Writing is hard, but joy comes easily these days. I am rehashing my way through The Artist’s Way* again after a 6 year hiatus, and digging new roots in fertile soil. I’ve been drifting about for a while, tendrils outstretched, and feel ready now to grow down instead of laterally; the plant is strong but the roots are weak.

I’ve put my mind to naming the sources of joy and I’ve found that it comes from being aware of my footsteps and playing a lot. There may be events unfolding around me, but they may as well not be there when I am engaged. Being aware, I’ve found over the years, is what has given me fullness and sanity. Oddly, I ran across a passage in week 2 of The Artists Way that refers to this same phenomenon: Julia Cameron, in describing how her grandmother “made do” with the circumstances her husband left her (financial instability and a wild ride on the waves of success and failure), remarked about her mother’s capacity to be very much in the now, a reporter of life around her. Not focusing on regrets or fearing the future, she was able to immerse herself in experience, a great way to cope and remain sane.
“Attention is the act of connection,” says Julia. “My grandmother knew what a painful life had taught her: success or failure, the truth of a life really has little to do with its quality. The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of laying attention.”

How do other people stay sane? Here are a few obvious secrets:
I watched a documentary last night on a female stunt pilot, who enjoyed the way flying dangerously required so much focus that everything else slipped out of her periphery. Surely a big wave surfer feels the same way, risking his life each wave as he directs every neuron to the dynamic matter and energy thundering around him. I imagine a surgeon feels a similar zen, perhaps a more cerebral, fine-motor adaptation of the same principal, or a writer, for that matter (although, as Robert Cormier once said, “The beautiful part of writing is that you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike, say, a brain surgeon.”).

Another way I find sanity: watching my enthusiasm of the outdoors trickle down to my kids, watching them web together information on the world around them, making connections that, in turn, connect them to earth. When I am outside appreciating the world around me, it’s infectous; I can’t help sharing it with the kids, with others. It hasn’t taken many brainstorming sessions to discover purpose behind this. I want others to see. I want others to experience and feel joy in his or her footsteps, trying to banish regrets and ignore to-do lists, even if for five mintes at a time. Little bursts of sanity provide hours of empowerment.

I think of other writers who have fostered this capacity for seeing: Annie Dillard, when she wrote Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Anne Lammott and Operating Instructions, Rachel Carson, and the late Provensens, who wrote my favorite picture book as a child: Our Animal Friends at Maple Hill Farm. There are others, but these are favorites. What are yours? Have you seen much lately? Assuming that, like me, you feel periodic insanity, what centers you and makes you sane?

*Other Artist’s Way bloggers have been inspired by Kat’s Paws. I guess I can consider myself one if I just said “others.”

I cut my finger pruning today, I was so eagerly (and glovelessly!) trimming the garden in the front yard and it was especially dangerous with Chas underfoot. Nothing serious, just a battle scar, a merit badge for my work. It felt invigorating to trim the seeded grasses and the long, thin dead stalks off the perennials; not unlike the liberation I feel whenever I have a thorough haircut and bound out of the salon, leaving piles of medium blonde locks on the floor behind me staring up at the ceiling like fish beached after a red tide.

I was surprised to find tiny green veins thriving inside much of last summer’s dried stalks. Seeing this as I explored each plant gave me all the hope I needed to dream of starting another garden this Spring with the kids. I thought of the new book I bought myself for Christmas, still waiting for me to put it to use: Roots, Shoots, Buckets and Boots by Sharon Lovejoy. Not for lack of inspiration, I bought the book to validate my eccentric enthusiasm about growing gnome-infested theme gardens and cultivating what land we’ve got to best use. Thinking of ideas, I took all the clippings and reduced them further, sprinkling them over the soil like little golden confetti.

While I dream of having another vegetable garden, we don’t have the means to create a large plot. We haven’t enough graded, sunshine-filled yard or protection from the deer and we sure don’t have the backhoe we’d need to cultivate a righteous bed atop the kaliche. But we have the perfect woods for little surprises, and a corridor between the house and the forest for a fragrant moonlight garden path (we had a resident bat last year). There’s room for a teepee, and I already purchased the heavenly blue morning glories for the tarp, and Mexican Sunflowers to play off the blue and create a haven for swallowtails. In fact, I am thinking of planting the entire meadow beside the driveway in a swath of yellows and white, a sort of homecoming parade.

As far as our land goes (where we are building, down the road), I still have to research rainwater harvesting, although I’ve been putting this off knowing full well that I’ll need a couple thousand to build a cistern, irrigation system and fence. Thinking ahead to another long hot summer, shopping for new fridge easily trumps those plans.

It’s New Year’s Eve in Houston, and over the buzzy drone of Chas’ snoring I hear little groups of people hollering one block away, the rat a tatting of firecrackers and guns, and the horn of a freight train downtown. Our house and much of our block is asleep. But if you walk barefoot out onto the front porch, and sit on the swing, you can see Christmas lights smiling at the raucous din of nearby celebration. The turning of a new year unfolds as I swing back and forth in the stillness. The family of gliding squirrels is probably shaking on one of the grand oak boughs above me as bottle rockets whine above them.

Being a homebody on New Year’s eve never felt so luxurious. I think I got over being homebound on New Year’s eve four years ago when we made Ford.

Cheers to that and a new year!

