Dream geography

Does this ever happen to you? You find yourself in the same familiar places in dreams, over and over, known in the dream world, but not ones you've seen in waking life. It's not a recurring dream, but the same locale returned to regularly as you sleep.

It happens to me. I have a slowly emerging map of my subconscious, especially the anxious and fear-filled places but some of comfort. When I was young it was the lake side with a volcano in the distance. What would happen there varied (as it does, there were not recurring dreams but places) and it always had a slight scent of sulfur and menace. For many years I would find myself on top of the unfinished building, looking out over the same city scape, not a place I recognize though something like 1970's New York City. It's cold and windy, unsteady and unsafe. There is an elevator that took me there but I can't get one to bring me back down. There have been specific woodlands, buildings, rooms, beaches, all places I return to again and again in my dreams. Some eventually fade away entirely, but most continue to make Special Guest Appearances from time to time.

Most recently I've been dreaming of an indoor slum, deep underground, constricted and claustrophobic except when it opens into vast caverns. It was purpose-built to hold people; I can't really say house people, none of these rooms qualify as homes. They are industrial, kind of futuristic, and very small. Outside the rooms is a warren of narrow passageways with un-railed walkways over treacherous crevasses. It is not a safe, comforting, or easy place to manage, but in every dream I am trying to get back there for reasons that vary widely. In this morning's visit I needed to get back to my room so I could change clothing for a job.

What I find particularly interesting about this place is the steps I must take to get there. It is clearly a related to the magic woods of wonder tales, because if I don't follow the proper route and say the right things, all will be lost. I don't remember it clearly in the waking world, but it has deep familiarity in the dream world. I must go through several buildings, take elevators to specific floors and follow certain routes. I pass over a footbridge and must discard that which I am carrying. I can cross, but not with any things (yeah, I know, it's a pretty blunt symbol). From there I enter a dark building with a winding path through mounds that could be hills or could be trash. There are three people along the path, a man I must not see, someone else I must not hear, and an old woman whom I must treat kindly. I remember she had enormous feet blocking the path and it was by calling her grandmother, massaging her swollen legs, and embracing her (though she smelled terrible) that I could continue.

So it is in dreams. I have thought of trying to map them but somehow that feels unwise. I wonder sometimes if these places with their specific features and requirements are ever visited by others, if there is some kind of shared dream geography. Perhaps there is an old woman dreaming of kindness who calls me into the dream land when she needs it. I don't know. What I do know is that I love the depth of these places, the ways the symbols I find there are in the same language as fairy tales, and that the stories change while the landscape may not. It gives me a sense of mystery and wonder, even if the dreams are not always comfortable.

All of this reminds me of the 1962 short film La Jette, remade as 12 Monkeys. If you've not seen it, in the not too distant future humanity has had to retreat underground. There is a man who has the same recurring image in his dream and this is used as a path to send him back in time, to stop the triggering event that led to the current dystopia. Such strong, recurrent dream images and geographies can't help but feel meaningful and real.

Do you have dream realms? What are they like for you? What do they mean for you? And have you ever been to an underground indoor slum with a magical path for entry? If so, wave next time. I'll try to wave back.

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(c)2019 Laura S. Packer

Why hello there!

Time is funny sometimes. You get involved in a project and WHAM! it's been six months. Okay, I get involved in a project and it's been six months. I can only juggle so much.

Hi. Here I am, in my office, waving. My hair (as usual) is a mess, shorter than many of you may have seen it before, but that's the way things are. In truth, I've missed writing here but wasn't sure how to approach it anymore. Do I write about grief and missing Kevin, in light of my life continuing? Do I write about these complicated joys and sorrows and what it means to be in life after death? Do I write about storytelling? Do I just post pictures? It became rather overwhelming, so I stepped aside to work on other things.

There is so much to catch you up on.

• My book is out. 
• I've launched a Patreon so you can directly support my work, get stories, coaching and other great perks.
• I'm getting married to a wonderful man who understands that life is complicated.
• I miss Kevin like crazy and have learned so much about love. 
• I'm teaching a class on Right Livelihood that you can take. 
• I'm also teaching an online storytelling class that you can take.
• I'll be in Kansas City, New England, Wisconsin, California, and some other places in the coming months.
• I've been posting a daily #barkagainstthedark on facebook and twitter to help us all remember that there is light in the world and we can be that light.
• I've also been posting almost daily #storyseeds to help us all be a little more creative.
• I'm doing this, that, and the other thing. It's been busy.

