Not missing, running

Wow, it's been awhile since I've written. I've certainly thought of things I wanted to say but haven't had the time or concentration to do so. My internal monologue has been something like this:

Gee, I miss writing in my blog. I could write about the PMC. Or about the new conversations around hope in the media and what that suggests about our current condition. Or about the challenge of creativity when under significant stress. Or.... But hey, this blog is supposed to be intermittent anyway and I have so much to get done, so I'll write later.

And here I am a month later. How disappointing.

So what's been keeping me away? Mortality, mostly. Chaos. Too many other commitments. My own internal monologues distracting me.

For now, though, let me just touch on mortality. And that will keep this entry short, because really, life is short and blog entries can be too.

This entry is in memory of my friend Joan Clark and my Aunt Evvie. They both died this week and I will miss them.

I urge you to go outside, breath some fresh air, tell those you care for how dear they are and do something kind for someone you've never met. Live your life. It's a one way trip and we need to make the most of it while we can.

Not a manifesto

I wrote this some time ago for a writing class. While I still stand by it, I might write it differently today, but I think it's an interesting exercise, looking at where I was almost a year ago.

It's something to consider, why we do the things we do...

Why I Write

Because I can’t not write. When words come tumbling out of me in a frantic rush, a great tsunami that threatens to overwhelm me in its intensity, for that while nothing else exists. There are no politics with their attendant fears and disempowerments, no bills to be paid and appointments to be kept, there are no obligations of love or worry, just words that rush forth as though I am the source of a river and for one tiny moment am touching what it might be like to be immortal, even if unknown.

I write because I am hungry for words, for their beauty and coy intimacies. By writing and crafting language I can leap and dance along invisible wires and see how far I can stretch my own boundaries, challenge myself and become a little braver than I was before I wrote. I can play with language, break it apart and reconstruct it, and am often surprised by what I find.

When I write I find undiscovered countries within myself. Writing allows me to explore new territory that I might not be able to look at directly; it helps me understand my own heart. Writing allows me to chart the ebb and flow of my own life amidst all other lives. Writing is the secret cartography of what it is to be human.

When I write I understand the world just a little bit more, in all its beauty and heartache and ironies and small glories and mystery. Writing helps me understand my place in it and feel that much less alone. For all that writing is a solitary act, when I write I am one of thousands driven by language, knowing the quest for the right word, the turn of phrase that will capture the shimmer of wine in the grail such that you taste it without ever looking up from the page.

I write because I believe that story has the power to break down barriers of country and creed, that the stories we tell have the power to make us pause before we strike and sometimes listen to each other just a little more closely. When I write I send out a raven to explore the great floodplains and see if there is anyone to hear me. When my ravenous words don’t return I know they might have found new roosts and the world is a less hostile place.

I write because it gives me a window into new worlds. I love the unexpected directions stories and characters will take; the sheer sensual click of fingers on keys, pen scratching on paper; the subtle connection between writer and reader; the commonality of human spirit we find in stories well told. I write because the world is highly subjective, and this is one way I can share my world, just as when I read, I share the author’s world. I write because the world is not perfect and in story I can at least change the imperfections, rewrite, try again. I write the same way I drink cool water – because without stories I would dry up and die.

I write because I have to, because the world is so big and I am so very small. It is a way of saying, “Here I am, in this moment, on this page. Read me. And then tell me your story. Let us listen to each other.”

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

Gratitude

I recently heard a wonderful piece on Morning Edition . My local station runs a program called Morning Stories featuring personal stories of maybe 3-4 minutes, sometimes wonderful, sometimes maudlin. This story was called Thanksgiving and Getting, told by a woman who is casually informed that she never says "thank you." She grew up privileged and maybe just never had the opportunity to really consider how grateful she was for the things in her life so she never developed the habit of not just taking things for granted. She tries to say thank you regularly and finds it to be strained, so she begins to keep a gratitude journal that changes her life.

I've been thinking a lot about gratitude lately and wanting to write an entry about it. Beyond the fact that it's seasonal, it's something worth taking under consideration and thinking about. This has been a hard entry to write, not because I don't have a lot to be grateful for, but because examining it is surprisingly difficult. I keep drifting into the maudlin or the self-congratulatory and that's really not what I want this to be about.

