Although I’ve started a couple of posts this evening, I keep deleting them. Nothing seems relevant. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that nothing I can think of feels worthy of my or your attention.
I’m feeling a bit distracted. I can’t put my finger on anything in particular, other than to admit that perhaps it just an overwhelming desire to lose myself in a good book.
I have about 30 pages left in the novel I’m reading, Ninth House*. I know I’ve said it before, but it just feels great every once in a while to immerse myself in story that has nothing to do with anything going on in my life at the moment. My problem (if you can call it that) is that I’m a really slow reader. If you add to that the fact that I almost never give myself permission to ‘read for pleasure’ during the day, it means it usually takes me f-o-r-e-v-e-r to finish a book. That’s especially true now that I’m writing these posts every night.
Honestly, I usually manage to read between one and two pages a night before nodding off. That is not a recipe for plowing through my list of wanna-reads at a decent clip.
Maybe if I finish this book and begin the one that’s been on deck for a good month or so, The Murmur of Bees (recommended by a dear friend whose taste I trust implicitly!), I’ll be inspired to write about something new or different.
Oh man. I know I’m gonna pay for this one way or another. But the piper will almost certainly collect his due in the most obvious way: levying a hefty surcharge on my checked bag.
It’s harder than I thought it would be, preparing for a Listening Retreat that’s far away from my home. I think I’ve known, in the back of my head, that this day would come. But it’s rough.
My First True “Away” Game
My evening’s angst issues from the fact that all my other Listening Retreats have taken place within a 20 miles radius of my home. It’s been eminently convenient. Too much so, I fear.
I’ve always made sure to bring a plethora of divinatory decks and books for my ‘retreaters’ to play with and peruse. I’m a huge advocate of giving myself and others access to cool stuff that entices us to steal some time away from everything and everybody and just indulge in…fun.
So it’s been excruciating for me to have to winnow my resources. As it is, all of you who’ve been with me through these past 268 days can take three guesses (and the first two don’t count) on what is the primary source of weight in my single bag-to-be-checked. You guessed it!
Books and Decks
Yup, books and various card decks that I want to share with my retreaters. And while I know that my hosts at Amadell are avid collectors themselves (having shared many a retreat with me through the years, they know ‘the good stuff’), I’m feeling naked. I’m realizing how much anxiety I quell within by having the luxury of telling myself, “I can always run home and get that book if I need it.”
Not this time!
And so it is I am forced to exercise some discernment. Some discipline. Although…I’m thinking that tomorrow’s reckoning with the airline when I check my bag is going to expose my grievous lack of discipline. Or at least the sad truth that I could’ve exercised a whole lot more.
The bottom line is simply my excitement to experience a Listening Retreat in a whole new venue. Yes, I’ve been to Amadell before (and all of you know first hand how much I love it) – but never specifically for a Listening Retreat.
Spirits of the Land Come Forward
And it always seems to me that during a Listening Retreat, no matter where I’ve held them, the Spirits of the Land we’re on reveal themselves in fascinating ways.
Thus, as I packed more and more goodies into my suitcase all day today, I’ve actually known, deep down, that They – the Spirits of the Land – will be the stars of the show. They will be the ones who show up and ask for a willing ear.
My Security Blanket
The books won’t matter. Nor will the decks. What will matter is the willingness of the people who are attending this retreat. Their willingness to trust my suggestions enough to witness the magic.
Ah yes. Just admitting all of this has led me to the realization that the contents of my suitcase are simply my security blanket. (Even if it ends up being an expensive one, when they weigh it.)
The magic of every Listening Retreat is in the land itself. I just need to get them there. The rest will take care of itself.
I’ve only got a few minutes to jot down some thoughts. I was drawing a total blank as to what to write about this evening, because most of my day was spent in a session.
I started flicking through recent photos I’ve taken with my iPhone hoping to snag some inspiration from them.
Lo and behold, I came upon the photo of the notice we discovered in one of the other bookstores in Asheville (not linked in yesterday’s post).
I took the photo because the attitude just felt astonishingly unwelcoming and, well, snooty.