Over the next few weeks I'll post weekly, catching you up on the craziness that is my life, and then we'll see what happens next. What do you want to know?
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(c)2019 Laura S. Packer

The observer effect

I’ve been thinking about the observer effect lately, about how the act of observation changes things. I wrote earlier this week about how storytellers and other artists are also observers and recorders, which can make a difference in a dangerous world, but now I'm thinking about it on a more personal level. The observer effect has certainly been powerful for me; I am an observer, a keek, and I’m aware that being observed changes what I do, how I behave and how I respond. I think this is true for most of us, but it feels especially active in my life, as a performer and writer. My own observation of the world and of myself have changed who I am, how I understand the world and my place in it.

I started this blog in 2007 in conjunction with my first NaNoWriMo. I loved that experience of daily writing and wanted to continue developing better writing habits, but knew I wasn’t likely to do so without some kind of audience, some kind of observer effect. So I began to blog. I wrote in a blog hoping others might read what I was writing, so I would write more. I had no idea how important that decision would be. I thought I was just writing.

At first, this blog was an ongoing series of ruminations about the world, but I quickly began to write more specifically about storytelling. By having an assumed audience of readers I had someone I could muse to about storytelling and so began to develop more complex and evolved ideas about the role of storytelling in the world. I wouldn’t have done that without you, the readers, without the observer effect. It has been very important to me to find a way to delve into the deeper meaning of the art that defines my life. Being observed meant that I had to express my thoughts more clearly than I might have otherwise. Thank you.

As you know, in January of 2014 this blog became a companion piece to Kevin’s caringbridge site, a place where I could express some of my own feelings in the midst of his treatment for pancreatic cancer. Once he died this blog became a place where I could think aloud about my grief, where I knew I was not alone.

There are many things that can be said about public grieving. There are many things I could say about my public grieving. I’ve had people tell me I overshare, that I shouldn’t say such things, that I am making a spectacle of myself, that I will chase away my new love by writing about the old. My response is that it’s my choice, that we each have different needs when we grieve, no one is forced to read this blog anyway and he repeatedly assures me that this is not the case. I’ve also been told that the things I write express what the reader thought was inexpressible, that I have given voice to those who have lost their most precious person in the world. As I’ve begun to rebuild (I don’t think of it as healing or moving on, I am someone so different now) I’ve thought aloud about that process, too. Again, I’ve been told it’s too much and I’ve been told that I’ve given hope in the midst of despair. And none of it would have happened without the observer effect because I wouldn't have written in the first place.

All of this has occurred without any specific intention. Much of my grief has been deeply private, moments you will never see and experiences I don’t want to share. The public part of my grief started as a way to give voice to the unbearable and has continued as a way to understand the world I now live in. Every time someone responded to one of my grief posts I knew I was less alone. That helped immeasurably.

More times that I can count this blog and you, the readers, have saved my life. Thank you. I never expected that when I began it way back when. In the midst of the most difficult thing I have ever experienced, being observed meant I chose to continue.

Now, 9 years and some 796 entries later (which means very roughly 70,000 words) I find myself here. I am maintaining two blogs (this one and my organizational storytelling blog) which means three entries a week, and occasional posts in my food blog. I am forced to have good writing habits to maintain this level of content. I rarely have more than 150 readers for a given post, which is very few in the blogosphere, but I continue.

I continue because the observer effect has made me a better writer. Knowing someone will read what I write makes me take more time, put more thought into it and craft it more than I might otherwise. The observer effect means I know I’m not alone. At least a few people read each post, even if it may not be as many as I might like. Knowing that I have shared my thoughts with someone has kept me going through some very dark nights. The observer effect has made me a better person. It means that just maybe something I’ve said has helped someone. And that’s the best part of all.

This is the last 2016 post in True Stories, Honest Lies; I’m considering what I want to do with this blog in the coming years. I hope to have more readers. More than that, I hope to continue this experiment with the power of an observed life, written.

I’d love to know about the observer effect in your own life and, more than that, I need to thank you. Your presence on this journey, even if you just stopped by once, has changed me. You’ve made me a better writer, a clearer thinker, and you’ve kept me going through tough times.

You never know what kind of impact you’ll have on someone. I hope some of what I’ve written has helped you. Thank you for keeping an eye on me, and I look forward to continuing to observe the world with you in the coming year.

Love,
Laura

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Here in the dark

The day after solstice and the world is still shrouded. I love this time of year. I find myself at my most creative, my most volatile, my most self when I have no choice but to be present in the dark.

