Preserving magical moments
Five Things + accepting the "mess of me"
Dear Creative Soul,
I’ve never been good at keeping diaries or regular journals, always tending to let my need for beauty and perfection trump honesty. I wanted my journals to please the eye and the mind (like they do in movies and on social media). Aesthetics and profundity, that’s what I wanted (just in case anyone ever read my journals).
What a load of codswallop. I’m old enough to say that to myself and listen now.
Anne Lamott puts it like this:
“Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist's true friend.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
For years, whenever I tried journalling, I kept the best and worst bits of me back - I self-edited myself, kept myself frozen in ideals. I stopped short of being truly honest and emotionally raw.
I didn’t even show myself the mess of me.
I couldn’t even show myself.
This year has been different.
When I write Morning Pages following Julia Cameron’s guidelines, the pages are covered in a messy scrawl that even I struggle to read. The Notes app on my phone is where I order my thoughts, be they to-do lists, ideas for a scene or story, or something I am working through personally … there are typos and grammar issues, but none of that matters because what I write here is for my eyes only.
I came across this article on Medium today as I was writing this post: “Write What Disturbs You” (Isra Alaradi). She says:
“A diary is a writer’s best friend; a site for deep, ridiculous, and remarkable thoughts, where loneliness temporarily fades and dreams, plans, and secrets are held without judgment. You are never too much for your journal, you can go as real and deep as you like.
But do you ever?”
Her words resonated, especially when she said, “Even in the privacy of our journals, it’s difficult to be honest and tell it as it is. We use our words carefully to portray ourselves as right, wise, and reflective.” How affirming to know that I am not the only one who has struggled with this!
While I don’t have a daily diary habit yet, I do write privately now more than ever, not only because it’s good for me as a writer, but because it’s good for me as a person.
Starting a daily Five Things practice has also helped my writing life. I suppose they are a journal of sorts, somewhere I jot observations, reflections, memories, moments, and so on. I am preserving magical moments in my day, sometimes complemented by a photo - the only difference is that I choose to share them.
How is this practice helping me? Now, it’s keeping me connected to words and my creative self on days when I am pressed for time. Some of these may turn into something more - an essay, a short story, a poem. Some are what they are.
But more than that, I’m seeing potential for this practice - when I’m blocked about a scene or a story idea, or when I’m returning to a longform piece after a break, why not write down five things about the setting or the character? Or five questions I want to answer? And when I’m struggling with a personal issue, why not write down five things (good, bad, ugly, whatever)? When I need to relax my mind, five things.
Five things is manageable. They can be as simple as you need. A practice like this is a means to get started on whatever journey you are trying to make, whether it’s getting words on the page or solving a problem.
It reminds me of the story Anne Lamott shares in Bird by Bird: her brother was overwhelmed by a school report on birds he had put off for months, and her father put his arm around her brother and said:
“Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
In other news, the audiobook of Wildflower comes out this week (!!) - I just read a review that described the novel as “beautifully tragic”. And I’m still overwhelmed with apricots - as I write, I have a pot of them stewing, and later I’ll freeze the stewed apricots in small portions. By tomorrow I will have made 30 jars of jam!
Five Things
Saturday
Leonard Cohen sings of love and knowing; apricot jam boils merrily on the stove and the air is sweet.
A white linen shirt covers my pale skin as we harvest more apricots; my friend has brought me lettuce, avocados, red onions and carrots from her friend’s abundance, and as we share this moment in the sun we keep the giving circle turning.
My body sighs as I hold a stretch and count to ten, twenty; I have stretched myself too thin and the elastic of me needs care.
I am devouring a new book the same way I ate all the leftover sweets from Halloween, because once the bag is open, I can’t stop.
A loud rumbling makes me blush and then I realise it was a plane, not my stomach.
Sunday
An avocado, halved to reveal a creamy ripeness at its tipping point; I mash the soft flesh, add salt, ground pepper and a big squeeze of lemon, and then I slather two slices of pumpkin bread (toasted) and bite.
I am digging into a buried memory, brushing away the cobwebs of time, to see what it has to teach me.
My fingers smell like kaffir lime leaves, leftover oil from stripping two branches clean ahead of the curries we will make in coming months.
My husband tells me about Blue Zones, areas where people live exceptionally long lives, and that night a documentary on this same subject pops up on Netflix. Coincidence? Or confirmation of the murmurings rising within us?
