Anticipation

Since Janet so kindly reminded us of Carly Simon's song earlier this week, it's been running like a mantra through my head...and since this connects so nicely with Lisa's post this week about the "Massacre at Noon," I couldn't resist:

We can never know about the days to come, but we think about them anyway...

When I was an undergraduate elementary ed major, I took a course in Introduction to Teaching Reading, and one of the keys to teaching small children critical reading skills, we learned, was to teach them to predict and anticipate: "What do you think will happen next? Will Polly eat her peas?"

Anticipation is neatly tied to the concept of suspense, and we can anticipate good things or bad--like in a horror movie, when the heroine is running around half-naked trying to get away from the bad guy, and the music builds and builds and builds--we know that any moment now, that bad guy is going to suddenly be there, bloody knife in his hand and an evil grin on his face--and yet, when it happens (just as we anticipated), we still jump, let out a startled cry, and then watch as the anticipation begins to build all over again.

Why--when life is so darn suspensful on its own--do we feel the need to regurgitate this stuff in our fiction?

And tomorrow we might not be together. I'm no prophet and I don't know nature's ways...

Life is inherently suspenseful. We never know what tomorrow holds, when our time will end, when life is going to throw us a curve ball. The only thing that's certain is uncertainty. We imitate this anticipation and suspense in our fiction, I think, to help us deal with our very real fear of the unknown. Because many times, in fiction, the ending can be anticipated--and unlike real life, most of the time our predictions for fictional endings are pretty accurate (after all, we've been practicing since we were barely out of diapers, right)?

I'll...stay right here cause these are the good old days...

All we have is now. Today. This moment. We can anticipate tomorrow, next week, next month, but life's endings are much more difficult to predict. Tom Clancy once said, "The only difference between fiction and real life is that fiction has to make sense." Making sense out of reality is obviously a much more challenging prospect...

Road Trip!

Imagine you're going on a trip tomorrow morning. You need to pack: what kinds of clothes will you need? How long will you be gone? Will you have access to a washer and dryer? You also need to arrange for transportation: will you drive? Fly? Take the train? Hike? And is anyone going with you? Who? Why? Where will you stay? What will you do? How long will it take you to get there?

Going on a journey clearly involves careful planning, and that planning revolves around understanding your destination. Before you can plan a trip, certain information is essential: where you're going, how long you'll be gone, who's going with you, etc. So why would we begin the journey of a lifetime without having a destination in mind?

I had a realization this week: human beings need goals. And I'm not talking about vague concepts like "happiness" or "balance," I'm talking about goals that are clear and measurable, tangible. It's human nature to work towards something, to have some sort of "ending" in mind, even though it's been shouted from the rooftops for decades by Oprah and her cohorts that happiness isn't about the destination; life is a journey, they tell us. Sure. Makes perfect sense. But how does one begin a journey without a destination in mind?

And what kind of results can you expect?

Aimless wandering, lots of dead ends, and lots of detours.

And we can certainly learn a lot from aimless wanderings, dead ends, and detours, but we'll encounter these even if we begin our journey with a destination in mind; after all, life has a way of throwing up construction barriers, natural disasters, and collapsed bridges to urge us down a different path. Without any idea of a destination, however, we have nothing to prevent us from simply sitting down in the ditch and resting for twenty or thirty years--there's no where to go, nowhere you need to be...until one day you wake up and realize that you're in a rut.

It seems to me that true balance must be about understanding that life is a journey, but that journeys inherently begin with a destination in mind. It's about being flexible should the original destination become less appealing because you've realized that it doesn't suit your needs any longer, but it's still about getting somewhere.

I prefer to think of life's journey as made up of several shorter jaunts, with a few side-trips and adventures thrown in for good measure. It isn't a long, straight highway; instead, it's a curvy mountain road, sometimes going uphill, sometimes down, and sometimes it's clear skies and sunshine, when BAM! suddenly you hit a patch of black ice and find yourself in the ditch. Success, though, is about knowing where the road leads--or at least, where you want it to lead for now--so that you're motivated to get out of the car, slog through the mud, and begin the often slow, painful process of getting your car out of the ditch and back on the road again.

Anybody have a tow rope?

Springing Forward...

I'm ready for spring.

While this winter really hasn't been any longer than any other, it seems at times as if it's lasted for a year (at least), and I'm anxious for it to end. I'm ready to see spring flowers pop through the melting mounds of snow; I'm ready to be awakened by birds chattering outside my window. I miss the warmth, the sunshine, and the long, lazy days of summer. I miss long walks, barbeques, and afternoons spent in the hammock with an engrossing novel.

Winter is cold and dark, the ground covered with snow and ice, the trees brown and bare. Nature is sleeping--I feel like I am sleeping--and I'm ready for the sun to begin creeping up over the horizon to reveal that dawn--and spring--is fast approaching.