I have struggled with episodes of depression for most of my life; late autumn and early winter are prime times to plummet into the dark, and no surprise. The world is dark. For all that I dread these episodes, I learn so much each and every time it happens, just as I learn so much each winter solstice when the world is turned over to the things that live in the dark. Even those years when I retain my equilibrium, the dark lets me see the world and its inhabitants in shadow-light. Here the tree and its branches against the barely-brighter sky. There the moon-glow from the snow.

This year I find myself sitting in my dark living room, watching the candles flicker and considering the nature of the dark. Without the dark we would not relish the return of the light. We would have no time when we can't call on the excuse of the glare to avoid that which we most need to cherish and consider. Without the dark we would yearn for the solace and stillness it provides. We try to deny it, but it is as much a part of us as the sunlight. We need the balance. We are creatures of night as well as day.

We find ourselves in the dark. We rely less on sight and more on our other senses. I can smell the burning wax, hear the click and hum of the furnace and notice the presence of those long gone. Whether they live only in my imagination or as external phenomena I don't know, and I don't really care. I welcome them into the warmth and faint glow. I can share myself with them here in the night.

In the dark I turn to my own heart for guidance. Without clearly marked paths to travel and instructions from the world, I know only my own rhythm, my own breath, my own life in this very moment.

We are the things that live in the dark, our shadowy selves less defined but welcome. Here. Sit down. Have a cup of tea. I am listening. I am here, with you, in the dark.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Happy Bloomsday, Happy Father's Day

Today has the happy coincidence of being both Bloomsday and Father's Day.

Bloomsday honors the day the novel Ulysses, by James Joyce, takes place. It celebrates the life of the author, love, literature and the potential of the written word. Ulysses is one of my desert island books and I encourage you to take a year or two to read it. Every Bloomsday I take the time to reread a random passage and Molly Bloom's soliloquy, which closes the book. I've included it below. For me it encapsulates a couple of very important things about the world. When you read it, read it aloud. It will make more sense this way. And yes, the picture is of my arm.

Today is also Father's Day, so I'd like to take a moment to honor a few fathers who matter to me.

First and foremost, my own father, Harvey Packer. My father taught me to love language and the stars, that silence is of great value, that crying at music makes sense, that the world is full of great pain and beauty. Thank you, Dad.

Second, Brother Blue. I've written about Brother Blue elsewhere. Brother Blue taught me that listening is paramount, that story matters and that kindness always, always makes a difference. Thank you, Blue. I miss you everyday.

Third, Kevin Brooks. The love of my life, the father of my step-children, the man who teaches me daily that the world is full of enormous possibility. Thank you, Kevin.

And lastly the many men who have fathered different parts of my life and the lives of those I love. Thank you for your humor, your patience, your unexpected gifts.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Molly Bloom's Soliloquy

…I love flowers I’d love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven there’s nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then the beautiful country with fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even out of the ditches primroses and violets nature it is as for them saying there’s no God I wouldn’t give a snap of my two fingers for all their learning why don’t they go and create something I often asked him atheists or whatever they call themselves go and wash the cobbles off themselves first then they go howling for the priest and they dying and why why because they’re afraid of hell on account of their bad conscience ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they don’t know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a woman’s body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldn’t answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didn’t know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the Jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharans and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down Jo me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Some quick thoughts on mother's day

I'm not a big fan of holidays like mother's/father's/valentine's etc day. Their history suggests the modern interpretation is more about commerce than real affection and respect and, more than that, they are a great opportunity for exclusion. Those of us who are not conventional mothers struggle with this holiday.

That being said, I'm lucky, my mom is alive and we love each other. I called her today and told her I loved her, but I do that on other days too. I am grateful to my mom.

Today I also called the other mothers in my life, the women who have helped shape me into who I am, have mothered me through the ups and downs and trials of being human. I am grateful to them, too, because they chose to be here with me, without the obligation of biology.

Today I thought about those whom I have mothered, whether as a step-mother, a friend or chosen family. I am grateful for those relationships, for what they have taught me about the world. It's hard being a woman who hasn't mothered in the traditional ways, all of our models for womanhood include rearing children, but I know I have done the best I could. I love my step-kids, my chosen family and friends fiercely.

Because of my dislike for holidays like today, I suggest this: be grateful every day. Remember those who have gone out of their way to make sure the world is a little easier, that we are a little stronger, those who have been kind when it wasn't necessary. And let them know how much they mean to you every day, not just on mother's day.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Birthday presence

I love birthdays. It's important to have one day, every year, when you unequivocally say YES! I am HERE!

Today is my birthday, so here are 42 birthday presents and moments of presence, in no particular order and one for each year of my life. And yes, it's not lost on me that I am now the answer to life, the universe and everything.

