Two weeks

Despite having a masters in Cognitive Psychology I, like everyone else, have absorbed some pop psychology it seems. For years, in my job, it was part of my role to help business owners with their "parent orientations" (read: sales process) and often their insecurities centered on how to explain to parents why their child was starting at a point in the curriculum that was below their grade level. I coached these business owners to talk about how the program expected children to build a habit of doing small amounts of daily work, and that the formation of that habit was aided by them not struggling to do the work, thus easing in was best. I often mentioned how "forming a new habit takes 3 to 5 weeks." Apparently I got this idea from some pretty old research that showed that on average it took amputees 21 days to adjust to losing a limb. As it turns out, depending on the habit and the process used to form it, it can take anywhere from 3 weeks to 9 weeks.

So, it seems, I've given people slightly bent data, but of course, I've been refeeding it to myself too thinking that getting through the first two weeks of my second 365 days self-portrait project was a milestone not just for the project, but for establishing the habit of a daily photo post. I thought, "If I make it two weeks I'm either two-thirds or half there to having this ingrained as part of my day.Do two weeks and then start thinking about more complicated self-portraits, using photoshop, and more involved shoots." Well, maybe, or maybe not. But I can report that while taking the picture has been three times almost-forgotten, I am loving the idea of charting myself in this year-of-christie when I am rediscovering myself, exercising more than I ever have, and (hopefully, hopefully) finding a new job. And, I'm remembering how soothing editing photos is for me. It's better than blood pressure medication or reading myself to sleep. It should probably be a daily activity for the rest of my life.

So, with all of that in mind, here is my first two weeks of 365:2.1.  (Pictures here, and if you click on the links you can see them, and their descriptions on Flickr. the descriptions I've given here are very minimal.) I won't do this all the time on my blog but do want to sometimes cross-pollinate from Empty Calories to 365.

Day 1 - My Birthday

Day 2 - Wanted to see if I could remember underwater techniques

Day 3 - practicing with the Gorilla Pod

Day 4 - My Birthday dinner and my peeps!

Day 5 - Killer sunset collage

Day 6 - My part time gig

Day 7 - some times technology and life conspire in evil ways

Day 8 - Cut Offs

Day 9 - the sloppiest SP ever

Day 10 - Reality. Even though I'm no longer in my "on the road" job I am still on the road a lot.

Day 11 - restoring my computer. Boring for everyone to see, crucial for me.

Day 12 - an amazing Birthday hike with an amazing friend.

Day 13 - apply, apply, apply. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Day 14 - healthy routines

The story of this blog

Out of the mud, grows a lotus. 

This is literally true, of course. But more figuratively, this is mentioned and quoted in different ways in Buddhism. Thich Nhat Hanh was quoted as saying, "There is the mud, and there is the lotus that grows out of the mud. We need the mud in order to make the lotus. "

At the moment that we're in the mud, of course, we don't think about the lotus. We think about the cold, the mess, and the feeling of being stuck. From down in the mud, beneath even the water, and the algae, the mud doesn't feel good, and it's difficult to see the flower that isn't yet.

But, creativity and pain correlate. Beethoven lead a miserable life, and (not BUT but AND) produced some of the worlds most recognizably moving classical music. It is the foundation of so much music that came after it. Writers, artists (just look at Frida Kahlo), most anyone with a creative bent will acknowledge that even if they were not able to produce at the moment they were in the mud, they were inspired by the time they spent down there.

It's not really any different for me. I mightn't ever produce things that move or reach people as much as the artists I know best for being inspired by and then out-stripping their pain in order to create, but all of my biggest creative projects came from distress.

My 365 photo-a-day self portrait project came from the realization that grieving the loss of my father and my relationship in one fell-swoop had shut me off to living and knowing the new and beautiful place I was residing in, and because I tried to mourn both at once, I had done neither properly.

My best poems were about that processing.

And this blog . . . well, it came from recognizing the need to, as the wonderfully wise Pema Chodron says in her best book, "lean into the sharp points of life."

Recently, a friend asked me about this blog. Why I started it, what inspired me, how I held myself to such a high standard of honesty and where my topic ideas "come from." She said she felt she was creative and prolific when it came to fiction writing but was having, "a difficult time when it comes to writing about 'real life.' I know the question might be a bit simplistic, but am really curious, and value your opinion as a fellow writer."

