd.  I can count on more than one hand the number of mornings I've woken up to find myself so deliriously bankrupt that I've had to ration my mason jar piggy bank just to keep from breaking down on the side of the road.  When tea light candles, Dollar Tree two-for-one bubble bath, and store-bought hummus become life's luxuries- just the ticket to an evening of self-indulgence- it is impossible to not let the comedy of it all just wash right over you.  For a spell, I think I lost the ability to laugh at myself--a mistake, certainly, as my long face didn't even remotely phase the condition of my pocketbook.  So, to say that I've fought city life tooth and nail in some prideful attempt to maintain my country mouse innocence is somewhat hyperbolic.  

The funniest part, though, is that in the midst of my incessant ranting and raving, I collected some much-needed pieces to make my nest in the city.  Since I moved, I've gained a career,the dreamiest fella my heart could hold, and some much-needed perspective.  In short, my list of thankfuls has reached great heights.  I actually feel silly for only just now realizing how much so.  Sometimes,  life beats us to our own punchlines,  I think, and it takes a little while to laugh at it.  Needless to say, it's time to laugh a bit because, well...what a funny little year (or two or more) it's been.    

I s'pose that only when one ups and moves away from the comforts of hearth and home does she rely most heavily on those very same little embers of the heart...the little pebble-pieces of the soul that, come what may, must stay still.   And, so, in the in spirit of yuletide, Christmastime, and Julie Andrews, I'll list a few of my fav-or-ite things, leaving them room to grow aplenty.  May they ever-remind me that my complaints should stay tiny and my heart should stay wide...

1. kith & kin (my bouquet of people, wherever they may be)
2. forgiveness (for others & self): without which, we can only turn bitter
3. poetry:  may its voice speak what yours carries
4. slow mornings and honey
5. trees for climbing 
6. sidewalks for people-watching
7. Currie at his piano (and everywhere else)
8. little candles allover
9. bluegrass & vinyl
10. tiny creatures
11. hydrangeas & vases
12. the mountains
13. sappy French films
14. holey-soled boots:  a testament to momentum 
15. avocados & salt & wine
16. staying in touch, despite the miles
17. serendipity. or patience. or both.
18. knitting: here's resolving to graduate from just scarves
19. rosemary
20. falling & being & staying safe in love

the Self

First thing's first. Coffee makes my world go round. My red blood cell to caffeine ratio is approaching equilibrium, I'm sure. And while we're on the topic of balance, I can safely say that I'm used to juggling lots of knick knacks at one time (grad school kinda has that effect on people). Though I prefer cubbying away to read, write and people watch, I can carry my own weight in the great balancing act, too.
As an Englishy person, I have a tendency to speak in metaphors and allusions. Unlike my preferences toward coffee, however, this doesn't make me a snobby person. I'm far from snobby and find my happiness through simple measures and pleasures. I adore literature, but it's really just one more ingredient (albeit key) in the little melting pot that is my Self.
Nothing makes me feel more accomplished or passionate than my writing. Yes, I'm a writer. Yes, I'm a mediocre poet. No, I'm not some prudish belle of Amherst, nor have any intentions of Sylvia Plathing anytime soon. I enjoy a good pun and laugh at bad jokes (usually of my own design). I'm introverted but spirited, sharp-witted but well-rounded, hyper-perceptive but focused. For the most part, I'm a calm, contented quiet little soul. I think that there are very few things a hot bath or mapless drive can't cure. No worries, though. Though I'm no Debbie Downer, I'm not obnoxiously optimistic either. In dire straights, I try my hand at the realist approach. I've even been known to draw up a few "pro/con" lists from time to time.
I'm a child at heart and will always love a good story. I wrote my Master's thesis on Alice's Adventures in Wonderland if that puts anything into perspective for you.  Whether through jeopardy, eaves dropping on conversation, or the latest edition of _Mental Floss_, I like picking up random tidbits of knowledge (even if I'll never really "use" them). Give me a good crossword puzzle and I'm happy.  I teach college English (writing and literature), and adore the fact that I am, daily, blending the practicality of a career with a genuine passion.  That said, I'm finding that in order to be truly content with my work, I need to veer away from composition and rely on my tried and true method, straight-up literature.  
My indecisiveness is either incredibly charming or blatantly obnoxious. I frequently change my mind, but that's only because I believe in seeing lots of options. I don't like feeling pinned down to one route if I can imagine others.
I like antiquing and rummaging through old, abandoned houses. I'm an old soul and feel a sincere connection to the past. It helps me feel and fill my own little place in the world.
If there's something you absolutely must know about me, it's this: I need my space. Maybe I just read Virginia Woolfe too early in life, but I genuinely believe that a woman needs "a room of her own." I  respect those who acknowledge my boundaries as much as I already do theirs. I'm a self-reliant lady who wants to surround herself with equally self-reliant people. I admire those certain individuals who are, at heart, rooted and ready to branch out with me from time to time.

Segues & Such /or/ The Girl's Feeble Attempts to Find Her Voice

        Cliché-lovers would argue that our lives are books, segmented into chapters and side plots, tidy and teleological. I venture to say that, if a book at all, mine is an anthology, unified only by consistent transitions amid a collage of lessons learned, un-learned and re-learned. It is precisely these transitions, these convenient jolts from scene to scene, that dog ear the lessons learned, applied, defied, and redefined. Writing is no exception to this standard. I have been taught how to write on multiple occasions, by multiple heroes and villains, in multiple settings, concerning multiple techniques with multiple outcomes. But to say that I am a sum of these parts, that I have learned how to write… it would be blasphemous (or untrue, at least). Certainly, I have learned approvable tricks of the trade, ones that might land me some respectability among semi-intellectual circles. But to claim that I wield them appealingly would put me at great disadvantage; I am too young to be at the end of that rope.  Upon reflection, I now realize that, above all, I crave transition, that place where one can put down the proverbial book, take a break, settle for a while, and begin anew. This is learning, this is a process, and this is how I am learning to write.

