Thinking

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I fell down the stairs a few years ago.  It really hurt, and I got a nasty bruise on my back, but I didn’t really think about it much.  I do that, move right along once the initial pain subsides.  I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see!  The trouble is, my back never really healed properly, even though it felt okay.  It got itself in a bit of a jumble that’s caused other problems, more irritating and insidious.  I’ve tried visiting a chiropractor and acupuncturist to get rid of it, but nothing seemed to work.  I’ve recently been working with a massage therapist, and she said, rather casually, that problems like these, ones that should heal but don’t are often the result of not being able to let go of something painful.  This idea gave me pause.  Is it true?  Is there something I’ve been unwilling to loosen from my grasp?

I talked to my former student, now friend, Daniel last night.  He’s coming for a short visit and wanted to be sure we saw each other, which we will.  It’s nice to be thought of like that, wanted.  I like it.  Anyway, during our conversation, we talked about life and what we’re doing, and whether the work we do means anything or is going anywhere, despite the hours, days, weeks, and months we’ve been at it.  In particular, I was thinking about my blog and the fact that my last post was the 500th (Zowie!).  I’ve come to this space five hundred times, put myself out there as honestly and earnestly as I can, yet what is it doing, really?  Where is it going?  What is it about? What kind of blog is it?  Honestly, I have no idea.  I only do what feels right at the time.

I was at the library the other day, in a section I don’t normally browse, and found a sweet little book called Start Where You Are, by Pema Chodron.  It’s about meditation and how to practice and cope with whatever life brings, mostly by letting go.  I brought it home (along with a giant stack from the sections I do normally browse – libraries are awesome), and I’ve really been enjoying it.  She writes in a very accessible style, with many personal anecdotes.  I find myself laughing a lot and agreeing with her words, especially these: Give away what you don’t want.  Give away what you most want.  Nothing is concrete. There are no definitive answers.  There’s only this moment and this breath.

Then, yesterday, I popped in a bonus Shiva Rea DVD, again, like the book, something I wouldn’t normally browse, and watched an interview with Shiva about the practice of yoga.  At the beginning she said, “With yoga, you start where you are.”  Well, the light bulbs went off friends.  I thought about how true it is, especially in reference to Pema Chodron’s book.  Nothing is concrete.  Each moment is new.  With each yoga practice, I start where I am.  Sometimes, I am strong and steady, moving with grace and ease through the postures.  Other times, like yesterday, I fall on my ass doing what is normally pretty simple.

Then I got to the big picture thoughts that have been weighing heavily on my mind.  I’ve written five hundred blog posts and am nearly forty years old.  This is a big deal, isn’t it?  Something significant, concrete, should be happening, right?  Fireworks?   I should know what I’m doing, where I’m going, what I’m going to be.  I should be making money.  It’s about time.

Then, finally, it’s back to my massage therapist’s words and the book.  Letting go.  Everything is a passing memory.  I’ve had these ideas and expectations my whole life.  I’ve been holding on to the notion that I should know what I’m doing, be successful, that my back shouldn’t hurt, that I should like everyone.  It’s all very concrete and solid, like the knots in my back.  But what if I looked at life differently?  What if I allowed a space for softness, for not knowing, not grasping.  What if I let go of all the stories?  What if I start where I am right now, again and again, no destination, no need to be anything different than what I am.  What will happen then?

I guess I will see.

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Caring

When we honestly ask ourselves which people in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.

Henri Nouwen

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Well friends, I have what is surely the last of the peony photos this year and a broken record alert!  Aren’t they pretty?  Aren’t they pretty?  Well they are, and these two smell quite lovely, too.  Yes, yes they do.  We also managed to get two dry days in a row to enjoy them, but the clouds are rolling in, and I’m pretty sure that means Mr. Rain will be up to his old tricks in no time, which is okay.  The little break of sun was enough to tide me over until next time.

I have no clever segue way to what comes next.  I’ve been thinking a lot about what it is that I want and how to get it.  I came to a conclusion that probably should have been obvious, but wasn’t, but now that I’ve made it, I feel as though I’ve been hit over the head with a hammer in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  Yet, instead of stars, I am seeing what I do with greater clarity than ever before.

I have never called myself a writer.  I have always said, “I’ve written a book,” or “I’ write a blog.”  In some ways, I didn’t want to pigeon-hole myself in the “I am not what I do” way because I feel I am so much more than a single word.  I also didn’t think I deserved the title of Writer without being published.  Yet, in this way, I believe I have been selling myself short, for who will believe I am a writer, especially one who is worthy of publication, if I don’t?  It also diminished my work, made it less important.  Well, dang it, it IS important, even if only to me.

So, a change.  A “this is it” moment:  I, Colleen Sohn, am a writer.  Gosh, I got weepy typing that last sentence.  I am a writer.  I wrote a novel that I hope to get published one day.  I write a blog.  I write poems.  I dream up worlds.  Words dance in my mind and through my finger tips.  They are alive, just like me and you.

That felt good.  Thanks for reading.  I love sharing my writing with you!