This was photo was taken in a bookstore. This bookstore featured an abundance of chairs and tables, even tables with empty champagne flutes (which I assume get filled on occasion, although we certainly didn’t wait to find out if and when). On many levels, this purveyor of pages seemed to be the quintessentially chill, abundantly decadent version of a Barnes & Noble or long-demised Borders.
And then we saw the sign photographed above. All over the place. I honestly wonder if the vibe of this place could have been less reader-friendly.
I’m guessing that, in spite of their signs, this establishment is not primarily in the business of selling books. Or maybe I just misunderstand their target audience.
Perhaps they serve people who traffic in rare, out of print, or one-of-a-kind tomes that never get read and prefer champagne to a rich cup of coffee and a book with which they can curl up and get lost in another world for a while…
I know when I’ve found where I’m wanted and welcomed. It wasn’t this place.
You know, if Karl and I only had $100 left to our names, we’d probably spend half of it on books. OK, maybe $75 on food and $25 on books. But still…
Notice that doesn’t include anything else. All we need is food for our bodies and food for our souls.
When my dear friend Luz (one of the owners and caretakers of Amadell) told me she wanted to show us some bookstores in Asheville, I tried to feign indifference, or at the most, mild enthusiasm. That’s because I was latching on to my denial.
The Last Thing I Need is More Books
I don’t know about you, but I occasionally find myself embracing an attitude within myself that eschews visiting bookstores, especially when I’m writing (or when the desire to create something bigger and longer lasting than a journal entry starts brewing). It’s a skittish place that rings of the self-talk, “I’ve got six books backed up on my inner tarmac, waiting for clearance, while I’m fully immersed in the act of cruising with my current indulgence. And that’s not even counting the thing that’s starting to taxi on its own from within.”
Yeah, OK. I’m mixing metaphors and making a freaking mess of this post.
But really. Who the hell was I kidding?
I’m going to blame Luz for the carnage that happened next. Not only did we go to a wonderful place called Malaprop’s, where I dutifully snagged a couple delicious finds, but we also went to Mr. K’s, a place I thought for sure I wouldn’t buy anything, because, let’s face it, as this post, this one, and this one would prove, I could probably provide them with half their inventory from my own home.
Darn it if I didn’t walk out of there with something like seven used books. Gah!
I Blame Luz
So yes. We saw all sorts of great places in downtown Asheville today. Eclectic shops, rock, gem and mineral stores, funky antique stores, and a plethora of places where we could indulge all our senses, gastronomic and otherwise. But where did we drop down and settle in?
The bookstores.
And if there’s one sure sign of an amazing place to be, whether on vacation, on retreat, or to settle in full time – it’s the quality of the bookstores. I can attest, Asheville passes with flying colors in that regard.
Being cradled by the Appalachian mountains doesn’t hurt either.
Hmm. Yeah… I’m starting to sense a plot. I think Luz knew exactly what she was doing.
My Mood, due to frustration over not being able to get the photo at the end of this post to rotate to an upright position!
Photo: Green Renaissance
Random Thoughts
I’m feeling a little fuzzy or something.
No, fuzzy doesn’t accurately capture what I’m feeling, but at the moment I can’t come up with a better adjective.
Over the past several days, I’ve sent myself a handful of emails with links to articles I’d like to include in posts I’ve yet to write. It’s funny how that works. I’ll go weeks or even months without reading anything I’d think to share with you. And then there’s a spate of ten days or a couple of weeks when practically every other day there’s an article on something I was just thinking about or contemplating writing about.
But every time I’ve thought about taking one of those ideas and running with it lately, I’ve known in my heart that I would end up writing way too much. Believe it or not, I try to keep these posts short enough for you to get through with a cup of coffee. I realize I may have been long-winded lately. So…I’ll try to keep it short tonight.
The Allure and Distraction of Reading
I read a lot. Indeed, I think that’s the worst part about Facebook for me: all the links to articles from magazines and other sources that I never would have sought out before, but which I’m now so grateful to have access to: The New York Times (no, I wasn’t a regular reader – but now I’m a subscriber), The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, The Daily Beast, the New Yorker, etc.
So much to read, so little time. And that’s not even counting the three or four books I have laying about the house (beside my bed, beside the chairs I sit in most often, and at least one nestled in the woven bag I take with me whenever I leave the house).
