llbwritesto.me

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Life Management

On Silence, Burnout, and Writing (Anything at All)

By

Dear      ,

Not long ago, I wrote at Jane’s place, and told people I’ve been burned out. I wish I could say it’s completely gone. It’s not. Like I said at Jane’s, “I still haven’t worked out all the details.”

As a high-capacity person, I find it particularly perplexing to feel so “low capacity.” The upside is that it makes me more compassionate in all kinds of interesting ways. The downside is, of course, that I keep hitting the edge of my capacity far sooner than seems logical. Then I feel sad. Then that makes me feel even more burned out. Not a very fun cycle, as you can imagine.

In my notebook, now, is a word map. It’s my possible path. It’s a wager. And definitely an exploration. I don’t recall if the word silence is in one of the little circles (I put all my words in circles, unlike some mappers), but it should be.

In another circle is the word voices. And I’ve been keenly listening to the ones around me. Today, I listened to a 9-month-old boy fussing to his mama in the grocery store. I stopped to chat with him for a moment and got the cutest smile in return. His mom looked happily proud and a little grateful. I was glad to have been privileged to listen to their voices.

So when I say that silence should go into one of my circles, I’m not talking about the absence of sound (though that has its virtues too). I’m talking about the observation of poet Michael Longley, who noted in an interview with Krista Tippett that he’d gone without writing poems for ten years. He thought he might never write another poem. To his surprise, he eventually did. “Silence is part of the enterprise,” he concluded.

When I write to you, it asks of me not to be silent. Some of you help support my writing (for which I’m grateful), and I wonder if it seems odd to you when I am silent, as if that’s not part of writer-me. But it is. For, in silence, I find myself again. I find you. I find the little boy fussing to his mama. Today, I even found a poem.

In another circle on my word map is green spaces and blue spaces. I got the idea from Laura Brown’s upcoming workshop. Every day I am trying to give one of those kinds of spaces as a gift to myself. Sometimes it’s a walk by the river. Sometimes it’s just a walk in the rain. The back porch has beckoned, and amidst its simple setup (folding chair, portable coolers that have convenient cup holders, cement floor), I can watch the greening of my tiny, tiny yard.

I’m not sure if the blue and green spaces will ultimately soothe my burnout, but today the little herb garden, with its sage and oregano beneath the weeping forsythia, brought my heart a small gift of words.

With thanks to Michael Longley,
quoted within

“Silence is part
of the enterprise,”
he says.

It is true.

Here, you know
that the new sage
tastes like earth—
not just any earth, but
yours at the edge
of the little herb garden.

Here, the pine
is in conversation
with the maples,
while the wood-winged bushes
come alive. Here

the “forgeries”
fall away, the fruited
green tea feels like silk
—liquid and full—
that touches every part
of your open lip.

And you write
your first word
in what feels like

forever.

Today, Dear——, I wish for you silence, if that’s what you need. After all, it’s part of the enterprise of being a writer. And, if you’re not a writer, I suspect it’s part of the enterprise of being almost anything that takes a good deal of heart and soul, so I wish it for you. Tip it to the lip of your heart, and soul.

As always,
L.L.

Callie, Energy, and Rocktopia

By

Dear      ,

They are charging $91 a ticket for Rocktopia.

I saw it for free.

“Free” might be the most you’d want to pay for the show. I’m not saying that to be unfriendly. Honest. It’s just, well, a question of energy.

Recently, I published a snippet of author Callie Feyen’s annotations journal. She annotates as part of the writing process, to help her decide: should it stay, or should it go?

Watching Rocktopia for free was a cool thing to be able to do, barring the mundane parts (which were remarkably many) and the just-didn’t-gel parts (which were also remarkably many). Only two songs in the whole production seemed of interest to the people on stage.

Everything else lacked energy. Or it felt like energies-in-conflict.

I kept thinking about Callie during the show. Callie is one of the most honest-with-herself authors I’ve met. Somehow it’s a combination of her personality and perhaps the particular MFA program she attended. When she annotates, she is asking a lot of “Why” questions that get at the question of energy—a lack of it, or energies in conflict. She’s not afraid to do that. It can mean dropping whole chapters (or whole articles), in the end. It can mean reversals. Often, she discovers something she had no intentions of discovering.

Today, I am thinking about me.

Lately, I’ve lacked energy, Dear——. Or perhaps it’s just energies in conflict, within my own soul. I feel like Rocktopia!

The two good sections of Rocktopia seemed completely embodied. Suddenly, these weren’t just singers. They were players of parts, deeply felt. And they were in sync with each other. A common love of the message, the moves, and the sounds made these sections absolutely riveting. The rest could have fallen away.

If I had it to spare, I would have paid $91 to see the parts that the cast loved. They were that good.

Today I am asking myself, “Why?” and “What should fall away?” I am looking to be in sync. It feels like a time of massive change, even though on the surface everything appears to be doldrums.

And you, Dear——? What are you feeling right now? I do wish you the will to annotate your life, if that’s what you need. And, then, the sometimes harder step: to act on your discoveries. Or, if you are just singing along, embodying life with great joy, I’ll sit here in the afternoon sun, looking out over the river, and listen. Together, we could feel free.