Another, equally satisfying title to this post could be Yum, or Perfection.  Indeedy.  Chocolate and Cherries are hard to beat.  Something else that is hard to beat is sensibility.  If you’ve been reading for a while, you know how I wrestle with sugar, or, at least, how I have wrestled with it.  I am bad, weak, unhealthy, (insert other appropriate adjective), for eating the stuff.  I spent a lot of time on it, A LOT.  Many hours that, no doubt, added up to days of my life fretting about my consumption of sugar and how I really needed to let it go and be a better, stronger person.  Heavens to mergatroid was it ever taxing, and to what end?  Did I ever actually stop eating sugar?  Not for any extended period of time.  Did I ever feel better about myself for being my own persona non grata every time I consumed it?  Certainly not.  It was just ugly self-flagellation.

So now, in hopes of being kinder and gentler to my whole self, not just the parts that I’ve idealized, I’m going to eat it and do my darndest not to criticize or second guess myself for it.  If I so desire, I’m going to bake a cake, have a slice, and REALLY enjoy it (well, if it tastes good – I do have standards).  I don’t want to halfway enjoy it while simultaneously beating myself up for not being strong enough to say no or whatever.  I am laughing at myself as I type this!  How silly and schizophrenic I have been.  Life is meant to be enjoyed.

So, to the cake.  I call it zippy because it comes together very quickly and the sauce cooks while the cake bakes, so you can eat it warm from the oven.  I love that – impatience and deliciousness in one go.  I can’t remember where I first saw a recipe like this, maybe the Moosewood Cookbook?  It is vegan, moist, and delicious.  And, since this is the kind of gal I have become, I used whole wheat flour in place of some of the all purpose.  If I can make it a little healthier while still being utterly yummy, I’m going for it.

Zippy Chocolate Cake

1 cup whole wheat flour

1/2 cup all purpose flour

1/3 cup cocoa powder

1/2 cup sugar (So sorry!  I left this out the first time.)

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/3 cup vegetable oil

1 cup cold water or coffee

2 teaspoons vanilla

2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

Preheat oven to 375.  Grease an 8″ square pan.  Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl.  Combine wet ingredients.  Mix wet and dry together quickly until smooth.  Pour into prepared pan.  Bake 25 – 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.  If you use the whole wheat flour, this may take longer.  It’s okay.

Serve plain or with fruit sauce (raspberry, peach, blueberry, strawberry, or plum would be good, too!).  I used my recipe included with pancakes, here.  It is also good frosted or sprinkled with powdered sugar, and eaten out of hand.

Enjoy!

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When I was a teacher and a student approached me, bemoaning the fact they didn’t know how to start a particular essay, I would say, “Just begin.  Write a sentence, a paragraph, the same silly word over and over again, see what happens.”  I find that I am having to take my own advice today.  I don’t know quite what to say.  Lost..Lost. Lost..Lost.  Sad. Sad. Sad..Sad.  Disappointed.  Disappointed.  Disappointed.

And now I begin.  I feel lost.  I don’t know what to do about my life, and, in particular, my writing.  The other day, I was in the car with the hubster; I do not even recall what the conversation was about, and he said, rather matter of factly, “You’re not writing a second book.”  My stomach lurched.  “I’m not?”  Am I?  I don’t know.  I haven’t touched it in a year.  I think about it every day.  The characters do new and surprising things,  they change their minds, increase in boldness, but I don’t write a single word of it down.  Sometimes I would like to blame it on this space here and my desire to keep it going, but I really don’t know that it is true.  If I really wanted to write, I’d do it.  I’d stay up late (at least for this granny), like I did with my first book, bleary eyed and enthusiastic and feel the words flow from my fingertips.  Then, just when I couldn’t do any more, I’d watch Craig Ferguson before retreating downstairs and cuddling with the hubster.

I feel sad that I want so much more than I have, especially when I have so very much.  I want my body to look like the idealized version of it that is in my head.  I want to be a famous and financially independent novelist (Reading is Sexy!) who turns her awesome book into an Oscar winning screenplay.  When I win, I want to stand on stage, in the aforementioned perfect body of my imagination, wearing a stunning dress that Tom Ford designed just for me, tell the hubster he is BETTER than sliced bread and George Clooney and sing the praises of believing in your dreams.

I am disappointed that I have sent out over thirty letters to agents and publishers and only had one even remotely interested in representing me.  I am disappointed that I haven’t had the heart to send out a letter since December.  I am disappointed that it always seems I can see my dreams, smell them even, they are so close, yet impossibly out of reach.  I am disappointed for sharing this with you.  I always meant for this to be a positive and uplifting place, full of possibility and hope, but the truth is, I truly feel lost, sad, and disappointed.

Maybe there is, as appears in the photo, a silver lining.  Maybe, I just  need to make a clearing (I’ve heard this a lot lately) for whatever it is that I am supposed to say, be, do, or feel.  Maybe, I need to be okay with not having answers, being sad, and just wondering.  Maybe, just maybe…

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