Well, first of all, anyone referring to me as a "writer" flatters me more than I can say. I think of myself mostly as a hack who can't keep herself from begging for attention. So, being included in the "fellow writer" circle with someone who had the guts and talent to go the hard road of getting a degree in writing is a sure bet to make me blush.

I gave her advice that may or may not have been satisfying, but also told her the story of this blog, at least partially.

This blog was in my head for months before it was ever on this site. And . . . even when it was one this site, I wrote three or four posts before I announced it on Facebook . .  . thus allowing everyone to see it, and then show it to everyone else. If I think very carefully, this blog started with a piece I wrote for a friend's book about a year before I ever wrote the first post.

This friend is an incredibly talented chef, and when her family began getting various diagnosis where diet changes could make a big difference, she made the command decision to do a full cleanse. As a family that was already Orthodox Jewish, and thus, keeping Kosher, dietary limitations weren't news in her house, but she then added on top of that: wheat free, gluten free, and dairy free. And yet, she magically makes some of the most amazing meals and baked goods I've ever had the pleasure to eat. In a series of long and long-distance conversations, she shared with me that she wanted to write a book. Not just a cookbook with recipes, but essays, research, and discussion on the benefits of eating and cooking your own food, how to do a cleanse and determine food sensitivities, and how to plan meals and events with this lifestyle of mindful eating. I had been experiencing a complete mental road block on the poems I was writing (see above) and found myself one night sitting at my neighborhood pub, drinking a beer, and just gushing out hand-written paragraphs about how eating and health aren't or shouldn't be disconnected from our other life choices. It was edited as an intro to her book.

But it got me thinking about how food worked for me, or didn't. It stayed on my mind and I found myself watching myself from the outside.

Then, another friend inspired me. One of my mommy friends started a blog writing about her family, the intentional and mindful child-rearing decisions she was making, health, and finding balance in her life as a mom and still being a person outside of that. I can't link to it because she ultimately decided to end the blog and give that time back to her family, but the simple, clear, straightforward way she spoke to these topics was compelling enough that I read it eagerly despite being a non-mom. It also taught me that real life doesn't have to be spectacular or exceptional to be interesting.

I carried these ideas and inspirations with me for several more months though, before doing anything with them.  I tentatively started a list of possible topics, but couldn't quite make the leap to writing anything online that others saw. What I found though, was that I started to notice myself from the outside with regard to those topics. One of the first ones on the list was "Perfect is damaging." What's ironic about this is not just where this topic arose from, but that it has yet to be written! The act of putting that topic idea on a list caused me to notice things about it, and it spawned other topics. As I started to observe myself, and how I made day-to-day decisions around those topics, how I thought about them, how I would reason them out if I was discussing them with a close friend, other things started to drift up against those ideas. Quotes. Things my friends said or did. Something I saw or heard in a movie. Some of these things, in turn, got re-purposed into other topics when the ideas got too big to be under one umbrella. Before I knew it, I had a list of 15 or so ideas and some skeleton structure for where I would go with them.

And still I didn't do anything.

It really wasn't until August of last year that I had the will to write and post. And at first I let just a few, select, people in on those posts. (One of my friends who had seen my 365 creative efforts on Flickr, another friend who had a secret blog, and a third friend I discovered had a blog on this site.) The right questions to ask was EXACTLY what my young writer friend asked - what motivated me to do it? What pushes me to be this publicly honest? She remarked that she knew her question was "simplistic." The answer is simple, but in the discipline of doing this, nothing could be less simple.

I was finally moved to do this because I was hurting inside, and the jagged pieces were no longer ignorable. I was faced with a choice of numbing myself and furthering the feeling of being broken and having jagged, broken edges poking me from the inside, wounding me further, or leaning into the pain and letting it teach me and guide me to new places. I chose the latter, but it meant acknowledging the mud I was in.