As Always,

L.L.

30 Days, 30 Poems Eco-Challenge Merge

By

Dear      ,

Right now I am cleaning the dining room. I mean, I was cleaning it this morning, and I’ll get back to it soon.

If you were here (in my dining room), you’d see me sorting through a stack of handwritten lists and copying them over onto one new list. I make a lot of lists. Things get done. Things don’t get done. I make decisions about what undone things to carry forward. I drop things. I celebrate the finished tasks with a momentary smile.

For the 30 Days, 30 Poems Eco-Challenge merge, I decided I need a list. You might not find this very interesting. Or you might. (I just found it very interesting to see what one of my teammates has chosen to do for the Drawdown Challenge!)

Okay, so here’s my Challenges list. Undone. And done. Maybe once I do some of them, instead of “checking them off,” I’ll add links to where I found resources to help me accomplish them. That could serve as my “done” check mark.

Buildings & cities

• I will spend at least 30 minutes researching other Drawdown Buildings and Cities Solutions

• I will complete an online energy audit of my home, office, or dorm room and identify my next steps for saving energy

• I will spend at least 15 minutes researching heat pumps to see if installing one makes sense for my home/building

Electricity Generation

• I will watch a video about methane digesters (also commonly known as anaerobic digesters)

• I will spend at least 15 minutes learning more about the energy generation potential of Micro Wind

• I will spend at least 30 minutes learning more about the energy generation potential of biomass

• I will spend at least 30 minutes learning more about the energy generation potential of wave and tidal energy

• I will spend at least 30 minutes learning more about the energy generation potential of geothermal energy and consider investing in this technology

Land Use

• I will spend at least (___) minutes finding out if anyone is working on perennial biomass projects in my region and how I can get involved

Food

• I will spend at least 30 minutes researching other Drawdown Food Solutions

• I will spend at least 30 minutes watching videos and/or reading about the environmental benefits of silvopasture

Challenges Already Completed Before The Eco-Challenge, As Part of My Ongoing Interest in Life

• I will enjoy meatless or vegan meal(s) each day of the challenge

• I will use smaller plates and/or serve smaller portions when dishing out food

• I will spend at least (___) minutes learning about the need for more regenerative agriculture

• I will buy from organic and local farmers who have made the decision to not use synthetic nitrogen fertilizers

• I will start a compost bin where I live

• I will spend at least (___) minutes researching the impact of my diet to see how it contributes to deforestation

Dear——, my 18-y-o daughter has chosen just three challenges. You could choose just one, if you want to join us. The number doesn’t matter. It’s about choosing doable things that might interest and inspire you.

Also, I’m going to write poems to go along with my challenges. Being creative feels important as a part of this. My daughter? This is what she made. Video is her art.

Today, whatever challenges you are facing, I wish for you a creative response of your very own. Art, beauty, creativity. This is what helps us stay energized—and hopeful.

As Always,

L.L.

Ailing Bees, Energy, and Missing The New Yorker

By

Dear      ,

I’m wondering. Do you know what a skep is? I did not know until Alexander Langlands told me.

He wanted to make one for the bees.

I wanted to go hear Rachel Aviv yesterday and tell you about it here and maybe in an exclusive on Patreon. Rachel has been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 2013. I have never been a staff writer at The New Yorker, and I had questions for her.

I did not have questions about skeps or bees, but this is the beauty of reading—it expands. And I know you know this about reading, but I just wanted to say it, because it’s sort of like something else I know you know—listening can expand your world in ways you hadn’t expected. This is why, when Alexander Langlands was talking about bees and skeps, though I didn’t have questions about either of these things, I thought maybe I’d take the time to listen.

Okay, technically, reading is not listening, and I promise I have also been listening in the ordinary way. So last night I went to Rachel’s house—not Rachel Aviv, mind you, but a dear friend who’s been letting me park in her driveway so I can stop getting $30 parking tickets (due to the car disaster, I vowed not to park the remaining car in the driveway until the wayward maple could be trimmed, and The Town has refused to listen to my pleas for a street parking exception due to extenuating circumstances, and it feels very sad not to be listened to and to feel alone and uncared for by The Town, but Rachel graciously let me park in her driveway, and so last night we had tea, and I listened.)

The skep, first made as early as the 8th century (mid medieval times) is fashioned of willow or hazel, or from straw that’s been twisted and bound by cane. It looks like a 60’s up-do you might expect to see on one of the B52s. Just add bees, and you’ve got honey.

If you listen to Rachel, you’ve got honey, too. Maybe if you listen to anyone at all, you’ve got it. There is something strangely magical (or, at least surreal) about concentrating on the voice of someone and listening with every part of your being, not just to the words, but to the sounds, to the person, and the way they are moving and the look on their face.

Rachel Aviv looks kind of intense, while at the same time looking almost medieval (not that the two need be mutually exclusive). Maybe it was the particular photograph and the way her hair and the neckline of her blouse reminded me of watching the show Merlin. She looked like Gwendolyn, but with fair skin and fair locks and maybe blue eyes, though it can be hard to tell eye-color in a black-and-white photo.

