My thighs, burning holes through my pants, heave as I haul the combined weight of two kids in the bike trailer and Damon, freeloading off his skateboard behind me. He coasts back there like some urban remora, silently clinging to the back of the bike trailer from his longboard, while Ford yells, “Hurry up, taxi! Mommy the wedgie-taxi! Wedgie, poopy taxi, HA!”
“HEEeeYA! MULE,” echoes Damon, like some 6 foot 2 Yosemite Sam that he is.

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 enjoyed making this doll for Chas, who was referring to it as “Dee Dee” before dismissing it to the floor and moving on to deconstructing an old Blackberry device. Ford has since grown attached to it. I myself have been carrying it around the house also, and when I’m least aware I find myself twirling the little cap between my fingers and daydreaming about making more for the new babies in 2006 (what do you think, Elisa? A sophisticated pink velour for Claire? 🙂

If you ask Ford what he wants to be when he grows up, these days he will enthusiastically tell you that he wants to be “a daddy.” If you could see him escorting Chas through the line at the burrito shop, or sharing his cereal with him in the back seat of the car, or hear him translate Chas’ babble when I’m most desperately trying to understand what he’s saying, his choice would make perfect sense. Ford is very sensitive to human expressions and needs, and he loves to help and to understand how people work. I think he’ll be an outstanding dad someday. If I could only get him to remember to feed the Betta. Too late! Bird died yesterday, but it wasn’t starvation. I was tending to that. He had some sort of growth that prompted me to warn Ford (yesterday! whew) that the fish may not live the rest of the week. Bye, Bird. Thanks for contributing 4 months of exotic flare to our dining room, and for freaking out about the Le Creuset Flameware (it was just a pot!) We will miss you.

Today I was loaded with anxiety, but my soul was too weary, so what happened was that I stood there in the middle of the house while my head ran around the living room without me. It was really weird. I remember going to the refrigerator several times to meet a wasted, irritable odor. But I didn’t have the discipline to clean it, desperate as my fridge was for a good cleaning. Instead, I concerned myself with keeping Chas out of the kitchen and hoping that Ford wouldn’t look back into his childhood, later on, to discover that his first memory was peeking into a rancid icebox. I thought of solutions to the problem, and none of them were to clean the fridge. The best idea I had was to ignore it another day.

Chas likes Harry Potter, not snuggling up in bed to read a copy of the book but sitting on the edge of the bed watching the movie on Ford’s laptop. If I deny his first request, he will continue bobbing up and down uttering “Pottah?” Pottah? Pottah?” until either I give in or he breaks down in a holy shitfit. I blame Ford, who is entirely too influential. Chas will sit, transfixed before the screen, for ten minutes at a time. It’s creepy. I know it’s not porn, but this bothers me fundamentally. Books have a lot of competition for his attention. At the same time, I can’t help chuckle; “BOMBAZAH!” is a very interesting first phrase.

Where I lack the inspiration to wipe diluted bleach solution onto refrigerator shelves, I certainly haven’t lacked it in the creative department. And I have Ford as my witness; I found myself telling him earlier this week that 2006 was the year I would be rejected by a lot of publishing companies, but that I’d have dummy (picture) books flying in all different directions, nonetheless. Experience has shown that nothing is final until I’ve confessed it to Ford. Of course, I had to explain the definition of a “dummy book” to Ford, a rather simple process made difficult and I don’t think he ever got over the derogatory connotation.

Today I was loaded with anxiety, but my soul was too weary, so what happened was that I stood there in the middle of the house while my head ran around the living room without me. It was really weird. I remember going to the refrigerator several times to meet a wasted, irritable odor. But I didn’t have the discipline to clean it, desperate as my fridge was for a good cleaning. Instead, I concerned myself with keeping Chas out of the kitchen and hoping that Ford wouldn’t look back into his childhood, later on, to discover that his first memory was peeking into a rancid icebox. I thought of solutions to the problem, and none of them were to clean the fridge. The best idea I had was to ignore it another day.

Chas likes Harry Potter, not snuggling up in bed to read a copy of the book but sitting on the edge of the bed watching the movie on Ford’s laptop. If I deny his first request, he will continue bobbing up and down uttering “Pottah?” Pottah? Pottah?” until either I give in or he breaks down in a holy shitfit. I blame Ford, who is entirely too influential. Chas will sit, transfixed before the screen, for ten minutes at a time. It’s creepy. I know it’s not porn, but this bothers me fundamentally. Books have a lot of competition for his attention. At the same time, I can’t help chuckle; “BOMBAZAH!” is a very interesting first phrase.

Where I lack the inspiration to wipe diluted bleach solution onto refrigerator shelves, I certainly haven’t lacked it in the creative department. And I have Ford as my witness; I found myself telling him earlier this week that 2006 was the year I would be rejected by a lot of publishing companies, but that I’d have dummy (picture) books flying in all different directions, nonetheless. Experience has shown that nothing is final until I’ve confessed it to Ford. Of course, I had to explain the definition of a “dummy book” to Ford, a rather simple process made difficult and I don’t think he ever got over the derogatory connotation.

Today I was loaded with anxiety, but my soul was too weary, so what happened was that I stood there in the middle of the house while my head ran around the living room without me. It was really weird. I remember going to the refrigerator several times to meet a wasted, irritable odor. But I didn’t have the discipline to clean it, desperate as my fridge was for a good cleaning. Instead, I concerned myself with keeping Chas out of the kitchen and hoping that Ford wouldn’t look back into his childhood, later on, to discover that his first memory was peeking into a rancid icebox. I thought of solutions to the problem, and none of them were to clean the fridge. The best idea I had was to ignore it another day.

Chas likes Harry Potter, not snuggling up in bed to read a copy of the book but sitting on the edge of the bed watching the movie on Ford’s laptop. If I deny his first request, he will continue bobbing up and down uttering “Pottah?” Pottah? Pottah?” until either I give in or he breaks down in a holy shitfit. I blame Ford, who is entirely too influential. Chas will sit, transfixed before the screen, for ten minutes at a time. It’s creepy. I know it’s not porn, but this bothers me fundamentally. Books have a lot of competition for his attention. At the same time, I can’t help chuckle; “BOMBAZAH!” is a very interesting first phrase.

Where I lack the inspiration to wipe diluted bleach solution onto refrigerator shelves, I certainly haven’t lacked it in the creative department. And I have Ford as my witness; I found myself telling him earlier this week that 2006 was the year I would be rejected by a lot of publishing companies, but that I’d have dummy (picture) books flying in all different directions, nonetheless. Experience has shown that nothing is final until I’ve confessed it to Ford. Of course, I had to explain the definition of a “dummy book” to Ford, a rather simple process made difficult and I don’t think he ever got over the derogatory connotation.

I just walked downstairs and caught Ford dipping his grubby little fingers into the cake batter. Notice that he doesn’t look spooked or guilty. He’s not trying to hide a thing.