I recognize that with the arrival of spring, the end of this busy semester draws near--and a new life, a new perspective, awaits. Longer days and small, green buds on the tree branches represent for me the beginning of a new journey, the rebirth of hope and optimism, and I'm suddenly anxious to begin seeing the signs that mark this new direction.

I'm reminded by a quote from Anne Bradstreet: "If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."

This year, spring is most welcome.

Friends...

Recently, after moving clear across the country, I've discovered just how much I value my friends. Don't get me wrong; I've always known that I was incredibly lucky to even know these beautiful, vibrant, intelligent women--it's just that now I realize just how much joy they have contributed to my life on a daily basis.

I miss them.

I miss afternoons in the coffee shop, chatting about writing, gossiping about people we know, sharing ideas, and lending one another support during whatever latest trauma or drama one of us was surely experiencing.

I miss late-night phone calls, when we might have deeply philosophical discussions about life, writing, theory, and teaching.

I miss knowing that if I needed to vent--about my husband, my kids, my job, my students--all I had to do was pick up the phone, and someone would say, "The coffee shop? 3:00?" or maybe, "Come on over. I'll be here."

They have supported me through some of the most challenging times in my life, and now that I've moved 3,000 miles away, I'm even more certain that these weren't friendships built out of convenience, but friendships built on a foundation of trust, respect, and yes--even love.

Each of them has taught me so much--about life, but even more importantly, about myself. One of the things I've learned is not to take friendships lightly, but to embrace them, cherish them, and nurture them.

I may have moved away, but whether they realize it or not, I brought both of them with me. They're in my heart and on my mind every single day.

Later...

It's so easy to get caught up in the day-to-day events that come along with having a family, a day job, and other commitments that it's all too easy to put "writing" on the back burner.

"I'll get to it when I have more time..." or "I'll work on it this weekend...next week...next month...next summer"--but it's always "later."

It's not so much a matter of procrastination or avoidance (although my husband might argue otherwise); it's more due to how I prioritize my time. How, though, do I tell my students that I'll grade their papers "later"? How do I tell my husband or friends that I'll spend time with them "later"? I have a house full of boxes waiting to be unpacked, eight classes of bright and eager students waiting to be taught, a gorgeous and loving husband waiting to spend time with me...and a nasty cold that's been stalking me for days. Those types of things don't wait for later.

It occurred to me today, though, that if I needed to go to the doctor every day at noon for an hour in order to get a treatment that would keep me alive, I would make the time to go. Of course, students, supervisors, and husbands all might be a bit more understanding of being shuffled to the side for a little while under those circumstances, but it isn't really all that different.

Life is about quality: finding those things, people, and pastimes that make you feel happy, loved, and valued, and committing yourself to ideas and ideals that make you feel like you're engaged in an ethical and meaningful existence. So isn't my mental well-being as crucial as my physical well-being? If taking time to write everyday makes my life more meaningful and satisfying, if it helps me to feel like I'm moving forward and doing something that matters very much to me, is it really so much different from that hypothetical daily doctor's appointment?

Life is too short to push those things that we do for ourselves--those things that we do to make ourselves happy, that make our lives more meaningful--until later. After all, what if later never comes? If I only had one day to live, would I look back over my life and wish I had graded more papers? Washed more dishes? Unpacked more boxes? Not likely. I may, though, look back and regret those dreams I left unpursued, those goals I constantly pushed aside, always, invariably, perpetually waiting for later.

Why write?

Today, as I stood before a sea of expectant faces, I pondered the question that had been asked. It isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this particular question, and with the typical aplomb of an experienced writing teacher, I’ve always rattled off the same pat answer.

But today, I paused.

Perhaps it’s the recent upheaval in my life that has made me more reflective, or perhaps it’s because turning 39 last month has forced me to slow down and really examine what I’m doing with my life and where I’m headed.

"Why write, anyway?"

We write, of course, to inform, to persuade, to instruct, to argue, to share our thoughts, ideas, and beliefs with others in a meaningful context. But beyond the everyday need to communicate, what compels us to write? Why do we blog? Why do we write fiction, poetry, and song lyrics? Why do we feel compelled to share what we write?

Is writing a passion? Is it a skill? A talent? Is it something everyone can enjoy? That everyone can learn? Is it like golf, where everyone can try their hand at it, but only a few can aspire to be the next Tiger Woods (or Nora Roberts, or Steven King, etc.)? Does it matter if we're any good at it? Can we teach what it is to write?

For me, writing is an expression of the self, a reaching out to others in an attempt to share, for a moment, a universal human experience—like love, or passion, or hate, or friendship, or grief—to forge a connection that may be broken in an instant or may be cherished for a lifetime. Human beings are social creatures, and those connections—however fleeting they may be—help us to make meaning out of the chaos that we call life.

As I stood before a sea of expectant faces—some of them beginning to show signs of strain and impatience—I pondered all of this, before suddenly, I realized the only real answer is yet another question: "Why do YOU write?"