As I was approaching my 40th birthday this past October I did what most people do. I thought about my life. I figured that since I'm now at about the half way point, it's worth examining. I have done a few of the things I wanted do, done many things I never expected to, and haven't done some things I thought I would have easily accomplished by now. None of this is an earth shattering surprise. But when I thought about the things I have or haven't accomplished, I wasn't filled with a sense of contentment or pride or regret, nor was I moved to suddenly act or apologize or get depressed. Mostly I just felt grateful that I have been given the opportunities I have had, that I have people in my life whom I have loved and that have loved me, that I have managed to do some things that might have made a small difference in the world.

Rereading this, I suspect it's a pretty common set of reactions.

After looking at my life on the brink of 40, I decided to try to make this year about gratitude, to appreciate what I have and see how this changes things moving forward. I am trying, with more or less success, to be aware of the gifts in my life, to note them, to thank the universe for them. I don't think I'm likely to become one of those people who is always praising everything. I'm not that open-hearted. But I do think the world is a big place, that we can see more of it, and be happier in it, if we move through it noticing the details and grateful for the gifts, as often as we are able. The poet Mary Oliver writes beautifully about this.

All of that being said, I know I will not succeed in this goal. It's one that is doomed to failure from the start if I am to remain in this world. Our modern world, with all of its conveniences and noise, isn't accommodating to a life of deep observation and gratitude. Those who move too slowly or express too much gratitude are not looked upon with patience but as bordering on mad. I am a child of my time and find extended deep observance wearing - I need that dose of tv or some other kind of consumer culture to numb me from time to time. But I can still try to slow down, to look, to be grateful and express that gratitude. I will not be the worse for trying. I'm not afraid of bring thought a little mad (that happens often enough anyway) and I think perhaps I might appreciate the chance to be a divine fool, mad with gratitude for the gifts of the world around me.

I'll let you know what happens.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Santa, faith and miracles

If you are under the age of, oh, 20, you may want to stop reading now. I'm going to talk about some things that you might not want to know. If you're over 20 you might want to stop anyway, because I hope to challenge some of your assumptions and shattered beliefs. Though, really, isn't that what blogging is all about?

It's the season where overweight elderly men in decidedly out-of-fashion red and white suits are all the rage. You know who I'm talking about. Mr. Claus. Santa.

I have no interest in Santa-bashing. I'm not going to explore his better-than-the-NSA security (after all, he knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake), nor will I deign to impugn his fondness for bouncing kids on his knee. I trust that he is what he seems to be, a kindly old man, a great listener, a generous soul who manages to accomplish miracles over the course of one night.

That's right, I'm suggesting that maybe, somehow, Santa is real. Sure, at some point in your life someone told you that your parents put those presents under the tree, that it was all a sham. When I found out, I cried. I felt deeply betrayed by my family, by all the people who said they were Santa, by the world. Some of the magic was gone. But the kid who told me that was wrong.

I'm tempted to go into some kind of Yes, Virginia-esque rant about how Santa lives in all of us, but I won't. Instead I'll simply suggest this. Of course Santa is real. He is believed in by hundreds of thousands of kids all around the world, and reality is highly subjective. For them, he is real, flesh and blood, no-sense-questioning-the-miracles kind of real. There are other things thousands, millions of people believe in with less evidence than Santa, that they have absolute faith in. UFOs. God. Miracles. Who am I to disuade them of their belief brings them comfort and joy while harming no one else? Who am I to say that the things they believe in aren't real? Isn't that part of what faith is about - believing in something you can't prove is real? Kind of like string theory?

Sure, Santa needs help with his miracles. We all need help with miracles. I think it's kind of miraculous that my Jewish parents went to the trouble of drinking the milk, eating the cookies and leaving me notes on Christmas (not to mention giving me gifts) so I wouldn't feel left out when the other kids got visits from Santa. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I appreciate that miracle, it was a wonder for me as a kid. And I didn't feel left out.

I think it's kind of miraculous that so many people at work gave to Toys for Tots so kids they didn't know would have something to play with this holiday season.

I think it's kind of miraculous that we're all still here in the first place.

So maybe Santa is that force in the world that reminds us to be kind to each other, that we can extend ourselves a little bit more to help each other out. That listening to one another doesn't cost anything beyond some time and patience. If Santa is kindness and listening and patience - those miraculous forces that can change lives and the world - then I'm a believer, no matter what anyone says. It's worth having faith in something.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Unexpected angels

This is a true story.

He was one of those people that can be a little scary. He was ragged, smelled bad, and was, worst of all, talking to himself while glaring at the ground and gesturing at things I couldn’t see. In the parlance of my family, he was a crazy. He was following me.