Ugh, there’s nothing worse to contemplate than being stuck somewhere without anything to read! Of course, that’s almost difficult to do nowadays, what with the access our phones give us to everything. But that ‘fear’ of realizing I have a bunch of extra time (because I ran out of gas, or a client is late, or there’s a long line at the DMV) and have forgotten to bring something to read – is a terror that dies hard – and probably never will completely.
Being Prepared
I have to laugh. I head out for the grocery store and before I get in the car I inevitably have to gather up my journal, whatever book I’m reading that calls out to me to be included on the excursion (and I am astounded at myself by how I can vacillate on making a choice between my books), and sometimes my laptop (in case, you know, I’m suddenly overcome by a desire to work on the manuscript of my next book). In spite of this, I almost never (unless I stop beside the creek first – before venturing anywhere else) stop and allow myself some truly isolated ‘me’ time. Time in which I would actually have the opportunity to select from my traveling companions the book or writing repository that called to my soul in that moment.
I have to wonder about myself. Because nine times out of ten, I return home with a couple bags of groceries in the car and am then relegated to not only hauling the bags into the house but also schlepping in the woven bag with book, journal, and laptop stuffed into it. It’s as if I just took them for a ride.
So my fuzziness that I initially alluded to was a vague sense of dismay, I think, at having to choose which among the many topics I’ve been musing over to tackle tonight.
And so I chose none of the above.
I’m going to end this (mercifully for you) with a few quick thoughts.
A Tease About My Walking…and Then a Message
Since my birthday, I’ve been walking almost double what we used to walk – and sometimes far more than that – every day. I don’t know why. This activity-bordering-on-compulsion definitely deserves its own post. Perhaps even a couple of posts.
But today, as I was moving right along, I asked for some guidance. I pulled a card from my Crone deck that I’d never chosen before: The Emperor.
Without getting into it, and without even quoting you the deeply thought provoking text in the accompanying booklet, I will simply state that the card was all about setting up boundaries – and finding my power within that act. Creating order; claiming authority; establishing the world.
And then I encountered these clouds not five minutes after reading those words and contemplating the need to establish structure, discipline, and order to my world:
This isn’t a post about time. It’s a post about priorities.
As you no doubt figured out already, I actually had in my mind the phrase, “So many books,” when I wrote the title to this post. But I decided to go with the second half of that familiar phrase instead. Because as much as you might think this is about books, it isn’t.
Yet it is true. I am a bibliophile. I have enough books ‘sharing space’with me at the moment that I could probably go without having the television on for at least five years – and I wouldn’t repeat a single volume. That’s a lot of books.
Which makes me wonder. Will I ever read all the stories and references and other materials I’ve stashed here in my home?
Will I Ever Read Them All?
I’ve started to doubt it. And that’s a strange realization.
It’s the same with the various gifts I’ve brought home from my travels, especially my forays to foreign countries.
I’ve always made it a point to buy things for the people I care about while I travel. Little mementos. Pieces or items that reminded me of the person at home, yet had specific relevance to the country of origin. And then, once I’ve been home, I’ve held on to many of those gifts. Not because I’ve kept them for myself. (Indeed, if that were the case, that might be selfish, but at least I’d be using them!)
No, for whatever strange reason I talked myself into thinking by the time gift-giving time rolled around, that what I’d purchased wasn’t ‘enough’ or it wasn’t appropriate. So I didn’t give it. And then I felt like too much time had elapsed and they would think I was really strange for giving them a gift from a country I’d visited a year or two (and now more, sometimes many more years) later. So many loving, caring, and generous-of-spirit thoughts gone to waste.
I’m not exactly sure what I want to do with that vector of contemplation, either.
But they are tied together.
How We ‘Spend’ Our Time Matters
Every time one of these horrific acts of violence takes place, I ponder the lives of the people gunned down and imagine that none of them anticipated their life would end when they went to the mosque, the church, or the synagogue that day. (Or to elementary school, middle school, high school, or college that day. Or to the gym. Or to the news office. Or to court.)