            Specifically, when I say process, I refer to the accumulation of learning experience. Of course, not all of these experiences render happy thoughts. In fact, few of them do. But just as two times two equals four, I am a product of variables, the ups and downs, the positives and negatives comprising my writing background. So, amid the great procession I accrue both pros and cons until I hear a voice which is entirely my own. And when that voice crescendos, the variables fall into place.          

        Placement, however, demands a starting line. Elementary in origin, my days as a writer were colorful, quite literally. In Kindergarten, assignments were basic: the letter of the day was B, the color blue. “Color the B blue.” This was repeated and embedded and the alphabet was learned. First grade revolved around vowel hymnals and additional coloring books. The next couple of years introduced dotted-lines and to-the-point instructions: “Neatly trace the letter A, B, C. & etc.” These letters eventually took on new forms, entire words, and later entire sentences. The transitions accumulated. ABC’s shifted to c-a-t, melded into “See Sam run,” evolved into spelling bees and memoirs soon thereafter. But in the midst of the repetitive jingles, subject/verb agreements, and adverb/adjective differentiations sat a story itching to get out. Or was it me? Either way, the prompt found me.

        The prompt was such: Your mother brings home a brown paper grocery bag and sits it on the kitchen counter. It begins moving. Finish the story. I knew good and well what lay in that bag, thank you very much. It was a poison dart frog, green with black spots actually. So, I did what any respectable creative-writer would; I wrote the poor fellow out of the bag, out of the kitchen, out until he nestled into his element, lush and vibrant. In the process, I found my voice.  But paper bags tumble to the wind and, given enough time, even the surest of voices muffle.

        So in the tradition of multiples, it would take another four years for me to hear myself amid roaring deadlines, methodical citations, and meticulous proofreads.  Segueing into college, essay draft after essay draft forced me to reconsider my intended major, English (?). My grades were fine, my GPA stood sturdily, and my learning commenced. But where was I? In a classroom, yes, but not in my writing, definitely not in my element. I was, once again, a paperbag hostage, transition my ticket out.

        And then I took it, a college elective, just a trendy poetry course. I met Elizabeth Bishop and her “Fish”; I watched Mrs. Plath “eat men like air” and sat by while E.E. Cummings redefined ambiguity and made everyone an “anyone”. And I was to write like them?! I was supposed to imitate the greats? [Enter defeat]

        The process had no doubt upped its ante. But there was something magical about an assignment rendering me, the lowly student, helpless; it practically welcomed defiance. What’s more, it laid way for breakthrough. I read those poets’ greatest works, even some of their minor ones. This was a new type of learning. The anthology had progressed and the protagonist altered, but the pages continued turning. And for a brief time, B was blue again and the dotted lines were anything I wanted to make them. This poetry was boundless, at times even illogical (“Jabberwocky” anyone?). The words danced, sometimes swam and in an instant could vaporize.   Amid a backdrop of multiple transitions, this was one in which I could finally factor myself.

        I envied the fluidity with which those word wielders unified their most disjointed concepts. Rigidity was nothing in light of smooth transitions; subtlety was an ally. So, on a breezy autumn afternoon, I penned one of the aforementioned imitation poems, “Basics”: A slice is a slice of grass. It is green because jealousy cuts jade that way, blue and yellowbland. Slice they slice and cut and choke, jade blades sharpening sky.  The cat [or was it a frog?] was out of the bag again.

      I proceeded, putting the poem down, revising the hell out of it, putting it down, and eventually revising some more hell. This was the process by which I truly came to understand Walt Whitman’s notion of that “sweet hell within,” the pitfalls of creativity. I was a walking, writing transitional muck, ever-evolving. At last, the multiples diminished and I nestled into my new-found dimension. With shaky footing, I grounded myself in my own words. Veering toward my affinity for puns, word play, alliteration and stream of consciousness, I trained myself to meld the literary techniques of my poet heroes. I wrote on: Oh say can you see the fog down below is marshmallow untoasted. Campfires are singsong nightlights chopped. Cut me down to size. A dash of Frost’s nostalgia, a dollop of Ginsberg’s play-by-play and a dab of Sylvia’s acidity: such were the ingredients for my first sincere piece of writing. And although my work was un-profound and aesthetically stinted, it was unbridled and self-expressive, two necessary qualities for a much needed segue.

        Here now, a few years down the line, I am patchworked, multiple in perspective, contradictory in motto, and forked in method. But occasionally, with proper stitching, the pieces align, even overlap. Then, and only then, can I claim to be a writer. Meanwhile, I process…

my little thesis

now that it's polished-n-published-n-all, i wonder what my odds of landing an issue via The Lewis Carroll Society might be? hmmm...curiouser, still. only one way to find out for sure. to be continued...

http://proquest.umi.com.ezproxy.tntech.edu/pqdweb?index=0&sid=3&srchmode=2&vinst=PROD&fmt=6&startpage=-1&clientid=28564&vname=PQD&RQT=309&did=2472682351&scaling=FULL&ts=1322679584&vtype=PQD&rqt=309&TS=1322679593&clientId=28564