Not Enough Time in a Day – Part I

I read a lot of time management articles. Many start with the condescending sniff of “We all have the same 24 hours in a day.” Well, duh. I also know that if I say I don’t have time to do something, it’s not a high priority for me. Also not news.

I’ve heard from some of you that it’s hard to find the time to get everything done, and I believe you. We live in a busy world that makes a lot of demands on our time. We have goals and dreams we want to accomplish, and yet life somehow gets in the way. What do we do?

Time management is an ongoing struggle for me, too, but since you asked, I’ll offer some of my ideas…I also welcome each of you to chime in with your own.

Problem: The Enthusiasm/Puritan Vortex

Many of the women I know who feel strapped for time are enthusiastic about life. We have IDEAS that we want to set in motion, and we want to do them NOW. Often we’re focused on what we’re not getting done, rather than patting ourselves on the back for what we are doing. I didn’t get as much done this year on my books as I wanted, but I was moving, getting acclimated to a new place, remodeling, and fixing a health problem. Seems like a lot to me, when I look at my life objectively.

I think it was Oprah who said something like, “You can have it all, you just can’t have it all at once.” I had to trust that I would get back to it. One thing that helps me is to keep multiple lists — one for the day, one for the week, and a list of long-term projects that I want to work on. I assign tentative dates to those longer projects, and that helps me let go of them in the short-term. I’m still trying to polish Blood & Loam, but it’s on the list for December, so I haven’t worried about it.

What if it’s really, really bothering you that you’re not getting to a project? In that case, give it a little attention each day. If you are beating yourself up for not writing that book, but you have too much on your plate, then write a paragraph a day. You’ll give yourself a sense of satisfaction over time, but you won’t overload and exhaust yourself.

Problem: The Media Attention Sucker

One of my downfalls is The Huffington Post (I’m deliberately not inserting a link here). Specifically, I like to read people’s’ comments, which is probably not a good idea. Before I know it, I’ve spent way too much time and energy getting indignant about what some troll wrote. One possible solution is a program called “Stay Focused” that allows you to set a timer for those problem websites that suck you in. When the time is up, you can’t get to the sites anymore. Most of us have some sort of media junk food, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t participate at all — but find a way to set some limits.

Problem: We’re Supposed to be Nice

We women are often wired to care for others, and we may sacrifice ourselves in the process. We have to set limits with people, especially those who tend toward unnecessary drama. Now, there are times in life when people truly need us to drop what we’re doing to give them love and support. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about those people who interrupt our work repeatedly.

We have to value our dreams. One way I do that is to not take telephone calls before noon. I am better at giving support in the afternoon, when I’ve finished my work. I’ve had to learn to write first, then take care of the house. Somehow, when I do that, it all gets done.

 

Next week, I’ll write more on this subject…I’ll be focused on effective use of social media. I’ll also write about how our fears and inner struggles can look like time blocks. If you have some aspect of time management you’re not seeing here that you’d like to have me cover, let me know!

The Book I Can’t Seem to Find

In the visual, nonverbal documentary Samsara, a group of Buddhist monks perform the painstaking task of creating an ornate sand painting. Late in the movie, true to the tradition, they destroy it in order to accept the notion of impermanence. Throughout the movie, this theme occurs over and over again in many forms.

For many of us, though, our desire for some sort of immortality drives us to achieve “something” in life. We don’t want to accept our impermanence, and we don’t want to embody a sand painting that disappears upon our deaths. We want to leave a legacy, something that shows the world that we were here after we are gone. We want the world to know that we were here.

I’m not a doctor who can point to lives saved, or a teacher who made a difference in a student’s life (remember Mr. Holland’s Opus?). I’m a writer, and I suppose that for me, the desire to connect with some number of readers through books, blogging, or other writings drives me to keep going. When I visited Orchard House last year, I touched the live of Louisa May Alcott, whose books touched me as a child and endure even now. I, too, want to leave something lasting behind.

I thought about this extensively when I edited my late mother-in-law’s writings to create Patchwork & Ornament: A Woman’s Journey of Life, Love and Art. Jenny Feldman had thought about it, too, and left plenty of evidence. She researched the Feldman family tree and uncovered not just names and dates, but stories of peoples’ lives. She also left her own detailed journals reflecting on her own life. She left stacks of artwork, and I have framed and hung many fine pieces that I found wrapped in kraft paper because she got tired of trying to sell her art, but never stopped creating it. She feared that her work would end up in a dumpster (I know this because she wrote about it), and I have done everything I can to ensure that it never does. She left us with the richness of story, her kind humor, and abundant creativity.

People who have read Patchwork have talked to me about what they want to leave behind for their families. There are rich stories left unwritten that may disappear into the sands of time, but many people don’t know how to begin.

Recently I started looking for a book that would point families in the right direction of leaving a legacy. For some, that means ensuring financial security for coming generations, and there are books about that. Some Christian authors have tackled the subject in terms of leaving a family of disciples. Books on career change may be useful for people who want to change direction and leave a legacy via their career. My own interest as a writer tends toward telling family stories, but legacy could mean anything meaningful, and that covers a broad range. How do we decide what we want to share? How do we go about doing so?