And yet, here we are.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether we pass away from too many six packs and chocolate chip cookies or the unlucky aim of a madman with gun. We’re here one day and not the next. (That is, of course, if we’re fortunate enough to have avoided the destiny of lingering and drawing out our passage to our next assignment.)
My point here is simply to observe that I have a lot of stuff in my home that I’ve been unintentionally collecting. Books I’ve been saving to read “when I have time.” Presents I know I will give “when I have time” to figure out how to explain the delay in giving them.
I barely “have time” to write a post each night. I’ve certainly not been “making time” to write anything beyond these posts. (Let me be clear though: I’m sincerely delighted that I’ve managed to write as many posts as I have so far.)
Yet all of a sudden, I’m finding myself face to face with TIME.
Do We Treasure It? Or Squander It?
How I use it; how I squander it. How I blithely seem to skip along each day, whistling in the face of the absolute guarantee that one of these days I won’t be here any more. And all the books and gifts and well-intentioned thoughts of how I intend to spend my time will be left hanging.
And while this fact of life (the inevitability of death) has always been with us – throughout time and space as we know it – I have this really itchy feeling at the edge of my consciousness that we’ve never squandered quite so much “time” as we are right now. As I am. (I can only speak for myself. I hope you’ll forgive me for that sweeping generalization.)
I want to read at least some of those books. (Not all of them. I must must must have a stash set aside in case our infrastructure is hacked and we are forced to live for a time – perhaps a very long time – without electricity.) (Funny, isn’t it? My idea of being a “prepper” is not to stockpile water or guns or food. It’s books, baby. Books.)
And I want to give away those gifts I’ve set aside from my travels. My intentions were loving and generous at the time I bought them. So I’m not going to care anymore if I look like a whack job for not having given them away as soon as I returned to the states.
I yearn to savor the experience of living. I want to immerse myself in the joy and struggle of creating and healing, teaching and reading, giving and reaching.
I want to savor my time. However much or little of it I have left.
Oooh, Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a favorite holiday of mine, I have to admit. If I could forget it, I probably would.
From the very first ‘celebrations’ in elementary school, I could take it or leave it. (If you can even call the mass card swapping event, with givers’ names usually haphazardly scrawled without any personalization, words of affection, or even friendship, designed to keep everyone feeling good and no one left out, a ‘celebration’.) I never received a valentine that even vaguely resembled the hype we were taught or made me think there might be some classmate secretly hoping I would be their special sweetie.
And there was definitely the sense of impending doom given off by those who, in retrospect, probably never received a heartfelt expression of love or curiosity from a classmate, especially at that age. In fact, some were almost certainly living in environments that didn’t include being told they were loved by anyone, much less a secret someone their own age. There are a few kids I remember from those days, whom I wish I could go back and be kinder to. I had no idea some of my classmates had to endure cruelty and abuse every day. It was inconceivable to me that anyone’s parent could be mean and horrible to a little kid.
The Pressure Builds
In junior and senior high school the pressure only became greater; the hype more intense. In junior high school (7thand 8thgrade), a valentine could be monumental. It could indicate a willingness to maybe be ‘liked’ by somebody. <<shivers>>
But by senior high school, if you were in a relationship, the pressure was on.
To be honest? I cannot remember one single Valentine’s Day card or gift I received in my youth or young adulthood. Which is kind of sad when you think about how pressure-filled the days leading up to it often felt.
All of which leads me to the debacle that was my first Valentine’s Day with Karl. We’d met in September, right after I’d arrived on campus at Penn State, fresh from my year as an exchange student in Sweden. Karl was a ‘night receptionist’ in my dorm. Yeah, back then we needed knights waiting patiently in our lobbies, checking residents’ keys, making sure no males were walking around ‘unescorted,’ essentially acting as Guardians of our Virtue.
Anyone who knows us can just imagine the grief I gave him when the elevator doors opened and I first laid eyes on him sitting facing those doors – and noticed that his eyes were closed. And noticed his breathing was decidedly rhythmic.
“Hey!” I called out, startling him awake. “We’re all going to get raped and it’s going to be your fault.” Yes, those were the first words I lobbed at the man who would end up fathering my children years later.