That mud included far too many dysfunctional relationships. I was not merely dissatisfied at work, I felt . . . misled and neglected to the point where neglect becomes passive abuse. I was noticing addiction everywhere in my loved ones. And I was in a romantic relationship defined by lies and denial. It hurt, but more than that, it made me sick because my engine runs on integrity and honesty and the chance to learn and contribute to making things better. I had sugar in the gas tank, which is a sadly hilarious metaphor since sugar was part of what I turned to in my brief stint of trying to deaden the ache.

It didn't work of course. And so, I did a bunch of things. I started going to a 12-step meeting for the loved ones of addicts, I got myself a therapist, I looked long and hard at a proverbial mirror and tried to come to terms with my beliefs and my needs, and I created some systems of accountability and honestly with myself, including this blog. I told my "fellow writer" friend that, "I started this blog at a time when I was facing a lot of dishonesty. Dishonesty at work, dishonesty in what is now my previous relationship. I was seeking more open doors." I truly felt like it was the element in my life that was lacking, like not getting enough sun or water. So, I decided I needed to BE the change I wanted to see. I had no idea how far I was going to have to reach down to do that, and so the other piece of this story is that when I find myself hedging around something now, I imagine my (incredibly loving, generous, extremely tiny and fierce) grandmother saying, "Now, Christie. Is that the whole truth?"

The short story is, we can be moved by the art, the ideas, the things happening around us, the people who teach us and show us new things, and I am. But I had to be in the mud to make a go of this kind of writing. As much as it feels like a bruise on my soul to be writing this post five months after losing my job with no new career in hand, I was far more wounded and far less functional and healthy on August 27th, 2011 (9 months ago, with a job!) when I first sat down to write something here. I know I am a better version of me now, I know the things that aren't ideal will change and change again. I know more about who I am, and who I can be, and what lengths I will go to to make that positive and meaningful, and I see myself in a much kinder light. I know everything is impermanent and I'm learning how to breathe through that. I know that I bruise easily, but that as thin as my skin sometimes is, the rest of me is tough and keeps going.

The long story is the tale of a blog that started with an idea about accountability, eating mindfully, exercise and health, and became a blog about the work of looking at myself, health in much broader terms, and the occasional post about zombies.

You know how people who lose 200 pounds always say, "I'll never go back to that. This feels too good." There is more behind that story. There is also the fact that there are days where it has to also be true that it doesn't feel good. Where putting the time in at the gym is the last thing they want to do. Where all they want is ice cream. But they know how working past those hard moments makes them better able to enjoy everything else, gives them more opportunities to feel good. Because when we dampen down pain, we aren't able to selectively anesthetize just pain. We shut out out good things also. That's me. It doesn't always feel good to feel all of my feelings. It's harder than going to the gym (which, let's be honest, I still don't always like doing). But it is better than being dishonest with myself, knowing that that leads directly to accepting dishonesty and dysfunction from others. And it makes me better equipped to feel and see and accept good things in my life. Sometimes leaning into the sharp points of life is like using sandpaper to uncover the natural beauty in the wood grain and shape us into something even better.

So, in that vein, I've decided to bring back another venue of creativity, structure, accountability, learning, outlet, and feedback into my life.

Welcome all to the first day of my second 365 (well, ummm, second in terms of it being version 2.1 since I did start a second 365 in 2010 and then . . . failed to finish it.) with a photo collage acknowledging that this is not just my birthday but the fourth anniversary of my residence in Boulder. I hope you enjoy it because I got up at 5am to make this happen!

Author

Have you all read, The Hunger Games? They are fantastic, and interestingly morally challenging books. Especially considering that they are intended to be young-adult reads. I had a number of different people in my life over the last year or so mention them to me, and I never did much about getting my hands on the books. I was vaguely aware that a movie was being made, and that my English teacher and reading specialist friends were ecstatic about this. But, I was busy dealing with other things. A relationship that wasn't working, a job I was feeling the need to shed but wasn't prepared to leave, this blog, finding the resolve and accountability I wanted, my spiritual center.

Honestly, I spent a lot of my time working out my "stuff" on a treadmill, on a couch in my therapist's office, and in this writing. And sadly, I didn't read much between about March of 2011 and November 2011.