A layer of cake batter, then halved apricots still warm from the morning sun, and finally a crumble topping; my house smells of warm cinnamon and vanilla, and I yearn to cut a slice, but I save one cake for dessert and take the other to my in-laws for their afternoon tea.
Monday
All our birds have flown the nest, but tonight two of them flew in.
Silky smooth sauce: Shallots (finely chopped), garlic (minced, not crushed), lashings of olive oil, red pepper flakes to taste, a jar of passata, stirred with love.
A whistling kite is hunting over our backyard, hovering low, with intent, and I am glad the doves nested elsewhere this year.
Finally! Tiny geckos are making their home in our yard; it has taken fifteen years to turn it from a concrete wasteland to a sanctuary.
A patron at work, let’s call her C, called today and had the same conversation with me she had last week and the week before, but I don’t mind being the one who listens.
Tuesday
Waiting at the traffic lights; above the intersection, a whistling kite is hunting.
I don’t know how the smell of cut grass and dust stole into foyer, but if it stayed I wouldn’t mind.
The wind flexes its muscle; for the briefest moment I wish it would scoop me up like Mary Poppins and take me on an adventure, but lunch break is over and I return to work.
Australia said No - it’s easier to avert our gaze; in the car, a classical concert is being streamed and Cheryl Leavy, a Kooma Traditional Owner, reads original poetry over the top of musical improvisations led by Brendan Joyce. The beauty of her words, the music, stirred my heart.
Picking apricots, while at the top of the tree a parrot feasts like a joyful infant, diving its head into the ripest fruit and emerging with fruit smooshed all over its face.
Wednesday
My body is whispering that I am in danger of overdoing things and instead of pushing through, I am listening (this doesn’t happen as often as it should). The kettle is on, a three-mint tea bag rests in a bone china cup adorned with wildflowers, and I do a stretching routine while birds serenade and the kettle boils.
Often I drink my morning herbal tea “on the run”, but today I have made a point of sitting, closing my eyes, feeling the warmth of the cup, savouring the minty fragrance before sipping, swirling the tea around my mouth, breathing in and out before taking the next sip, giving thanks. Slow tea. Slow down.
Having two injured thumbs at once is one way to slow down, but it also teaches you new ways of doing things.
I shared a cheery post on social media about my latest book on social media, but what I didn’t say is that I had hoped to hear about an audiobook deal by now, and is it okay to feel disappointed about that?
I started reading a new book about living in a bookshop and, after a draining day at work, that seems like a perfectly good place to retire to.
Thursday
Notes from an early morning wonder walk: the air has a lick of cool, birds sing and flit, fat mushrooms burst through mulch, a lone duck on a bridge, frogs hum in reeds framing the lake, the light is flat.
A curious young magpie tilts its head as I approach; I stop and we regard each other, but then his mother calls and he scurries away.
Sadness: on a park bench, an empty bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, imprints of fingers clutching the neck.
A few streets away, a passionfruit vine once trailed along a 20m fence, spilling tennis ball-sized fruit onto the road; the owners told us to help ourselves. They have moved now, and the vine is gone.
Awakening: a child bursts out the front door of his house with a whoop, a toddler sibling yells, a basketball thump-thump-thumps.
Friday
My doctor tells me that he was five when his family were smuggled out of Iran; at the border with Turkey, guards fired guns into the sky, knowing that refugees would be trying to escape, hoping they would fall, hit. He remembers the sound, the fear, the urgency - this is his core memory. I had no words for him, only my ears.
Grey clouds, low with promise; Bette Midler in my head - “I Think it’s Going to Rain Today”. Wishful thinking.
A friend comes over to help me harvest apricots. We each want enough to make jam; it is the golden hour, a time of promise, and as we collect windfall (birdfall?) we posit the idea of forming a small monthly cooking group next year.
I’m not sure if it’s my almost-new glasses or I’m tired, but I’m not seeing as clearly as I’d like; this fractional lack of clarity mirrors the lack of clarity in my current work life. Something must be done.
The honeyed smell of ripe apricots fills my house; I have finished making another batch of jam, but another bucket of fruit awaits. Sometimes this abundance is overwhelming, but I am grateful for every fruit I use, every one I pass on.
Beautifully insightful regarding the interior work we must do! I need to incorporate a practice like this into my own life.