1. The smell of autumn leaves, life out of decay.
2. My family in all their crazy, persistent, loving, nagging, wonderful selves.
3. I am surrounded by love
4. and the realization that love is not roses and puppies, but that love can be hard, smell like piss and is still infinitely valuable.
5. The rough hand of the bum as he seeks a moment of comfort and safety.
6. The warm, smooth sweetness of tea in my mouth, the comfort in my soul as I cradle the cup.
7. The shock as I took my first few breaths underwater, learning SCUBA. The realization that I wouldn't die, that my mermaid-self remembered.
8. The gift of listening, of letting go of myself and hearing another human being tell their story.
9. Touch. The feel of skin on skin, from the simplest touch to the most intimate contact.
10. The sound of wind in trees in all seasons, whether the whisper of new green buds, the gentle clapping of summer leaves or the chitter of bare branches scraping against each other.
    
11. The patience to see the world in many ways.
12. Salty, crunchy, sweet, savory, smooth, bitter, sour, umame. Rich and plain, chewy and subtle. All of the flavors, tastes and scents that inform my fingers, mouth, tongue and tummy.
13. Taking the time and thought to write this list.
14. Walking at a comfortable pace, moving through the world under my own power.
15. Stones large and small. Those worn to hand shape, great cliffs that tower above, gems that glitter and granite that holds its secrets tight.
16. And fossils that tell stories of life from impossibly long ago.
17. Living things. Dragonflies and octopi. Wolves and leopards. Goats and snails. Hawks and hummingbirds.
18. The gifts of the dead, their stories and memories. Ghosts and artifacts.
19. Playing with little kids who haven't yet learned to be self-conscious.
20. The calm distance in my body when I am engulfed in a good book.
21. Stretching, feeling my muscles and sinews move.
22. The smell of sauteing onions.
23. Singing out loud, without caring who hears.
24. The satisfaction of giving something away.
25. Laughing so hard I can't stand up or wet myself just a little. Knowing this will happen more often as I age.
26. The thrill of a crack of the thunder and lightening. Even when it's fearful.
27. Remembering to be compassionate.
28. Hope and the opportunity to hope again. The rejection letter, the failure, the missed parking space.
29. The changing weather. Cloudy days and fine. The cut of cold air, the weight of the summer.
30. Those sterling moments when I remember who I am, when I am at my best and most whole. Those moments are rarely when I expect them, so they keep me guessing and awake.
31. Surviving and thriving. Scarlet fever, cancer, childhood, adolescence, adolescents, driving, eating, loving, living.
32. Sleep, the comfort of waking warm and safe. Waking knowing there is more in front of me.
33. Sex. The delicious thrill of my own body and the bodies of others. Taste and scent and convulsion and more.
34. Dreaming, sensical and not. I love knowing my mind is creating even when I'm not really there.
35. Which leads me to that wonderful, deep sense of presence when I'm creating. Writing, art, telling, anything, when I create something I am here.
36. Regret. I try to live my life without regret, understanding that I make each choice the best I can in the moment, but those things I regret tell me so much about the world and how I want to move through it, that I can view it as nothing less than a gift.
37. Kites and wind-up toys and sharp kitchen knives and beautiful glass and evocative art and the right poem in the moment. All of these things make me stop and notice.
38. The perfect tool for the job, the one that fits in my hand and invites me to use it. This leads back to the act of creation and honest, hard work. Presence in the world.
39. The smell of metal and bread and rain and grass and snow.
40. My mother's scrambled egg sandwiches. My father's delight in showing me something new to him.
41. Deep breaths in fresh air.
42. Walking through this life, knowing that there is more to come. More work and laughter, more time (or not) and more hope. I think humans are creatures of story and of hope.

Thank you for reading this. I'd love to know if any of these are on your list of presents and presence, I'd love to read your list.

If you're interested in last year's list of things I'm grateful for, it's here.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Whew! I made it!

My goodness, September has been an adventure; I managed to keep my commitment to blog daily throughout this month. It's been a roller coaster; some days I was eager to write, others I thought this was the dumbest idea I've ever had. I managed to do this with only a few temper tantrums and generally without spilling too much paint. Or verbage. I think.

Things I've enjoyed about blogging daily:

• The process. Thinking about writing feels great. And moving through world thinking, "I could blog that!" is pretty cool
• I've gotten to meet people I never would have otherwise
• My writing habit feels much more ingrained, which was the whole point of this exercise
• I had to stretch to find something to say some days. This is good, it made me think and explore
• It's forced me to look at the world with new eyes, finding new things to say, hoping I'm not repeating myself too much
• It's also helped me think more clearly about different kinds of creativity. I've always written, but I need to remember to feed myself creatively in many ways; writing about it has helped me remember how important it is.
• It's helped me clarify some of the things I care enough about to want to write about, rather than just rambling for the heck of it.

Things I've not enjoyed about blogging daily:

• My god, I am just not that interesting. Since the start of third week I've been struggling to find things to say, I've not wanted to talk about myself or navel gaze anymore.

I'd be really interested in any thoughts you'd like to share about this past month. Please post them in the comments so I can share them with everyone.

Blogging is a communal experience. I find this kind of writing compelling because it's as close to storytelling, or audience-based writing, as I have yet come. It helps me write more and write better if I know the audience is more immediate than, say, when I'm working on a piece that may only merit a rejection letter or, worse, writing in my journal.

I'm no longer going to post daily (as I said, I'm tired of listening to myself) but I am going to try to post at least once a week on cookpot stories and three time a week here. I'm considering this structure, though it's open to debate:

• Wednesday: Storying the world. Observations on living the life of a storyteller, how stories shape us, meaningful stories, etc.
• Friday: A ramble, observations, thoughts about something I care about, etc.
• Monday: Living the big life. Creativity challenges, guerilla kindness, etc.

What do you think? I'd be really interested in your thoughts.

I hope you have found something of value in this month of posts. I hope you look at the world a little differently now, take more joy in the overheard, stretch yourselves creatively just a little bit more. Thank you for listening to me and participating in this experiment. I hope you keep creating and living with joy. And yes, the little girl in the picture is me. I never was good at painting within the lines.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Monday beauty

A few minutes of beauty for Monday. If you enjoy this check out Blu's site.

Sunday sightseeing

Today's set of links focuses on travel from in front of your screen. I love the way the net lets us dream the world more easily.

Atlas Obscura explores the stranger corners of the world. Cataloged by both locale and type of curiosity, the Atlas encourages you to plan your next trip not only for pleasant breezes and cultural exchange but also for curiosity and wonder.

Creepy Russian Playgrounds is exactly what it describes. It makes me grateful for the playground of my youth.

Scouting New York is a wonderful blog that explores hidden places in New York City. I refer to this blog every time I go to NYC.

Top 10 abandoned places list ten wonderful places I hope to visit. You may have noticed a theme here; I love abandoned places, the sense of what has been, the hope that lingers in the corners.

And lastly, the online Dictionary of Imaginary Places. Because it's nice to not be in this world sometimes. Heck, I spend a lot of time out of this world.

Have a good trip!

(c) 2009 Laura Packer

Sundays are for sharing. Science edition.

As you know, on Sundays I'm sharing a few of the links that I enjoy. While I'm not a scientist, nor do I play one on tv, I enjoy good science writing and the way it makes me stretch my mind.

Mindhacks is a link aggregator that explores the newest research about the mind and brain. It never fails to fascinate.

ScienCentral is a video production company that creates science content for a wide variety of venues. Their videos are accessible online and cover a huge range of topics including Why Naps Make Us More Creative and Climate Change in Hawaii.

Meanwhile, the Public Library of Science is an open publishing venue for scientific research. Imagine is scientists were encouraged to share their work instead of hoarding their results for the next grant? What kind of innovation would that foster?

Enjoy!

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

And it's time, time, time...

Well, my September post-a-day challenge has been going on for a week now. The structure (as you may have figured out if you've been following along) is:

Tuesdays - a ramble, the kind of post I've done all along in this blog
Wednesdays - other people's work, something I find inspirational
Thursdays - thoughts on creativity
Fridays - the observed world
Saturdays - an original piece of my work beyond the usual boundaries of this blog
Sundays - sharing. Links I love
Mondays - tips, pointers, suggestions and links to make the start of the week a little easier

I'd love to know what you think of this so far. All of that being said, let's move onto the ramble.

* * *

There's a song called Time by Tom Waits, one of my favorite musicians, on his album Rain Dogs. Like many of his songs, it's wistful and poetic and obscure and fills my heart with a longing for a broken down life that I probably would never really want. For the chorus Mr. Waits moans, "And it's time time time/ and it's time time time/ And it's time time time that you love /And it's time time time."

He's right, we do love time. As much as we curse it, long for it, waste it and kill it, most of all we love it. Time is what we have and our most precious commodity. I think about time a lot, especially about how time flexes and changes according to our needs.

I'll leave the science of time to physicists and its ethics to philosophers. I'd like to examine wonderfully flexible personal time, with four different examples of thinking about it discussed in order of increasing abstraction.

1. Time as a measure of distance and ease. When we travel someplace we are rarely asked, "How many miles is it?" as an estimation of the distance. While that may be more factual - I traveled 350 miles - it's far less useful. We are asked, "How far is it?" and reply, "Oh, it's easy, about six hours." What we're really answering is "How long did it take you get there?" I know, this is obvious.
   
   But this six hours is variable. I don't think 350 miles is too far to travel to visit a friend. It's close enough that I can drive down for a weekend every couple of months. However, if the friend were instead the love-of-my-life then this six hours would be interminable, the time-as-distance becomes far longer and more painful. If the traffic had been bad and it took me ten hours to drive then the same 350 miles would have been a much longer road to travel and I would reconsider flying, which would take four hours, cost more and be less comfortable than riding in my own car. I'd be less likely to see my friend as often; the currency of time wouldn't make it worth it.
   
   A hundred years ago that same 350 miles would have made a weekend trip all but impossible, while two hundred years ago it would have been a perilous journey of several days; the currency of time would require an extended visit.
   
   Time, distance and the economy they create are woven together in our vocabulary and thought.
   
   
2. Bodily time. Ask a five year old how old she is and she may very well tell you she's "five-and-a-half." Ask a 95 year old how old she is and it's unlikely she'll mention the half year. The six months of the -and-a-half is a significant portion of the five year old's life. She's likely to have a much-sharper recollection of everything that's happened to her in that last six months than the 95 year old, not necessarily because of age-related memory issues, but because she has so much less, in general, to remember. Her sense of time is immediate, while the older person's sense stretches out over a longer span.
   
   We retain that sense of time in our bodies, learning how to tell how much time has passed by how we feel. As someone who hasn't worn a watch in many years, I usually have a pretty good sense of time, because my body knows about how long an hour is, or about when 3:30 might be. I also know I am feeling the cumulative passage of time in my life by a greater accumulation of aches and pains. Bodily time.
   
   We mark time by the changes in our bodies, some clearly marked (the onset of adolescence) and others less so. I saw my mother recently after a gap of several months. After she hugged me she began to stroke my hair; I thought she was trying to tidy it. She was instead startled by how much gray I now have. I hadn't noticed the change because it's been gradual, but to my mother this was a dramatic shift in bodily time, reminding her of the passage of time as we both age.
   
   
3. Before and after. There are instances that define us, a single moment that has such a powerful effect we are never the same. It's as though the brief experience that may last one minute or five or maybe an hour colors everything else. It becomes the dot on our timeline that creates before and after. Think about it.
   
   In one moment your whole life changes. I know I have those moments.
   
   - Before I knew had cancer (one sentence). After I was a survivor (one bike ride).
   - Before I told my first story in a performance venue. Afterward, eight minutes later, when I knew this was what I was born to do.
   - Before I found myself stepping between my lover and the assailant, offering calm words to defuse the situation (one second). After, when I realized both how fiercely I love (no one hurts someone I love) and how deeply I believe in alternatives to violence.
   
   These moments are so brief and so clear. They help us know who we are, but they take so little time, for all that those few minutes have more than their seconds worth of value. What are your before and afters?
   
   
4. Books. This is perhaps the most abstract and most curious instance of personal time on this list. Everytime I read a book, especially fiction, I am reminded that books are physical representations of at least four kinds of time co-existing in one moment, in one physical object.
   - The author and editor devoted considerable time to create the narrative bound in my hand. This time has already happened but is now physically represented by the book;
   - The narrative described within these pages has its own sense of time, whether it's a single night (A Christmas Carol), a lifetime (Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All) generations that see the creation and collapse of a culture (Cloud Atlas) or an epic (The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings);
   - I, as the reader, will spend my own time experiencing this narrative. That amount of time will vary depending on how long I take to read it and whether or not I'm enjoying it ("The time flew by!" or "It took me forever to read.");
   - and lastly, the book itself exists as a physical object moving through time as well as space. Old books have their own stories to tell by their type, their binding, their smell, annotations or objects left by previous readers. Time becomes a physical presence in the book itself.
   

These example of personal time barely scratch the surface; Alan Lightman explored many variants of time in Einstein's Dreams, so if you're interested in playing around with these ideas more you may want to check it out. I'd be interested in your experiences of personal time, how you measure the seasons or your life or any other places where time becomes particularly intimate.

It is, of course, time that we love. Not time the abstract concept, but what we do with it. The people we share it with and the experiences that create us.

Tomorrow I'll be looking at two artists I find particularly inspirational. I promise, the post will be nowhere near as wordy as this one! In the meantime, thank you for your time.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Sundays are for sharing

September Sundays are for sharing. Here are a few of my favorite places on the web, I hope you enjoy them.

• Keri Smith is an illustrator who has influenced my beliefs in creative play. I love her work.
• PostSecret saves lives and encourages us all to be a little braver through art and the anonymity of the web. I've blogged about it before here.
• Sur la Lune is my favorite fairy tale site. It's not the most academic nor the most lyrical, but for my money it's the most passionate and loving I've come across.
• And last, but not least, my thirst for odd knowledge is often sated by Mental Floss.
  

Enjoy!

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Technology becomes art

OASIS (HD) - sand from yunsil heo on Vimeo.

And art creates a collective experience.

OASIS from yunsil heo on Vimeo.

Mapping my life

Through various moments of synchronicity I find myself thinking about maps a lot these days. I've been reading a number of books that use maps as metaphors; I've been traveling and relying upon maps; I've been noting the landmarks in my life, both literal and symbolic.

To start with, I love paper maps. I love this conceptualization of data, the attempt to capture the lay-of-the-land in its infinite variety and texture with ink and flat paper. I marvel at historical maps and consider it nothing short of magic that maps have any accuracy at all. How do we know what that coastline really looks like, if we can't see it from above?

I remember as a child when I was taught to read a map in school and then practiced those skills with my parents as we drove across country, I imagined that if you looked closely enough, if you had a good enough magnifying glass, you could see everything in the free map we got from tripleA. The blue line there? Don't put your finger on it, you might accidentally crush us as we drove down the highway. Right here? There's a field with a cow and if you can't see it, I'll draw it for you. I destroyed countless maps by amending them with detailed illustrations of the things we passed as we crossed from Pennsylvania to Vermont to Alabama to Nevada and back home again. Or maybe they weren't destroyed, but improved.

Now I use all different kinds of mapping tools - paper maps, googlemaps, gps and more. Each has their own beauty and utility, but I think the kind of map I use the most often is deep and personal, hidden in my own history. Using that map, I would give directions like this:

• Drive for awhile until you come to the place where I used to always see the old man walking his dog. He was kind to me. Turn left. What happened to them anyway?
• When you think you're lost look behind you and you'll see me when I was a little girl wearing my favorite pink panda shirt. Wave to assure her she'll make it through her childhood even if it's hard.
• Swerve quickly so you don't hit the tree I used to love to climb. It's gone now. Termites? Development?
  
• Slow down as you drive past my old school. God, I hated that place.
• And now turn around, retrace your path and you'll find yourself right here, right now, in this moment in my life.

The problem, of course, is that anyone who followed those directions would be hopelessly lost. Even I feel a bit lost at the moment and those directions use my own highly personal landmarks.

A more realistic kind of personal map would be one that traces the places I cover, a pheromone map where the worn routes I take regularly are more defined than the unknown paths in new colors, those that lead to the possible, the frightening, the new. Maybe that would serve only to depress me, displaying in black and white just how constrained I have become.

The kind of map I long for, of course, is the map to the future, but I can't seem to find that one. If I found it would I even know how to read the legend? Or would it just be a mostly blank sheet of paper with an "X" stating, "You are here. Now go."

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

When did I become the grownup?

I wonder if I'm handling my 40s well. I always imagined that by the time I hit 40 I'd be married (nope) with kids (none that I can see, unless you count various adults in my life) a homeowner (renting and currently relieved to do so) and with a career (wait, how did I miss that one?). Here I am, living in sin with my sweetie, parenting any number of people though none are biological, in the same financial mess as most of my peers (retirement? wait, let me stop laughing) and still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I'm not the grown up.

Except sometimes I am.

For example, a couple of weeks ago I was at an event where an older friend took ill. Only a few of us were around when this happened, but I found myself in the position of making the decisions. Should we call the EMTs? Should we send our friend to the hospital, even though they didn't want to go? What do we do next? I was the youngest person in the room, but I was the one calling the shots. Maybe it's because I'm bossy. Maybe it's because someone needed to be decisive and the others were having more difficulty putting their emotions aside, while I could. I don't know why, but I do know that I was the decisive one because someone needed to be.

Afterwards I found myself thinking, "When did I become the grownup?" I asked my sweetie and he told me that I'd been the grownup for years, the one people could rely on, the one who remained calm. Hell. Does being the grownup mean I have to be boring now?

I hope not. There are good things about being a grownup. I can get a new tattoo if I want. I can eat what I want when I want. It's easier to not care about what other people think. I can make my own decisions. I can choose what part of adulthood I want to embrace.

When I was a kid I marveled at how grownups seemed so self-assured and knew the right thing to do all the time. As I grow older, each birthday I wonder, "Is now when I start feeling like a grownup?" I suspect I'll ask that question until I die and, depending on if there's an afterlife, may continue to ask. I think part of the secret of being a grownup is that you learn to fake confidence more effectively. You've learned that it's better to move forward than to stay in stunned indecision.

Some days I'm fine with my 40s, thinking that I'm just not living a conventional life. Other days I grieve. But I do know that I'm trying my best and trying to treat those I meet with compassion and dignity along the way. What else can I do? We make the best decisions we can in any given moment.

My friend was fine, by the way. I'm glad I was able to help them and maybe that's enough of a reason to be a grownup from time to time.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

Mistaken gifts

The gifts given by those who are obligated to love us, even when they don't know us, are almost always the worst.

I was once in a relationship with a very nice man who had a very nice family. His extended family really cared about me and did their best but, boy, there were some challenging moments.

At Christmas there were usually moments like this:

I'd open a beautifully wrapped small box and find a brooch (or bracelet or necklace) inside. All well and good, you might think, but the brooch (or bracelet or necklace) was invariably well beyond the boundaries of good taste. Covered in rhinestones (and not in any kind of ironic way), festooned with cats with faux emerald eyes, dangling little metal dice, something... it was always absolutely hideous.

The relative in question would look at me, beaming, wearing her own version of the same jewelry and would ask, "Do you like it? I loved it so much I just had to get one for you!"

And I would remind myself not to look at the very nice man I was dating, knowing I would burst out laughing if I did, and tell the relative that it was lovely, thoughtful, considerate. Two out of three isn't bad.

The worst gift, however, came in our second Christmas together. One of the loving relatives was very excited, she said she'd found the perfect gift, ideal for a young lady, something she knew I would love. I opened the package with great trepidation and had to take a deep breath, tears coming to my eyes as I struggled not to laugh at the perfume bottle nestled in satin.

I know this family loved me. And I know she just didn't put two and two together when she gave me, her nephew's girlfriend, this particular perfume.

It was called "Tramp."

(c) 2009 Laura Packer

Pictures for a thousand words

I love words, you know that. But there are sometimes images that evoke feelings with such strength that it's easier if I shut up and get out of the way.

I'm not sure if I like this site for its design or for the images it holds. Either way, take a look.

One Photo A Day

Quiet

but not so lost.

And still finding fine words that wrap the word up neatly in their many meanings.

Svaha

• In sanskrit "svaha" is said at the end of many mantras, meaning, "so be it."
  
• Svaha is also a Hindu goddess who presides over burnt offerings.
• And in Icelandic svaha is the duration of time between lightning and thunder.

I love how we, humans, connect one utterance, how the meaning winds its way around the world.

Svaha.

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer

The worlds we see, those we don't

Andrew Wyeth died a few days ago. He is one of my favorite artists; since I was very young, his view of the world with its implication of the possibility of more has shaped my writing, my stories and how I see things. I'm not the only one. His most famous painting, Christina's World, has spawned hundreds of questions about meaning, narrative in art and many imitations in art, film, stage, personal mythology and more. His Helga paintings raised questions about secrets and love. I am more drawn to his landscape or still-life works that make me want to see beyond the frame, that are less about people, but that's no surprise considering who I am. But this is only personal preference and in no way commentary on any of his work.

He was decried by critics as too sentimental, but I would have to disagree; Wyeth painted what he saw and what he loved. Sentimental has an implication of excess emotion, of a hazy view shorn of realistic dirt and rough edges. Wyeth didn't peel those harshnesses away, instead he looked for what was implied, for the visual representation of the unseen. His paintings always suggest that the world, even this small part of it, is infinite, that there is more than what we see within the frame. That it is worth asking questions and wondering. And loving the dirt and those rough edges that you can see within the frame is not necessarily an expression of softness or bad art; it is in our nature to love and to try to capture or express what we love, what we long for, what we cannot hold onto or always see. Painting about it makes the world more tangible, or at least this moment in the world.

Wyeth said, "It's a moment that I'm after, a fleeting moment, but not a frozen moment." His painting captured that beautifully. As our lives are fleeting moments.
I am grateful Mr. Wyeth left his mark on the world and did so in spite of critics' resistance. His work gives me hope that there is always the possibility of something else, of more beyond the frame, of another fleeting moment.
Wind from the sea, 1948

(c) 2009 Laura S. Packer