I can tell that life has gotten hectic because I haven’t spent much time the past week in reflection. Normally, there are about five minutes of peace in the middle of a day where I can stare into the forest and listen, or watch a spider spin a web, or feel the sun warming my back. But the holidays are upon me and I feel the pressure rising. I have a gift list that keeps detailing and evolving. Chas has developed the speed with which to help Ford whirl the house into havoc, and I simply can’t keep up during the day. The evenings are either spent tidying or knitting, since Chas needs new wool pants. But there isn’t much time left for gift-making. And the elves begin visiting the house, what, next week? Ford is expecting a fabric Whomping Willow and a set of handmade Harry Potter dolls from the elves. Me, being the elves, of course.

It is Fall in the Northern Hemisphere. I had to explain this to Ford tonight, as I hunched over the bathtub bathing Chas. Not just the fact that it really is Fall, but the part about our hemisphere facing away from the sun. He had originally asked why today was so short, and I had to explain to him that the days were actually getting shorter. He stood there, watching his reflected expressions in the mirror:

“So, Mommy, is it Fall?”

Of course, he would have to wonder, what with the confusion we’re experiencing in our Spring-inspired weather. The boys spent the evening playing in the sprinkler while I tended the plants. As the sun began to set, I put them into the jogger wearing only their underwear, and we walked along yellow Chinaberry groves and scattered Black walnut, red flags bouncing in the breeze. And then, hark! we heard the unearthed drone of a cicada. Ford sat upright in the stroller and, I kid you not, said “What the hell? A cicada!”

I need to recharge my sense of wonder. While I was watching a squirrel outside on a limb, I reflected on my dull reaction. I thought my appreciation would climb if I travelled to another continent on another hemisphere.

It was eleven this morning, and we had eaten breakfast, cleaned up, brushed teeth, read a book, and the next sequence (even though out of sequence) was “wash face and get dressed” for Ford. He balked, meanwhile charming his way to watching I Robot,eventually turning the movie on outright, and I started losing it, irrationally complaining that I have no control over my kids. I was so ruffled over trying to get the kids out the door by noon, for chrissakes that I was starting to jerk my weight around and complain about not having enough control all the while. Damon walked into the room and pulled my horses to a screeching halt with his lucid analysis. He told me to rephrase “I have no control over the kids” (a self-centered, gun-in-the-foot approach) to “What does Ford need right now? What needs to happen?” (goal-oriented approach). It was an amazing moment of silence in my raging brain. All the birds swooped down to the tree branches, the monkeys stopped throwing papayas at me and the “to do” list tickertape died. It’s one of the things I love most about Damon, his ability to help me regain control over my temper (which translates to forgetting about regaining control over the kids), because hostility and irrational moments are part of my makeup as much as moments of clarity and calm. So thank you, again. I needed that, so did Ford.

Chas is no longer satisfied with the way crayons and paints taste; now, he is interested in their use as tools. Fingerpaints are in order, although he tends to dislike using materials and tools in ways that are different from his older brother.

Yet, in so many ways, Chas is very different from Ford. Today I suffered multiple minor heart attacks as I caught Chas atop various perches, each time rescuing him from a fall: The back deck has a seat-railing around the perimeter, and he is able to climb atop the railing and prepare for launch off the other side (and down five feet to impale himself on juniper-cedar bramble). For example.

I am frustrated that we can’t pile the kids into the Airstream and drive up East for the next few months. I had more serenity back then: the cabinets were impossible for a child to open, there were no “dropoffs,” everything was so…ship shape. Eighty square feet of control. Minimal cleanup. Simple. Irresponsible. So much less baggage than just the two images below, in and of themselves:

The piece of land, our whole quarter acre of it–I’m so overwhelmed with that right now, I can only sit in my car to photograph it, let alone walk up to a rock on site and watch the sun set, or plant a few Cinderella pumpkin seeds in the middle of summer, or place a few good luck totems around here and there. Something about the land is haunting me and I can’t put my finger on it. Am I just rebelling? Not enough shade? Too many fire ants? Burrs? Mosquitoes? Slippery kaliche on the walk down? Not enough privacy to enjoy a few minutes of meditation, what with the big peach McMansion next door? I’m disappointed that I’m just not clicking with the property, even though we’ve had it for a few months, now.

Chas is no longer satisfied with the way crayons and paints taste; now, he is interested in their use as tools. Fingerpaints are in order, although he tends to dislike using materials and tools in ways that are different from his older brother.

Yet, in so many ways, Chas is very different from Ford. Today I suffered multiple minor heart attacks as I caught Chas atop various perches, each time rescuing him from a fall: The back deck has a seat-railing around the perimeter, and he is able to climb atop the railing and prepare for launch off the other side (and down five feet to impale himself on juniper-cedar bramble). For example.

I am frustrated that we can’t pile the kids into the Airstream and drive up East for the next few months. I had more serenity back then: the cabinets were impossible for a child to open, there were no “dropoffs,” everything was so…ship shape. Eighty square feet of control. Minimal cleanup. Simple. Irresponsible. So much less baggage than just the two images below, in and of themselves:

The piece of land, our whole quarter acre of it–I’m so overwhelmed with that right now, I can only sit in my car to photograph it, let alone walk up to a rock on site and watch the sun set, or plant a few Cinderella pumpkin seeds in the middle of summer, or place a few good luck totems around here and there. Something about the land is haunting me and I can’t put my finger on it. Am I just rebelling? Not enough shade? Too many fire ants? Burrs? Mosquitoes? Slippery kaliche on the walk down? Not enough privacy to enjoy a few minutes of meditation, what with the big peach McMansion next door? I’m disappointed that I’m just not clicking with the property, even though we’ve had it for a few months, now.