The Stirrings of a Life-long Love
It took a while, I’ll admit. It’s not as though we swept each other off our feet immediately. (Although I fell way faster than I wanted – and expected – having sworn off long-term relationships after being dumped long distance while I was in Sweden.) But that night receptionist’s job of his gave us a lot of opportunity to sit and talk. And talk. And argue. And talk. And…really get to know each other.
Suffice it to say, by February, we were well on our way to having more than an inkling that our mutual future might hold great promise.
Cue Valentine’s Day.
Oh yeah. I felt pressure. What to get this handsome, sensitive, intelligent guy that would let him know I was really falling for him, but wouldn’t scare him away?
Well, one of the things that we could talk about for hours and hours and hours, indeed well into the wee hours of the morning, was our love of books. And this was before the advent of the big box bookstores such as Borders or Barnes & Noble. Or (obviously) Amazon. Back then people were much less likely to own a lot of books. Rather, they went to the library. So owning books was a treat.
Somehow or another, I’m sure as a result of our long and luxurious conversations (I could with some snark say, “…from listening to him…”), I knew he would love the Foundationtrilogy by Isaac Asimov.
Beginning an ‘Illustrious’ Tradition
When the day arrived, he came up to my room and we shyly exchanged our gifts. My heart soared. I could tell from the shape and size of what he handed me that he, too, had thought to give the gift of a book. “Mmm,” I thought. “We’re on the same page. We love the same things.”
Imagine my surprise, then, when I opened my gift.
Yes. This is the very first gift Karl ever gave me for Valentine’s Day. And not only was this his actual gift to me (I thought he was kidding – he had to be kidding, right?), he was not kidding; he thought it was cute.
Somehow, we managed to survive that debacle. (I have to admit; it floored me – for many reasons, as you might imagine.) And we began a tradition of giving each other books that has lasted many years.
Receipt of “I’m a Fridgit,” however, did begin a reign of terror that has haunted our personal enjoyment of the 14thof February. I say that, and it’s true to a degree; but honestly? It’s a great story. And for that, I love him. That and his quirky sense of romance.
Quirky. Yeah. That’s the ticket.
Tomorrow will be our 41stValentine’s Day together. I’m waiting with baited breath. (Not.) But maybe we’ll take a ride to the bookstore in Peddler’s Village, or Farley’s, or Doylestown Book Shoppe. At least we’re lucky to have small, independent, wonderful book shops near us!
May you celebrate your love with a sense of humor and a deliciously good book.
I’ve been fantasizing for a few years about cleaning out what we call our ‘office’ and making it a place where Karl can paint and I – possibly, occasionally (probably never) – might read or write especially when I need some sunshine in the winter.
The reason I’ve been relegated to fantasizing about this for at least the last couple of years is because it entails going through files. And I am nothing if not exceedingly organized, with a file for everything – and occasionally a couple for the same thing. Also called inadvertent redundancy.
Filing Cabinet of Life Events
I started this post out with the intention of reflecting on that razor’s edge upon which I slip and slide (and often cut myself) when going through filing cabinets that seem to hold the history of our life as a family. You see, there is a filing cabinet I’ve moved from law office to law office, with a final resting place in my home office. For many years, it held my active legal files. Then as the kids got into high school and college, it started holding inoculation records, academic awards, test results, and newspaper clippings. Files were created for traffic tickets and leases, contracts and resumés. Some of the legal intermingled with the personal: my parents’ estate files, for instance.
Well, it’s time to move the filing cabinet out of the ‘office’ in order to transform the room into a studio. Studios don’t have filing cabinets. Ok, maybe some do. But not in this house.
And that’s not to say that I don’t have an effective filing system that is shifting to the ‘library annex’ mentioned in one of my previous posts. Nope; given that I’m the one that keeps all the records of all our businesses and family and home life, they’re of course moving with me to said ‘library annex.’ But I’m cleaning out that filing cabinet.
And I’ve been steadfastly refusing to clean that baby out for years now, precisely because of the nature of the files that made their way into it.
Without Proof Does a Life Disappear?
So today, I found myself in tears. Damn it; didn’t want to go there. I’m stuck, feeling the dilemma of deciding what to do with the files documenting Karl’s applications to colleges in 1999. His exchange experience in Norway. His grades at NYU; the details of his management contract in California and NYC. There’s so much history in those files.