But, I found myself in an airport at 5am in early November. Let me just say that, I have a lot of rules and routines. Foods I don't eat, how often I drink caffeine, my regular breakfast every morning, exercise, etc. But if I have to wake up at 3am, to leave at 4, to be at the Southwest counter at 5am, a lot of that gets suspended. So, at 5am, after making it through security (which, if I can just brag for a minute, I am such a pro at) I found myself with a bagel, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and 90 minutes to kill.

I was actually surprised that a book store was open, but it was. And a paperback copy of The Hunger Games was displayed and was $6.99. At shortly after 5am, it seemed like seven dollars was a good risk to take. The clerk became the 47th person to tell me how amazing the book was, and by the time I landed in Florida, I was hooked. (This is not the first time this has happened to me. I refused Harry Potter hype until after the third book was out thinking, "There's no way it's this good." Of course it was, and I'd add, I give many thanks to the dealer who pushed it on me. I now own the series and then some. I continue to resist the Twilight series . . . resistance may be futile but I just don't think I'm going to go there. For lots of reasons. And it was recently pointed out to me that it is ridiculous that I haven't read Game of Thrones yet.)

So, I've proceeded as a good addict to push this on other people. I've gotten three people so far. And the one who recently got his hands on my copy was talking to me about the book last night. He said, "Well, I think it's interesting to talk about this with an author."

What?! What?!!

I tried to play this cool, but in truth, playing things cool is not a skill I can put on my resume.

I was shocked to be referred to as an author. Yes, I publish here on a not infrequent basis, but ummm, anyone can do that. It took me all of 2 minutes to get an account established and less than an hour to design the page and set of pages holding this content.

Can anyone say the things I say? No. I like to flatter myself and think my writer's voice is unique. Certainly influenced by a lot of my reading, as well as by the audience I think of as my readers. Of course, I don't know exactly who they are. Part of the nature of blogging is that I don't know exactly who my readers are. When people comment on my posts - often on FB - I know they are reading here. Sometimes people make comments to me in other conversations and I realize, Oh, the only way they could make a joke to me about hoping I don't have to spend too much time on a stairmaster is if they read the entry on that because I haven't made that comment elsewhere.  (Then I preen a little and am secretly very pleased with myself for writing things that people are interested enough in to think of after the fact of reading it. It's totally egotistical, but true.) So, I can list for you two dozen people that I know have read this blog at some point, but what I can't tell you for sure is who's not reading this (my aunt? The guy who sells me bandaids? My next door neighbor?) or who is reading exactly what in here. Just because my friend Rebecca and I had a deep discussion about one of my posts, doesn't mean she reads the next.

I suppose this is the same for any "published" writer - that once you let your words out into the world, you don't know exactly where they will go. But, since the "publishing" is so informal, I feel that all the more palpably.

I have been published in small ways, but this is the most substantial, varied, lengthiest writing I've done that other people read. I have and continue to sometimes be a very amateur poet. I have and continue to write short stories (less and less . . . I like short stories, but it doesn't feel as connected to me when I'm writing them). And I am still pecking away at some children's books ideas (Oh, Deliliah the duck, I haven't forgotten you and your electric blanket). I also wrote a thesis, two masters, and countless papers in grad school. And when one reader remarked of this blog in the fall, "Christie, you should really look into writing professionally," my sharp tongued answer was, "I do write professionally. I write memos, communication documents, letters that my boss signs, and field visit reports." That sarcasm was ill placed since writing is central to someone I know myself as. I've been writing words and proudly displaying them as "stories" since I was 5.

In that sense, I identify very strongly as a "writer." It is part of who I am and how I interface with the world, and more importantly, the people in it. It is part of how I experience myself, or at least a side of myself that I don't fully know otherwise. I see and feel differently when I am bent on fixing words to what I'm experiencing. It sounds almost . . . autistic but it is an important thing to know about myself. This was never more evident than when I was in high school. I had a group of friends who were, perhaps not unsurprising to all of you now that you know me a little, very intense, and maybe just a little more grown up than teenagers are good at being. Because we spanned three graduating classes, a lot of different class schedules and interests, and housed some romantic relationships within the circle, there was often a lot to discuss. Problems to solve. Feelings to be tended. Wounds to clean out and salve. But we couldn't always find the 2 or 4 or 6 hours to do this in person. I found myself often exploring things that needed to be told, handled, discussed, or admitted by writing long notes. This was my primary occupation in high school. It might have looked like I was sitting in history class, but in practice what I was really doing was penning novel-lengthed letters most of the time. This had variable results with different people in the group, and at different times in different situations.