I have not found a book that handles this topic. What do you think? Have you found such a book that you could recommend? If not, is this a book you might read?

 

 

Stronger Than That

Fall in the Hoh Rainforest

Up in the wilds, where the state of Washington meets the roaring waters of the Pacific, Nature demonstrates her greatest power. Trees, uprooted and tossed like toothpicks, land like daggers impaled in the sand. After a dry summer, a record-setting rain pelts the area, littering branches on the road. We dodge them and the standing water. Near Neah Bay, a rock slide causes us to slow the car.

Here at the end of the world, the farthest northwestern point on the Lower 48, it’s hard to imagine that for centuries the Makah Indians carved out a living here, quite literally, as they hollowed-out cedar trees to make boats for whale hunts. They traversed heady waters in these canoes, bringing food (tasting like cow, one Makah gentleman told me) to the tribe. The Makah were not relocated here by the white man; they lived here all along. Descended from Canada’s natives, the Makah reservation shrank over time with treaties left unfulfilled, but still exists. In Neah Bay, the Makah have a museum which proudly displays artifacts rare in that they were not captured by Europeans, but uncovered during an archeological dig. They are preserving their past and their language.

We are here to hike. We spend Friday on Rialto Beach not far from Forks (yes, Twilight fans, THAT Forks), where we will base for the weekend. We crawl over logs and rocks, colorful as though they, like the leaves, have turned vivid for autumn. The wind is at our backs, blowing rain onto the backside of our clothing, soaking us through. It’s the first rainy weekend of the season, and it feels appropriate. We walk the beach at low tide, our feet sinking into sand. Others pass us on the path, and we are all grinning, enlivened by the rough weather.

A view of the “Hole in the Wall” at Rialto Beach, Washington State

Saturday, we enter the Hoh Rainforest. Our hike there is hushed and reverent among fir, cedar, and western hemlock rising more than 200 feet into the sky. Moss drapes itself around tree limbs, and maples stand out against the evergreens with leaves of yellow and orange. Though nature is less dramatic here than at the Pacific, we pass a cedar that has fallen and blocked the path. Workers saw parts of it into manageable pieces so we can get by, but we are sobered at the thought that at any time, a tree could fall. The trunk will be left to rest here, where it will shelter new seedlings for new trees.

At the bottom of the collonade of trees, still visible is the tree that, once upon a time, they grew upon as seedlings.

Sunday, we head to Neah Bay and the trail to Cape Flattery. We watch as water smashes against rock, polishing it and carving new patterns and holes. Yet sea lions and birds play on and in the water as though it was a peaceful pool.

We all live in life’s waters that sometimes batter us and take us to places we don’t want to go. We get up and do it all again, day after day, and before we know it, fifteen years have passed. Fifteen years since the day that nature’s forces battered me, too, separating me from my daughter, taking her from my arms before I’d even had a chance to get to know her. Fifteen years later, my heart still breaks, and yet I am frolicking, too. In the presence of nature raw and moody, I am alive. I am still here. I am seeing the great beauty of this world.

We humans have a capacity for resilience. No matter how mighty and intimidating and anguish-provoking nature can be, we who survive are stronger than that. I write about the death of a child today not for pity or even comfort, but to stand in strength. She gave me that. Nature gave me that.

On October 14th every year, I feel the sadness, yes, and all the grief all over again. Yet the Makah survive and flourish despite the white man’s intervention in their lives. Nature knocks down an ancient tree, but new trees form, perhaps in a beautiful collonade. And the course of my own life changed for the better because I had a daughter to love and to be with me, even though our time together wasn’t nearly long enough for me. We can withstand winds and rain and pain, more than we know. We are stronger than that.

Cape Flattery, the most northwest point of Washington State.

 

The Zen of Wool

A group of ladies sat outside in the fresh spring sunshine spinning wool into yarn. Each wheel had its own charm and one, or sometimes two, treadles. Fluffy fiber transformed into even strands that wound onto their bobbins. They looked serene, relaxed…happy. “I want to do that,” I said. So, when I saw the name and telephone number for Amelia Garripoli, aka The Bellwether, I was ready. She was starting a new beginner spinning class the next week.

A leap of faith — a new wheel!

My first spinning efforts, like me, were tense. Terror showed up in the thread as it alternated between “not spun enough” and “spun to within an inch of its life.” Here I was with yet another “enjoy the journey” activities, darn it! 10,000 hours, Garripoli says, is what it takes to develop mastery. At my age, let’s see, that calculates to…never mind.

A future sweater?

As I practiced spinning, I thought about my writing. I’ll get the obvious out of the way: while spinning yarn, I thought about spinning yarns. Buh dump bump. Cue groans from the audience.

Still, if you can deal with sucky drafts, writer’s block, and working in spite of life’s constant interruptions, then you are qualified to learn to spin. Having taken a few months off from writing, I just traded in messy drafts for messy yarn.