It was snowing in the morning yesterday; regardless, I still thought I’d go see Aviv. The day unfolded with more snow and more snow, and then the sun made a late appearance, the roads cleared, and all seemed well with the world. I could have gone.

Alexander Langlands, when I listened to him, told me something I hadn’t known about bee-keeping. Many of the big keepers kind of forget about the “keeping” part. They feed the bees sugar water, which is a sub-par form of energy. It makes the bees sick over time (I’ve been meaning to say, Dear———, sugar will make you sick over time, too), but it means the keepers can take all the honey they want and push the bees to keep working.

I’ve been working really hard lately. Well, I work hard all the time. But lately I’ve been working even harder, to meet some increased demands in my personal and business life. So, after Monday, I was still tired yesterday. My car was at Rachel’s. I did not have energy to go hear Aviv and ask my questions under the gaze of her intense eyes. I am sure I would have enjoyed listening to her, because I’m learning that there’s honey to be found in the act of creating an extra-special keeping-space for someone else’s words.

But.

There is a way in which we can run our lives that is like living on sugar water. And I thought of Langland’s last statement regarding skeps, and keeping, and bees… “The craeft in beekeeping is not in the meddling of the bee’s affairs but in the preparation of their home.”

In my home, there is actually not even one copy of The New Yorker, though I think it is such a cool magazine because it’s been around for a very long time and even Dr. Seuss had a friend there, once upon a time. I thought about this. I thought about the skep I needed, in order to keep writing to you. It did not include going to see Rachel Aviv—at least not yesterday.

What do I wish for you, then? A skep of your own. With the heartiness of a honeyed life. No sugar water. Because I want you to be healthy for as long as you call the 21st century your home.

As Always,

L.L.

Survivors, Salmon, and Energy

By

Dear      ,

Did you know I’m a survivor? I am.

It’s a long story. No need to go into that here. It’s been written about elsewhere, and so maybe you already know.

To survive, you need to know how to fight. There is a place for resistance. The salmon know this! Oh, how they fight their way upstream, for the sake of survival. They would rather die fighting than die floating in a frictionless place.

You could say I am a very good salmon. I would rather die fighting than floating. (You make the T-shirt, I’ll wear it. Deal?)

What has come less naturally to me is learning to move with the currents. To discern what calls for resistance and persistence, and what calls for letting go.

Yesterday, I saw a body at the side of the road.

In all my years (and at this point, they haven’t been few), I have never seen a body at the side of the road. In fact, besides at the occasional funeral, I have not seen a body anywhere at all. Not on a beach. Not on a woodland trail. Not in my back yard. Nowhere.

Remember the thundersnow? Just a few days after the windstorm, the thundersnow took down even more trees. Many of the roads around here are unpassable. Visibility is less than it could be. Pavements are slippery. People feel out of sorts.

Is that what happened? Did a driver, lost and confused and out of sorts due to one more detour, come whipping around that curve and, in the low visibility, hit a person, who became a body on the side of the road?

I don’t know.

There were a few cars ahead of mine, approaching that bend where the body lay. Likewise, there were a few cars sitting at the rise of the hill, coming from the opposite direction. People were out of their vehicles. The sun was setting, the shadows were long, the world of pines and snow and winding roads was hushed.

I saw someone reach down to touch the body. Maybe to see if life still pulsed. I saw several people gently placing coats, one coat after another, over the motionless form. One person seemed to be on his phone. The look on his face was “911.”

Part of me, the curious part, the horrified part, the I-must-know-if-he-(she? they?)-survive part wanted to stay and continue to watch the story unfold. Part of me wanted to console. But there were many people already on the scene.

I turned the car around. In my rear-view mirror, I saw red lights. Sirens called: life is at stake, life is at stake, life is at stake!

Then my daughter, who was sitting in the passenger seat in a deep silence, and I made our way home, with many detours along the way. We went three towns over, being lost on the winding back roads. We followed the setting sun. We moved with the currents, feeling our way. We were each, I know, hoping the body would be more than a body as darkness came. We were hoping for a survivor.

Though our talk was muted, I noted that it was so remarkable that the people at the side of the road had not tried to move the person. (You can hurt a person irreversibly if you move him when he’s badly injured. Well-meaning people trying to help someone who is physically broken have caused more harm than good by the force of movement at the wrong moment. I’m sure you know this. But I’m not sure my daughter did. I wanted to find the smallest way to console her: smart people had been discerning.)

When to fight? When to float? When to resist? When to move with the currents, and when to move against them?

This is the work of wisdom.

Sitting here, looking out the windows towards a sky filled with quiet sun, after a week of detours and traveling unknown roads, I know what I want more than ever: I want you to survive. And thrive.

So, if you are floating, and that is not going to help you survive, I wish you the option of a necessary fight. Or, if you are fighting, and that is causing you or others more harm than good, I wish you the will to move with the currents. Whatever physics you need today, I want it to be yours.

As Always,

L.L.