Lost teeth like little pearls, pockets full of rocks and a
forgotten butterscotch, smudged handprints on the windows, knee-high hugs—all
of this smallness I will miss, certainly, when my wild little boys one day bend
down to hug me, mornings their knees bang table legs as they pour gallons of
milk into cereal bowls.
forgotten butterscotch, smudged handprints on the windows, knee-high hugs—all
of this smallness I will miss, certainly, when my wild little boys one day bend
down to hug me, mornings their knees bang table legs as they pour gallons of
milk into cereal bowls.
Navigating the dark house at night, we unearth mines of
marbles and matchbox cars. Smallness defines these years—years of demands
howled or sweetly pleaded. Years when all distractions can be justified,
because they need me more than the empty page, though I’m sometimes surprised
at how easily work and motherhood elbow writing into narrow spaces, by the
weight of so many small things.
marbles and matchbox cars. Smallness defines these years—years of demands
howled or sweetly pleaded. Years when all distractions can be justified,
because they need me more than the empty page, though I’m sometimes surprised
at how easily work and motherhood elbow writing into narrow spaces, by the
weight of so many small things.
In Ellen Gilchrist’s essay, “The Middle Way,” she wishes
“the young women of our fortunate world find ways to balance their lives. I
hope they learn to rejoice and wait.”
“the young women of our fortunate world find ways to balance their lives. I
hope they learn to rejoice and wait.”
Though I try to sustain Gilchrist’s view, I sometimes swing
toward Tillie Olsen’s mourning “the thwarting of what struggles to come into
being, but cannot,” and letting “writing die over and over again in me.”
toward Tillie Olsen’s mourning “the thwarting of what struggles to come into
being, but cannot,” and letting “writing die over and over again in me.”
I know I’m not alone in this, I’ve seen the
standing-room-only crowds at AWP
panels of parent-writers.
standing-room-only crowds at AWP
panels of parent-writers.
Hemingway pretty much summed it up when he said, “I like to
do and can do many things better than I can write, but when I don’t write, I
feel like shit.”
do and can do many things better than I can write, but when I don’t write, I
feel like shit.”
I cope with that feeling by piecing together, and making
peace with, small windows of writing time.
peace with, small windows of writing time.
Bill Roorbach
writes, “You can get a lot done in the ten minutes a pile of Legos buys you
with your three-year-old. You can still think while changing a diaper. You can
still take a note or two for future reference before collapsing in a heap…But
normal times, no baby at your breast, no death in the family: Call your writing
work. Claim all the odd minutes that are built into even the busiest days for
writing.”
writes, “You can get a lot done in the ten minutes a pile of Legos buys you
with your three-year-old. You can still think while changing a diaper. You can
still take a note or two for future reference before collapsing in a heap…But
normal times, no baby at your breast, no death in the family: Call your writing
work. Claim all the odd minutes that are built into even the busiest days for
writing.”
At last summer’s Kachemak Bay Writer’s
Conference, keynote speaker Naomi Shihab Nye reminded us that writing is a
portable art. “Don’t wait for the weekend,” she said, “use all small
increments.”
Conference, keynote speaker Naomi Shihab Nye reminded us that writing is a
portable art. “Don’t wait for the weekend,” she said, “use all small
increments.”
Keeping notebooks is one way of easing the feeling of
letting words slip by.
letting words slip by.
In The Muses Among Us,
Kim Stafford writes about the value of carrying a notebook to capture
observations, dialogue, and stories. “I make the hearing and recording of them
my mission as a writer,” says Stafford, “dreams get away if we don’t tell them,
or write them down. Thoughts do the same. The writer’s greatest chance may be
devotion to the passing fragment. It is small, but it is pure, and it may hold
a compact infinity. You heard it for a reason.”
Kim Stafford writes about the value of carrying a notebook to capture
observations, dialogue, and stories. “I make the hearing and recording of them
my mission as a writer,” says Stafford, “dreams get away if we don’t tell them,
or write them down. Thoughts do the same. The writer’s greatest chance may be
devotion to the passing fragment. It is small, but it is pure, and it may hold
a compact infinity. You heard it for a reason.”
Entire books and essays can emerge from a small, deliberate
practice. So can peace of mind.
practice. So can peace of mind.
When I was working on Gaining
Daylight, the essay “Fifteen Times over the Bridge,” began as a quick daily
walk that became a conscious act of observation and written reflection that
helped the whole day feel less fragmented.
Daylight, the essay “Fifteen Times over the Bridge,” began as a quick daily
walk that became a conscious act of observation and written reflection that
helped the whole day feel less fragmented.
I just read The Forest
Unseen, by biologist David Haskell. He spent a year watching a
one-square-meter of old-growth forest in Tennessee, comparing the project to
Tibetan monks creating a mandala—both are a way of seeking “the universal
within the infinitesimally small.”
Unseen, by biologist David Haskell. He spent a year watching a
one-square-meter of old-growth forest in Tennessee, comparing the project to
Tibetan monks creating a mandala—both are a way of seeking “the universal
within the infinitesimally small.”
I see a similar pursuit in short-form genres like flash
fiction and nonfiction. Anthologies of nonfiction pieces under 2,000 words like
Short Takes or In Brief show us that oftentimes, brevity encourages creativity.
fiction and nonfiction. Anthologies of nonfiction pieces under 2,000 words like
Short Takes or In Brief show us that oftentimes, brevity encourages creativity.
And there’s haiku, the definition of which sounds strikingly
like life with small children: it “leaves no time to explain an experience” and
instead “conveys an experience directly without commentary.”
like life with small children: it “leaves no time to explain an experience” and
instead “conveys an experience directly without commentary.”
I’ve seen the power of haiku described as the act of
witnessing, of offering resistance to “the remorseless powers of forgetfulness.”
witnessing, of offering resistance to “the remorseless powers of forgetfulness.”
And isn’t that what troubles me when I’m not writing? The
feeling that amid all this happy, exhausting chaos, I’m missing or forgetting
what I should be capturing in words?
feeling that amid all this happy, exhausting chaos, I’m missing or forgetting
what I should be capturing in words?
As I was looking for examples of beauty in small pieces, I
opened Braided Creek: A Conversation in
Poetry by Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison to this:
opened Braided Creek: A Conversation in
Poetry by Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison to this:
Treasure what you find
already in your pocket, friend.
On a hike last Sunday, Liam found an owl pellet in the dry
grass on the peak. He carried the soft black handful carefully home. Later,
head bowed at the kitchen table, he sorted vole bones small even for his nimble
fingers, finding a tiny skull with teeth the size of splinters, while I
marveled at the wonder of worlds in miniature, the owl and its meal, the boy and
his curiosity, and what can be made of a day, what can and can’t be saved with
words.
grass on the peak. He carried the soft black handful carefully home. Later,
head bowed at the kitchen table, he sorted vole bones small even for his nimble
fingers, finding a tiny skull with teeth the size of splinters, while I
marveled at the wonder of worlds in miniature, the owl and its meal, the boy and
his curiosity, and what can be made of a day, what can and can’t be saved with
words.
Our featured author for November is Sara Loewen, whose first book, Gaining Daylight: Life on Two Islands, was published by the UA Press in February. She received her MFA in creative writing from the UAA Low-Residency Program in 2011. She works at Kodiak College and fishes commercially for salmon each summer with her family in Uyak Bay.
Oh yes…to notice the small things is big enough. To put it down in words is even bigger! I'm not sure which is more amazing – to write while one's children are small or to remember those days while writing in a room alone. It's always a great balancing act! I love the image of a handful of marbles.