Poor Sage – home for the holidays and eager to help me shift the life of the room to a studio… He checked on me at one point and realized I had tears running down my face, ridiculously wondering out loud if I threw stuff away that documented these milestones, would that erase all proof that Karl had existed?
And so I am left with that nagging question of how much to save and how much to feed the shredder.
I’m not inclined to scan this stuff, so that’s not an option. It will either survive as a real-life, tangible document, or it will be gone. <<Poof>> Just like he was. Just like we all are. From documents to artwork to green eyes and dazzling smiles.
Where’s the Edge?
So what is the edge between hoarding the memories in an unhealthy manner and holding on to some aspects of life as evidence for our future ancestors to literally hold and turn over in their hands? And why or for whom do I do either? Or neither?
Sometimes I wish I could just throw it all out with abandon. And then I think about the thousands of people who’ve lost everything in fire, flood, or other disaster, and I’m grateful for the torture these choices represent.
Granted, it doesn’t generally take a lot to make me happy, but I haven’t experienced this particular ‘excitement’ in quite a while.
Karl and I engaged in some serious decluttering this weekend. Oh my goodness; I feel liberated.
Decluttering and Books
Most of my efforts were directed toward rearranging our books. We are incredibly lucky to have a wonderfully extensive – if eclectic – collection. They can be broken down roughly into about ten categories: metaphysics; shamanism (a subcategory, it could be argued, but we have so many it has to be its own category); writing; science fiction; art/creativity; reference (yep, I refuse to get rid of our bound World Book encyclopedias, various dictionaries, thesauri, atlases); memoir; general fiction/young adult/feminist literature; plant/nature/environmentalism; and divination.
When we purchased our home back in 1985, a significant appeal was the ‘library’ (really just the dining room), which had bookshelves taking up all the free space on every single wall. The former owners had painted the walls behind the stained wooden built-in shelves a dark green, mimicking the deep green felt of libraries of yore.
Naturally, we were obligated to fill those shelves.
And through the years and the raising of three sons, through both lean and flush times, our greatest single indulgence as a family was books. In fact, for many years, it was our tradition to go to Borders on New Year’s Day. Although, truth be told, any excuse would do – and it didn’t have to be the start of a brand new year.
Borders and Barnes & Noble
Travel soccer tournament in Virginia? No problem! We’d just scope out a bookstore that we could retreat to between games. Ideally, we’d look for a local independent store, but for a while there, the easiest finds were the ubiquitous ‘big box’ purveyors, namely the aforementioned Borders and Barnes & Noble. They also had the best hours. Any trip anywhere, no matter where or for what purpose, would always be made better by tracking down a bookstore.
We’d often find something small and local almost everywhere we went because, being the odd ducks that we were, we would seek out the ‘metaphysical’ bookstores. Our experience was that the ‘big box’ stores were resistant to carrying selections out of the mainstream – at least at first. Or maybe I should say, their selections of shamanic books, for instance, were so pathetically inadequate that they would rarely be worth our time. (In other words, they carried Castaneda. Period.)
The appeal, though, of the bigger stores was the selection of magazines they carried. Son Karl would inevitably snag the latest copy of Fortean Times, and as we drove home or to the next soccer game, he would read us outlandish snippets from its pages.
Maximus and Sage would almost always find something to read, at least while we browsed. And lot, a lot, a lot of comedy found its way home from these excursions. Indeed, every Farside anthology published can probably be found somewhere in this house.
Come to think of it, Karl and I used to get teased by our fellow parents at soccer games because we’d never show up without each harboring a book.
Library Annex
Anyway…
My delight in what we worked on this weekend stems from the fact that the bedroom that used to be Maximus’s is now entirely a library annex to our downstairs branch! This has enabled me to free up the shelves downstairs – no more books piled crossways on top of those regularly shelved – or I could say stuffed. And the cool thing is that it doesn’t feel as though I am making room to buy more books, although that will always remain a possibility. (Just so everyone knows, we are dedicated library-goers as well.)
Rather, freeing up our shelves and creating an upstairs library is more of an energetic opening than anything else. It feels like we’re creating more room to allow our creativity to flourish.