I could have just bought yarn in the store. Knitting should be enough, right? But no, I have to keep going down the rabbit hole. Maybe spinning a cleaned, carded fleece would be enough. But then…

I hadn’t planned to buy a wool fleece, but the bag of rich, deep brown fiber looked too delicious to pass up. It came with a photo of the sheep, for God’s sakes! I had gotten a glimpse of him lounging out in his field. I imagined turning his winter coat into one for me, and I salivated at the thought.

My teacher had given me instruction on fleece washing, but I decided to catch some YouTube videos to brush up. Turns out that there are many ways to wash a fleece, with plenty of adamant opinions about the right way to do it. I watched several and took the common denominators to heart. Namely, don’t turn the darn stuff to felt.  This happens when we do “too much.” Too much agitation, too much temperature, too much handling.

Hey, it works, even when my teacher isn’t around!

I thought of an essay writing class that I took years ago in Houston. During my critique, people praised my work, my skill, my emotional connection…then asked me to revise it in such a way as to remove the circus tent poles that held the whole thing up. When I tried to rewrite it, it disintegrated into one long, boring mess. Too much handling. We writers have to find that balance, and we have to surround ourselves with people who won’t critique our work down to a pile of mush. Fortunately, while I can’t do anything about a felted fleece, I could reconstruct the original essay — which I then got published.

As I carded the fleece, it turned from globby matted fistfuls to smooth, soft hair, lighter in color than I expected, more of a golden tan. Each rolag, or rolled fiber taken from the cards, felt like fragile cotton candy. But would it spin?

I fed the fiber to the wheel, I felt something shift. I’d spun fiber that had already been prepared, but this was different. It was as though starting to read a novel from the beginning instead of jumping in at the middle. I knew it better. I had a relationship with the fleece. My work was still uneven and imperfect, but less so…and as I gently tugged on the fibers to lengthen them, I felt the rhythm of the treadle under my foot, the wheel turning at just the right speed, and the yarn filling the bobbin.

With each turn of the wheel, I felt my love of writing return as I longed to share the experience. I remembered each tender draft of a manuscript, messy and uneven. With yarn, it’s possible to add more or less twist where needed to create even strands. With novels, each draft brings improvements and new insights into the writing process. With time and patience, both the yarn and the writing smooth out.

Spinning is a form of meditation, and I see when my mindfulness disappears. All of a sudden my gorgeous strand of yarn has doubled in width, or the wheel turns in the wrong direction, causing my work to unravel from the bobbin. I stop, take a breath, fix what I can, and then go again, just as I do with my “regular” meditations. Our minds wander. That’s what minds do. All we can do is come back to the present moment.

The same is true for a manuscript. There are places where the writing sings, and then sentences where I say, “Huh?” Even after several drafts, I find places where my mind has checked out of the story and decided to explore other territories while I thought I was writing. The writer’s life requires patience and an ongoing return, return, return to the present.

Even in the end, the thread is never perfect. Yes, I can even it out and fix obvious mistakes, but in the end, homespun thread will never have the technical perfection of storebought. Mine won’t, at least!

Writing is never done and never exactly right. But at the same time, there is the time to let the book go out into the world, warts and all. A book is never perfect, never fully finished. The moment comes when the author must say, “Enough. Enough. This is the best I can do now.”

One day my fleece will be a sweater or a throw, something warm and soft and nurturing to the body. From sheep to sweater, I will know every aspect of this particular fiber. No other fiber will feel or act exactly like this one. It is my first, and it feels like a miracle. I feel the same way when I see one of my books for the first time. For all the imperfections, all the stumbles, all the struggles, there is a book in my hand, a miracle of cover and fonts and page numbers, with a story that only I can tell. From start to finish, it is mine, and perhaps it will fall into the hands of someone who will feel as though she has just donned a warm, soft, nurturing sweater to shield her from winter’s cold.

 

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Morning fog rolls in over the water, enveloping us in eerie mystery. The first leaves are starting to change as sunrise air brings the first shivers in months. One of the biggest festivals of the year, The Port Townsend Film Festival, has come to a close. Filmmakers have come and gone, and the downtown streets, still teeming with people just a few days ago, are quiet and subdued. For the first time in decades, after leaving Houston’s endless summer, I am experiencing the onset of fall.

Many have warned me of the rain, darkness, and gloom that are due to arrive, but I look forward to it. There is so much to do here, and it’s hard in our first year to say no to any of it. I’ve had a number of adventures, but I’m ready to turn inward again, and I find the moody mornings somehow soothing. As the pace is just starting to slow, I will keep the blog to once a week for now, until I get my “sea legs” back.

There are many stories to tell and adventures to share in the weeks to come, but I’ll start with a few photos of “what I did on my summer vacation.” Enjoy!

I watched as rainbows formed over the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

I harvested bounty from the garden.

I had my first taste of a Wooden Boat Festival.

I picked, froze, dehydrated, ate, and cooked mass quantities of figs from a backyard tree!

Here’s my first, awkward skein of homespun wool. I took a three-part class on spinning. Next up? I wash, dry, and comb a fleece from a sheep named Huckleberry.

No matter the time of day, something interesting always goes on outside my window…but I love mornings the best!