I was 13 or 14, coming into my woman’s body but still with some of the scent of girlhood around me. It was winter and I was in downtown Philadelphia to do a little Christmas shopping. Even though my family was secular Jewish, I had plenty of friends to shop for and loved the hustle and bustle of the city at this time of year. I loved the lights and sounds and the way the old department stores (Wanamaker's in particular) seemed so vast and elegant while the smaller shops were cozy and seemed to have secrets they were just dying to tell. I felt grown up as I wandered from store to store, mulling over my choices.

Then I saw him. I don’t know how long he’d been following me, but I first noticed him huddled by the doorway as I walked out of one store. I’m sure I thought something like I hope he isn’t too cold, as if being a little cold was okay.

Then I noticed him again as I left the next shop. And the next. When I looked around as I walked to the next store he was right there, just a pace behind me, mumbling to himself and glancing up at me every few steps. There was no doubt, he was following me.

I didn’t know what to do. This was the late 1970s in Philadelphia, I didn’t look upon the police as friends. There were hundreds of people streaming by, but I knew none of them and had neither reason to believe they would help nor hope that he wouldn't react badly if I asked for help within his hearing. He wasn’t following me into stores, just waiting for me outside, so I clutched my bags a little tighter and went into the next shop – these buildings were old and all backed into alleys, maybe I could escape that way.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the counter. Remembering her now, I can see she was barely older than I was. “Someone is following me and standing outside of the store. Do you mind if I leave by your back door?”

She glanced out the window quickly, then back at me. “We don’t have a back door. Sorry.” To this day I think she was lying. I think she couldn’t see him and thought I was a crazy, that at best I wanted to steal something, at worst, who knows.

That was the only moment that I remember being afraid. I didn’t know why he was following me or what he wanted. He was a crazy. And he was outside waiting for me.

I stood in the doorway of that shop, feeling her looking at me from behind the counter. I can only imagine her hand was on the phone, poised to dial the police. I took a deep breath and stepped outside, hoping he had gone away.

Of course, he hadn’t. He was still there, still looking at the ground, mumbling and gesturing. His glance flickered to me and I saw his balance shift, ready to move when I moved.

I looked across the street, pretended I was trying to decide what store to go into next, while I wondered if I should run. As I stood there, I heard what he was saying.

“You gotta be careful, you can’t let anyone get too close. You don’t know what will happen, you have to have someone around to keep you safe. You need to look out for yourself, you know. You have to be careful these days, it’s not like the old days. You gotta be careful.”

He might be a crazy, but maybe he wasn't out to get me. I looked at him. He glanced up at me again and kept telling me to be careful.

I took one step closer to him and he glanced at me again, still talking, but a little slower.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “I promise to be careful.”

This time he didn’t look away. “You gotta be careful. You don’t know who’s out there.”

“I promise. I’ll be careful.”

We looked at each other for what felt like an hour but I’m sure was only a few seconds.

“Okay,” he said.

“Merry Christmas,” I replied, “Thank you for looking out for me.” I walked away. He didn’t follow me, though I could see him watching when I caught his reflection in the store window.

I kept my promise. But I have to wonder, who was I for him? Did I remind him of someone who wasn’t careful enough? Was he protecting me from a threat I couldn’t see?

I don’t know. Nor do I know why, in that moment, I stopped to listen. I can only be grateful that I did. It has made all the difference - not the being careful. The listening and the wonder and the moment of connection.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Lights in the darkness

Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah. When I was a child, my family didn't really observe any of the Jewish holidays. As an adult I am finding they have growing importance and meaning, but because I am coming to this now, I am creating my own meaning in addition to the traditional ones.

I know, Hanukkah in America has been overblown so Jewish kids have something to feel good about while all the Christian kids have Christmas. But it is more than that. Like so many Jewish holidays, it chronicles a story of survival and the celebration is about making it through adversity with some miracles thrown in for good measure. They tried to kill us, we survived, let's eat! We've been telling that story for a long time. All humans can tell that story, regardless of ethnicity or religion.

I also believe it's no mistake that this holiday, the festival of lights, happens now, in the darkest days of the year. We light candles to give thanks for past miracles and for this moment in our lives. It's a reminder of the gifts of our lives, even in the dark, in this moment.

These messages - of survival, of hope, of determination, of memory - are captured in the photograph that heads this entry. It speaks for itself.

