Going for It

There's been a sudden shift in the wind direction around here. Somewhere along the line, I'd decided to settle, and that's never good--in fact, I'm sure that's the exact cause of old age. But after sitting in the doldrums for a few days (which turned into years, actually...), for some reason I'm once again seized with the old carpe diem (Latin for "grab the carp," as I believe I learned from Dave Barry).

Pretty much everybody I've ever known started out with dreams. Little kids all have them. They come so easy when you have that great, fresh, untainted imagination; and all you have to do is picture yourself doing something cool and wonderful. Time is your friend then--everything great is going to happen when you grow up. You don't have to worry about what anything costs, or whether you have any talent or connections. You don't have to worry about running out of time or having other responsibilities. Basically, when you're a little kid, dreaming is your whole job, and you're still good at it.

But suddenly, hey--you're grown up! People start expecting you to pay your own way. The stuff you want costs a lot, and so does the stuff you just plain need, like health insurance. The student loans come due. Maybe you get married. Your spouse has a job right here--moving around is no longer an option. And once you have kids, the dreams are theirs...and usually whatever dreams you can still dredge up turn into dreams for them and their future.

The days go by so fast, and every day seems to have its own challenges--today it's the computer crashing; yesterday was Grandpa's operation; tomorrow I'm too tired from not sleeping. Everything becomes "after the credit card bill is paid off," "after we finish adding the new bedroom," "after the first of the year," "after I retire," "after I'm feeling better." And one day you're getting ready for bed, and you stop and think, I can't remember one single thing I did today toward my goals. Or the days before. Unless I do something drastic right this minute, this is exactly how I'm going to live out the rest of my days.

Am I the only one who finds this screamingly terrifying? I'd rather live out my days flinging my battered body against the gates of my dreams--trying to tunnel under, climb over, or hike all the way around; trying to get inside. Even if I don't make it, at least I'll be headed somewhere. At least, my days will have a purpose.

It's like the poem about the pioneers says: "The cowards never started and the weak died along the way." I sure enough started this journey years ago. I even made it a goodly distance down the road. I wrote those books. I sent them out. I got the rejections and I still kept sending them out. I got the heartbreakingly-close calls and the outright door-slams in the face. Eventually, I got the publications. I got the book-signings. But what I found out is that you never really "make it." At least, I didn't.

I used to think if I could just publish a novel, I'd die happy. But my reality was that I published a book and --after all that struggle-- I was still just getting started. The fighting ahead--through the brush, and the tigers, and the wild and icy rivers; the bloody-fingered climb up the rock face, to the place where my dreams live--that wasn't over.

I wanted more books, better books. I wanted to be a better writer. I wanted to feel that I'd said what I was put here to say. And, though I was now published, I still hadn't found my way out of the wilderness to the main road.

For a lot of years, I'd slipped into writing articles and personal essays. I was still "writing", and I was still publishing. But it wasn't where I belong, and my heart knew it, no matter what my head kept saying.

I encouraged my children to chase down their dreams. But I was no longer taking my own advice, and my words rang hollow in my ears.

And so I'm writing again. I'm revising clunky endings and pondering half-constructed plots; I'm scribbling down crazy ideas that pop into my head seemingly from the air; I'm sending things out and daring people to reject me. In short, I'm alive again--like Snow White pushing aside the lid of the glass coffin, and the years of kudzu and spiderwebs.

A rejection is just a sign along the road to destiny--you won't see any of these if you aren't writing, and if you aren't putting your stuff out there in the big wide world. But neither will you ever see your name in print. Ultimately, to me it's worth it. As the Latin Americans say, "Vale la pena"--it's worth the pain. I think, deep down, the heart knows what it wants and why it's here. Why would I trade my days on earth for anything less?
Why would I trade the hardships of a brave charge toward my dreams, for what Thoreau called a life "of quiet desperation?"

Am I on the right road? I've wondered. Recently, I let an agent see the first chapter of my novel under revision, but also told her about my nonfiction ideas, partly, I'm sure, because nonfiction always feels safe, compared to those notoriously hard-to-sell novels--like lingering on base and not making the perilous dash for home. It felt like the Almighty winked at me when she said, "Concentrate on your fiction." Hey, Lord, You don't have to tell me twice (I hope)!

As long as I am questing, I am young, no matter what my body tries to tell me. George Eliot said, "It is never too late to be what you might have been." We shall see about that--yes, most definitely! I'm on the road again.

The Audacity of Joy

"Who has despised the day of small things?" Scripture asks. We should probably all answer, "I, Lord." Our blessings are never enough; our gifts and talents are too small; we never accomplish enough. We hang up on that head cold, the cat who persists in scratching the door frame or peeing in the corner, a rattle under our hood, our long and fruitless job search, even the despair and horror of the daily news.

We miss the joy. Again and again, we miss the joy. Like the Israelites who were led out of bitter bondage and given manna from heaven to eat, we complain and kvetch--"I want meat; I want onions!" Too often, it's only in retrospect we see what it was we had...and how sweet.

Partly, I think, there is some shamefacedness even in our grudging daily tablespoon of joy. We scoop it from the well and hold it to our lips and our eyes dart about, wondering if somewhere someone is judging us for it.

How can we warm ourselves around a cinnamon latte or inhale the fragrance of a perfect, porous slice of rustic bread, when all around us we hear the cries of the starving Third World, or our own American children, starved, beaten, imprisoned in closets by deranged parents? Shouldn't we eat the bread of sorrow and drink tears from our cup?

How can we delight in our loved ones, when others are weeping over hospital beds or coffins? How do we rejoice in our strong bodies--running, leaping, dancing--when others struggle with cancer, and catastrophic injuries?

How do we take pleasure in waxing our car, or arranging flowers in a bowl on a shiny table, when everywhere we see images of people losing their jobs and their homes? Can we pet our well-fed dogs and cats, knowing they lead far more comfortable lives than thousands of struggling human beings?

Sometimes, it isn't self-consciousness about our blessings so much as blindness to them. Sure, we have cable TV, but our set is old, and we don't get HD. We're driving a used car and are ashamed of the worn-out carpeting.

And partly, we judge ourselves, weigh ourselves in the balance and find ourselves wanting: We really aren't so talented. Once again, we didn't get done what we planned to do. What we did do was flawed. No matter what we do, it is never enough, and we beat ourselves up. Nobody ever has to disdain our efforts--we ourselves despise them. If we make a little progress today, we never even stop and see it.

Small things are all we really have here on earth. All we have is this moment. By focusing on what is not perfect, we sacrifice all that is good and sweet and right. Is it not a sin against God and all who suffer, if we have good things and don't rejoice and appreciate them? Yes, we should recognize those who suffer and seek to help them, but we should also recognize and be profoundly grateful for what we have--and use it well.

It is a common human experience to look back, after a loss, and think, Why didn't I realize what I had? Why didn't I hold it dearer? If only I could turn back time...if only. If we only open our eyes, which one of us would not see how blessed he is today, this very day? How sad only to see it in our rearview mirror, or pasted in a scrapbook. Today, we are free; we have a safe, warm place to be; we have someone who wants to be with us; leaves budding on the lilac; a warm, cinnamony rice pudding.

The same is true as we look at ourselves and our efforts. Why must we be so darned vigilant about dragging ourselves down? Why are we so blind to the small steps of progress we've made today, and not tell ourselves, "Good job there!", as we would if we were encouraging someone else. One percent progress is still progress! "That's the stuff! More of that will get the job done!"

Joy is all around us--let us embrace it and rebuke the darkness.