It is not, I don't think, an accident that the person who received and responded to most of those letters was the person in all the world I was most connected to then, and still today. (Oh the many blessings of having someone who has seen just exactly who you are for 32 years and still calls you "friend.")

I began to notice that while writing everything down was slow, and not immediate, I was able to process and feel things in a deeper way than if I just held it in and blurted it out loud when we were able to talk. This was the seeds of recognizing that the place that I am most introspectively honest with myself is on paper, and that sharing that is much less difficult for me than it might be for other people. Importantly, when I am able to be that honest to myself, to really access what is most deeply felt, deeply held, deeply raw for the person I am to myself, I am better able to be better at being that person to others.

There is no discounting that. I am a writer in that this is a very important part of the tools I bring to the task of walking through this world and the outlook I have. It is woven into the fabric of who I am and won't change.

In that sense, I suppose I am an author. I frame words around things and other people read them. I share who I am by being more verbal and articulate than is reasonable for most people. I am a creator, originator, and where others use pictures, musical notes, code, paint, I fit words together to try and create the feeling I want others to understand . . . more often, if I'm honest, the word-fitting and puzzle-piecing is for my own peace of mind and comprehension and those who read it and "get it" are secondary.

But author feels a step removed. Should that be defined by how many people have read me? Whether or not it's a professional pursuit? The manner of being published? Probably not, if I'm careful to think about the lifestyle of writing and what it means for me.

Like many writers, or artists for that matter, I feel compelled to write. It's not always easy or comfortable. But it often feels like less of a choice and more of a  . . . necessity. I find myself writing more and more often than the average person. I feel convicted by what I have to say and by getting it set down correctly. In college, while other students lamented revisions, I looked forward to getting feedback and getting what I printed on paper right. In high school I arranged my schedule around a new and experimental creative writing class. It has always been the case that when doing homework I make myself do busy work, math, calculations first and reward myself with writing papers. I often don't feel cold, hungry, tired or notice external indicators of normal life when I'm writing. I once wrote a paper I was thrilled about in 8 straight hours, from 9pm until 5am. Three revisions included, and forgot to check the time and go to bed. It's not a chore or a task for me often, and even when it isn't a joy it is a need as strong as or stronger than the need to eat or sleep. Even now in the cold and sober light of being a real grown up, I often find myself writing these posts and realizing after . . . oh, it's 2 hours later than I intended to eat lunch. Or, oh, it's the middle of the night now. and I have an interview tomorrow. Huh.

There are other creative pursuits in my life, and I mostly do those for fun or because I want to challenge myself. I sing because it turns on part of my emotional faucet that I don't control otherwise, and it accesses my issues around being guarded or vulnerable more succinctly than anything else. I take pictures because the combination of science, technology, and artistic vision involved in getting that right still baffle and amaze me. (When I get it right these days, it is usually an accident, but I'm getting better at reproducing those accidents.) The difference is, I have always written, and do so even when there is seemingly NO REASON to, and sometimes reason not to! The other pursuits are choices. I benefit from those choices, and I love singing and photography no less for being things I pursue consciously, but writing for me is a passion akin to the innate faith that some of my friends have, and have never questioned. It is simply what I do.

Annie Dillard has written copiously about The Writing Life. I'm not sure I can match myself up to that austerity and drive, though, I know other authors who have written about their processes as being far more practical. The theme is, most of the authors I admire started writing not to make money, but because they couldn't not.

In some senses, it's strange that the question of writer vs. author hasn't occurred to me before. I think I'm still likely to hedge my bets and not claim author-hood until I have some external and overwhelming reasons to claim it, but I can claim being a writer firmly as a lifestyle and outlook. this is the unrelenting fact of my life - that since I could speak and understood words could be written and read, I have felt the unrelenting need to participate in that activity. Whether that becomes a full time pursuit or something I do because it's who I am regardless of paycheck source, well that story is still unfolding.