For the next eight nights I will light candles and tell stories of surviving adversity, whether it's about having enough oil to re-sanctify the temple, beating illness, saying goodbye, or just making it through another day. I'll make latkes. I'll consider the darkness and power of one small light in the night.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

First Snow

We had our first snowfall this morning. It's cold and wet and cloudy and goopy. I love it. This is seasonal weather, the way it should be.

When I woke up this morning, the light filtering through the skylight was muted, as though the day were hiding from me. I knew we were supposed to get snow, it was snowing when I woke up in the middle of the night, but it was this light that told me that the snow had arrived and stuck.

Looking outside, the lines of the world were softened. The trees in the backyard had a new foliage of white and the cars a heavy blanket, as though they were still asleep.

The first snow of the season brings a special, quiet magic with it. Snow seems to soften the harshness of the world at the same time that it brings its own threatening beauty. I am not the first nor will I be the last to comment on this, but I love that quietness. It speaks of hidden things, of the unknown peering out from snow caves, of the ground underneath going to sleep for the long cold months. When I was a little girl my parents would read me stories about the Tomten, who wandered through the winter world at night, making sure everything was safe. For me, the first snowfall invokes the Tomten and his quiet, homely ways. I look for the small footprints of a secret guardian checking on the mild things of the world.

When I left the house this morning the snow was already succumbing to the wetness of the waking day. The thwack of dropping clumps of snow from branches. The scrape of shovels on the sidewalk. Underfoot the two inches of whiteness compressed to a dark track and I forgot to keep looking for the Tomten's footprints as I walked, clumsy for the first time this season in my winter boots, to pull the blanket off my car.

And like everyone, I will complain about the weather, about the wet and cold. But I won't forget. This is how it should be. The snow makes the world glow at night. The snow brings deep quiet. The snow hides the tired remnants of autumn and lets the world sleep before spring. And the snow brings the Tomten.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Mission accomplished!

This morning at about 10:30 I passed 50,000 words with my NaNoWriMo novel. It took another 1,316 before it felt as though I was done telling the story, but at 50 thousand I was essentially done, I just needed to wrap up a few loose ends.

I cried. Not a big howling cry, but some tears and a sniffle or two. Anyone who knows me knows I tend to get teary pretty easily, but this was different from crying at the end of a good book or film. This was a lot like the way I cry at the end of the PMC, when I know I've done something substantial. Something that leaves me a different person than I was before I began.

So what was this whole experience like? I wrote at the beginning that I was passionately enjoying the process and found it was giving me a writing discipline I had longed for but hadn't yet achieved. It has been that and more.

It has been thrilling, frustrating, exciting and inspiring. It's been a bit like falling in love. It's all I really want to talk about, all I can think about and now that it's over I find myself longing for that first rush again. I'm a little at a loss about what to do now that it's over. I know, the obvious answer is to write more and I shall. I am, for instance, writing now. But what I really want and need to do is write more fiction. That will come, I have several projects in mind, but for now I need to process the process.

I've had the pleasure of meeting people who were lurking in my imagination and seem to have wills of their own. That part of the process was hoped for and even expected; I've occasionally had characters go in directions I wasn't expecting in other writing projects, but this time they really took off. I was writing things I didn't plan, meeting people I didn't know were coming into the story and hearing dialogue with an unexpected clarity because the characters were all so distinct.

I've been reminded of how all these characters are parts of me, so I've had to process some of my own feelings and experiences in the course of mining my own life. When I've written an episode out of my life into a character it becomes easier to let it happen to someone else, let them hurt and heal. But since the characters are all part of me who's really healing?

I've discovered I know more about narration and story than I thought. All those years of telling stories have helped me learn how to write stories.

I also learned how to sit down, shut up and write. I think that this has been the most valuable part of the experience for me. Having done this I know I can do more, that written language works as well for me as spoken, improvised language.

How am I different, how has this changed me? I've written a novel. I was always one of those people who was going to write a novel someday and now I've done it. Someday is now. This means I can write another and take more than 25 days to do it. If I've written something decent in 25 days who knows what I could do in more time - say two months? Maybe even three?

It's no wonder NaNoWriMo has been such a powerful experience, as I'm sure it is for many participants. For now, I'm going to let the novel rest, then look at it in a little while and see if, with a rewrite or two and some workshopping, I might begin looking for a publisher.

Oh, and in case you're wondering - no, you can't read it yet. It needs tweaking and lots of it. It's about five generations of Jewish women, storytelling, cooking, and how we define ourselves through the stories we tell.

Kind of like the way writing a novel has helped me redefine the story I tell about myself.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Wish I may, wish I might

My friend Jim swears up and down that if he had a single wish, he'd wish for a soundtrack, one that plays all the time along with his everyday life. That way, he says, he would always know what was about to happen. He'd know if someone was friend or foe, love interest or miscreant, and would just have a leg up on things. Personally, I bet it would get annoying and besides, I think most modern movies are overscored; I certainly wouldn't want an overscored life. I worry I'd end up with a laugh track.

I saw a movie the other night (Flushed Away, silly fun) that had a feature I would consider instead of a soundtrack - a chorus. Admittedly, in this film the chorus was composed of slugs singing relevant pop songs which I'd rather avoid, but the whole idea of a chorus, as in a Greek chorus, has some merit. If only the voices in my head actually told me something useful. (You know the kind of voices I mean, I hope. The running commentary on my actions and those of others, not what I imagine psychotic voices are. Though who knows, maybe those are psychotic voices, just with volume control.) Anyway, if the voices in my head said useful things, uttered reminders and warnings and helpful comments that would be pretty cool. As it is, the voices hum the same refrain from 1970s TV theme songs over and over again. Or ask me if I should buy shoes that look like hers. Things like that. An occasional Greek chorus might be handy.

So what would I wish for if not a Greek chorus? I think about that a lot, probably more than is really healthy. I tell stories about it, write about it, plan for it. I can never make up my mind because wishes seem to be very tricky things. In stories wishes never turn out well. The wish-giver, be it djinni, angel or god always turns the wish somehow. The moral seems to be don't wish, but live. Act. And yes, be careful what you wish for.

This makes me very careful about what I say. I rarely utter things like, "Oh, I wish for an ice cream sundae!" or "I wish I could fly!" Even writing those examples here makes me nervous - who might read that and decide to answer in some tricky way? Please don't. Instead I might think about wishes, but I don't say them. It's too dangerous.

So instead I live. I act. I try to make the world a better place. I hope that if I ever truly do have the opportunity to make a wish I won't need to use it, that I am living big enough that I don't need anything more. Maybe that's my wish.

Because I'm not even really sure what I would wish for if I had the option. Certainly not a soundtrack.

(c) 2007 Laura Packer

The tales we tell

It's funny how things come together sometimes. I'm finding myself in one of those confluences of life and art where I'm forced to notice the world clearing its throat at me, telling me to pay attention.

I'm writing like a wildwoman for NaNoWriMo, almost 24000 words in 12 days. This is more than I've ever written in one burst before. I'm enjoying it and the process is making me acutely aware of how fiction is culled from our own lives. This is no surprise, of course, but the intensity of this writing, thousands of words every day, is stripping any pretense away from the process. Portions of this book, episodes here and there or various character traits, are pulled from my life, from the lives of those around me and integrated into my characters. If I had more time or if I end up rewriting with an eye towards publication I'll file off the serial numbers, but for now, it's pretty transparent. As I'm writing I keep finding myself writing about the time when I... or the story my father told me about... or the way my mother... and so on.

At the same time I've been thinking about the way we tell the stories of our lives and the way those stories are often fictions. We don't mean to lie - we aren't lying - but we are the epicenters of our own lives and the stories are constructed so that particular telling, that truth, is told such that we are the heroes or at least the protagonists. And if the stories get embellished a little, so the stories are more interesting, who else will know? The arguments are a little fiercer, our responses are a little wittier, we are a little kinder or learn a more poignant message. However it works out, we are still at the center of the story that would, were it told by someone else, probably be a very different tale but no less true. We are all telling the true fiction of our lives all the time.

When I perform a piece of fiction it is no less true than an autobiographical piece. In fact, it may be more honest, because it has no pretense of not being filtered through my own lens of bias, hopes and ideals, hence the name of this blog.

All of this thinking was crystallized when I started reading The Thirteenth Tale in which a writer of fantastical fiction decides it's time to finally tell her true story, something she has never done before. I know my personal stories are no more true than my recounting of Eve or the djinni's story. Likewise they are no less true. And this novel I'm writing as a crash course in creative fiction? There is truth there too.

When you tell someone a story about your life don't worry too much about the details. Don't worry if you fudge the dates or enhance your role a little. We all do it. Take it from me, a professional liar, the truth of a story may have very little to do with how factual it is. Go ahead. Be a hero. I'll be listening, but I won't tell.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer