Look in your top left-hand drawer

Steps of Encouragement:
1. “I understand, I know it’s hard.”
2. “I think you can handle it.”
3. “Want to give it a try?”
4. “When you’re ready . . . “
5. “Look in your top left-hand drawer.”

***
Today, shopping done, leaves raked, laundry spinning and the computer waylaid one more day in repair, I cleaned out my desk. My desk may be no different than the one you have, drawers so full of detritus that I hardly open them anymore. Into the drawers I went, and I found:

1. A short stack of rejections I saved while hunting for an agent. There were eleven of them here, among more that weren’t, because these were the dozen that favored me with a written reply. What struck me was not the disinterest these strangers showed, but the civility of their response. So I keep them still. The most civil of all was the one who called.

2. Scrap papers of notes written on the plane home after my first retreat with Maezumi Roshi 15 years ago. What I jotted: “He says he doesn’t want to flatter me, but he has been waiting for someone like me, someone with a big capacity to learn and teach others.” You can see he still has an infinitely big capacity for flattery! And while I don’t doubt he told others the same thing, I was the one who found it today.

3. A photo of my mother giving baby Georgia a bath. My mom’s head is a post-chemo cap of newly grown, wiry black curls. She is not the radiant woman who still lives in my heart; the baby is not the precious girl who still lives in my home. Time has passed but I’ve lost nothing and no one.

4. A snapshot of El Santuario de Chimayo taken on a visit in 1992, a magical axis from which my life turned in a totally new direction.

5. A print out of the first and only of Maezumi’s teachings I edited for him before his death. It was from three hours of his talks on Dogen Zenji’s fascicle, “Tsuki,” or “The Moon.” It took 36 hours of listening to tapes, craning into the earphones of a Radio Shack portable cassette player, to transcribe one inscrutable word at a time. I had no idea what I was doing.

6. Stuck on the first page of the completed transcription was a Post-It note written by my current teacher when he read it five years ago. “Maezen, Thank you so much! Keep it going – N.” This was the first time I’d read the piece since. I was afraid to.

7. A sheet of paper with the first four of the above Steps of Encouragement given to me by a preschool teacher when my daughter was three. My daughter never needed them; I still do.

8. And thus I found all the encouragement I need right now in my top left-hand drawer. There’s more than enough here, so please take some to tide you over until you look deeper inside for yourself.

A toast to the last of the good stuff


The other day I was passing time in one of my many embarrassingly self-stimulating pursuits when I ran across this comment about my book:

“I think I will eventually buy it cheap and used online.”

I don’t know the person who wrote it, but we are all careful about our purchasing decisions these days. What struck me is why she would broadcast her intentions in a way that seems both self-congratulatory and deprecatory about the value of a book – my book in particular. What price is so much cheaper than $9.56 new? Or even $11.95 list?

I’m not here to rail on anyone about the end of the publishing industry. Like a lot of industries collapsing these days it has long engaged in a stubborn suicide spiral. Publishers seem to have been blindly unconcerned with writers, readers or the revolution in content delivery. (Beware, beware, those of you awaiting publishing knights in shining armor. No one rides in on a white horse. You, yes you, the writer, remain your sole means of transport. So saddle up and get going.)

No, what I want to rail against is the peculiarly uncivilized value system during this, the decline and fall of our civilization. A system in which we can spend $10 a week on coffee in a cardboard cup, but scrimp on the $9.56 for a book.

And don’t worry: I’m indicting myself here. My husband and I don’t dare live without our $12 pound of connoisseur coffee beans each week.

One early Saturday morning about a month ago I stopped by Starbucks for my ritual tall-drip-with-room-for-cream $1.60 cup of slightly stale coffee on the way to the Zen center. Normally I make a pot at home but don’t want the roar of the grinder to wake the dead at the dark hour of my departure. There were about half a dozen folks ahead of me in line. The stock market had fallen, oh 700 points or so the day before, yet here we all were, living proof of our unshakable values. We could, on this day of our lives, own a share of Citigroup, the largest financial institution in the world, for $4. Or, we could have a grande vanilla soy latte. We all know how that story ends. It’s not a happy ending.

And so I make a toast today, a toast to a better tomorrow; a kinder, gentler, nobler nation; a toast to quiet circumspection, art and imagination; to our wiser selves awaiting revelation in the turn of a page.

A toast not just to the book or the bookshelf; not to the library, no, not just to the borrowed book; but beyond that, to the hard currency of words worth owning.

To the bookstore! Where everything is already dangerously, precariously, woefully half off and going out of business.

***

This entire post was written by hand in 15 minutes flat in the pages of Jen Lee’s magical Don’t Write: A Reluctant Journal while my hard drive was being replaced in yet another cruel case of ill-timed obsolescence. Get your own journal today. It’s not just a blank book. It’s a white horse!

Bearded lady


Mom, you know what’s great?

What’s that?

Some people don’t think Santa Claus is real, but he is.

Who doesn’t think he’s real?

My friend Marjorie. But that’s just because she didn’t get a laptop last year.

(When you tug, it hurts.)

Forgive us our misconceptions


A gospel in two parts.

The other night my book group met at the mall (you read that right!) for a quick dinner and an even quicker discussion of our latest read, the most pathologically unfunny franchise of bestselling books I’ve ever encountered. We did this with our hearts in the right place, having dutifully taken up the task of spending money to help those less fortunate than we, a faceless group that has, in these torturous last months, come perilously close to resembling ourselves.

We had absolutely nothing to say about the book, which filled most of us with silent gratitude to be done with it once and for all.

So the conversation turned to other things, other less frivolous things, thankfully not politics but the circumstantially relevant topic of religion.

It is easy to think of your religion as the religion. And by that I mean the right one. I sat at the far end of the table literally and figuratively.

First came the question of whether Jesus had brothers and if so, who they were. That brought up the subject of Mary’s imagined life as the wife of Joseph and mother of mortals and the implications of conception, immaculate and otherwise.

The most authoritative Catholic in the group appraised us all of the doctrinal meaning of “immaculate conception” which may not be the conception you, or I for that matter, were conceiving of, that is, the virginal conception of Baby Jesus. Rather, it refers to the concept of Mary’s own conception as a human being born without sin. We outliers on the far end voiced misconceptions about all these conceptions, and the devout one said, Google it.

Google it is the modern-day conversation stopper. But then, that’s what dogma is designed to do. Stop conversation.

So we stopped talking and each went on separate pilgrimage for socks, scarves, hats, books, toys and a shred of holiday warmth for some unknown poor family. It was easy to conceive of them wandering in the chill outside the high walls of this nearly empty temple, immaculately lit on this eve like an ancient shrine to economic redemption.

Part two.

I doubt that any of us did any Googling on the dinner topic when we got home. The next morning came an email followup inviting us all to convert our erroneous thinking about the immaculate conception by clicking a link to a page in Wikipedia. I encourage you all likewise to go look at it right now while I keep quiet and ponder these things in my heart.

Pondering.

How about it? When I looked at it I thought: Has there ever been a more faith-defying argument, explanation, fabrication, extrapolation, interpretation or complication than this? Holy catechism! Buying all that takes a lot more intellectual credit than I have on hand!

I can fathom how the doctrine came about. Catholicism venerates Mary as an intercessor, and so divinely sanctified she must be made to be. But I was raised a good Lutheran (which is to say, a bad Lutheran) and we didn’t make so much of Mary. Except some of us little Lutheran girls prayed like hell to be cast as the comely mother in the yearly Christmas program. As you can guess, back then I never got the part. Now I see it as a part we are perpetually called to fill.

All this conceptualization is beyond us; the arguments are beneath us; they conquer and divide us when we know the really important things in life perfectly well for ourselves.

We all came together again before the night was over, setting down the blessed burdens we carried, opening up to share the modest gifts we had come to deliver. Without shame, we had used our half-price offers and twofer coupons to bring comfort to the humblest. We offered a package of girls’ white socks size XS, travel umbrellas, toys, playing cards, marked-down scarves, hats and bargain books. We saved far more money than we spent, but we still did right and we did good, without the slightest defilement of doctrinal debate.

This is the gospel few preach, but all of us, unified by inherent grace and goodness, can practice it: Doing good. There is no need to understand it. There is only a need to do it. And that’s so easy.

No matter what we believe, we’ve all been cast in the nativity pageant. No matter what our means, we have it within ourselves to deliver comfort, love and peace from our own pure hearts. Thank heaven, heaven is ours to share.

Things to do besides*


*Going to the mall.

A little of this, a little of that, a recipe to spice up your appetite for gifts.

1. Curl up and listen to the sound of the dark. Jen Lee’s Solstice: Stories of Light in the Dark is poetry for your soulmates.
2. Don ye now some gay apparel. Stacy de la Rosa’s hand-stamped joy (and then some!) decks a neck in falala.
3. Top a teeny noggin in Shalet Abraham’s custom baby knitwear.
4. Keep it short and sweet in Robin Westphal’s handmade journals, jewelry or prints.
5. Dole out favors from a stack of Jen Lemen’s Trust Notes, and when no one is looking, steal something for yourself. (Everything is $10 this week.)
6. Start all over again January 1 with Karen Walrond’s 2009 Chookooloonks Calendar. It’s sure to be a better looking year.
7. Alphabetize your spice caddy. No, nevermind, I did that already. And the question is, how did I end up with so much Chervil?

***
Hold your parsley! There’s already more:

8. Jingle your jangle with Leigh’s artful adornments, but not before I snap them up!
9. Feast your eyes and deck your walls with Lisa Gilbert’s fine art prints. She’ll pack you a day at the beach and save you the gas money.
10. So many moms, so little time. Look what our favorite mom in Madison, Denise Cusack, has done for all the momshops in her town, while I was merely sorting the cinnamon from the cloves.
11. Not least, Nikole Sarvay’s mother-loving pendants. Each one worth waiting all this time for!

Do you have an etsy shop ready for business? Leave a comment here and I’ll add you to the shopping list.

Out of the mists

My girl was a big girl, her own girl, with her own loves and life. I was a spectator, but the show was splendid and I still had the best seat in the house.

By my reckoning, I wrote those words nearly eight years ago, they were published nearly three years ago, and last night they came true in the most absolute and unpredictable way. I watched my daughter debut on a theater stage, feet steady, eyes blazing, cheeks glowing, her own girl, in her own life, from my seat in the full house. I’m filled with awe, not so much with her particular drama, but with the wonder of life itself. Do we write this life? Do we conjure out of scribbled ink and poetic image the very future we inhabit?

We must! We must!

Who is this girl, I wonder? Where does she come from and where will she go?

Is she the baby at twelve months, the fickle birthday girl whose sudden flare of independence inspired the tearful flow of the original words? Is she the sweetheart at two, and three, and four, who dressed herself in an everyday wardrobe of feather wings and glitter crowns? Is she the girl of eight, who cast herself in the real-life leading role of a fantasy come true?

She is all and none of those girls, and most of all this. She is the one who moves in and out of the mists, as we all move in and out of the mists, to appear live and on-stage in the pure light of the briefest moment of recognition.

Oh my heaven, my goodness, do you see it? Do you see it? When we do, when we open our eyes to see the show, there is only one thing to do. There is only ever one thing to do, and without the hesitation of a second thought.

Applaud! Applaud!

Out of the mists of The Huntington Gardens.

Dear friends, my best friends, my full house, appreciate your life.

A little something under the tree

Dear Santa,
For Christmas I would like an American Girl doll that looks like me. Here are other things that I would like: Puppy, iPhone, and an adopted sister.

(And a whole lot more that I forgot.)

Love,
Georgia Miller

Editor’s Note: 1 out of 4 and a new pair of socks.

Lame ducks and tailfeathers


Every day seems like one more past due the time for lame ducks to fly south. And north and east and west. To all the lucky ducks who know what I’m flapping about, your webbed feats are now finally in flight.

And speaking of bills coming due, it’s time for me to give great thanks to the hosts of my most recent layovers.

To the gracious parents and staff at Palos Verdes Hills Nursery School: You gave me such a warm howdy-do to the feathered nest where I was hatched! Thank you for an evening encircled in love and attention.

To the good people of Kansas City’s Rime Buddhist Center: You must be the very kindest and open-hearted flock of Buddhists I’ve ever come across. This makes two times I’ve touched down in your lotus pond. And as sure as we warm-blooded breeds migrate, I’ll be back.

To the sweet circle of women gathered by this newfound soul sister: We shared ourselves and our stories over candlelight and tea (while the kids mattress surfed upstairs, no less!) We are indeed birds of a feather.

Thank you all for reassuring me, once again, that when we put ourselves in motion, we can’t help but fly.

Feather originally uploaded by erynnchelsey.

Forever again


Never again believe what you read.
Never again fly on the most overbooked air travel day of the year.
Never again go via this airline through this airport.
Never again be in a hurry to get home when fog socks in your destination.
Never again leave your dog at home with a dogsitter who misunderstands/misreads/forgets when you are returning.
Never again get the smell of fear, anxiety, panic and dog poop out of the rugs.
Never again use sudsing detergent in your new front-loader.

Now, never again say never again. Instead, sit a few hours of Rohatsu at the temple this week and make your mind open, your heart forgiving and the world right side up.

Forever again.

To buy children’s gifts, mothers do without


Come Christmas, McKenna Hunt, a gregarious little girl from Safety Harbor, Fla., will receive the play kitchen and the Elmo doll she wants. But her mother, Kristen Hunt, will go without the designer jeans she covets this season.
New York Times

To give their children health, mothers do without.
To give their children sleep, mothers do without.
To give their children attention, mothers do without.
To give their children time, mothers do without.
To give their children comfort, mothers do without.
To give their children respect, mothers do without.
To give their children shoes, mothers do without.
To give their children security, mothers do without.
To give their children freedom, mothers do without.

For a mother, doing without is never doing without love.

Try designing that into a pair of jeans.

Cut to the heart of it


So we cut out our Sunday subscription to the New York Times. We are loyal readers, but we can’t afford any more of this news.

We cut out our weekly personal training. Giving ourselves a swift kick in the butt.

We cut out our support of the conservation voter’s league. A cruel end after a tireless fight.

We cut out our daughter’s studio art class. Until the paint dries on the ugly mess we’re in.

We cut out our online subscription to the Wall Street Journal. We’ve long since stopped gagging on it, but wouldn’t you know they were double charging us?!

I was overruled in my attempt to cut out satellite TV. Some channels never change.

We quietly removed the Obama-Biden valedictory sign from our front yard. To usher in a bold and brave new day in this bountiful country we love and share.

Happy Thanksgiving.
Happy day after.
Happy every day after.

You are too good to be untrue

To you, to me, to everyone cradling a secret wish or a distant dream. Read this through, see what comes, leave your disbelief under the shade of a strong and fragrant cedar, and trust your life as it unfolds.

On the day you were born
the grass danced
the air sang
the sun bowed low in patient sway to every night’s partner,
her full and rounded mystery,
the stars harmonized
a still and silent
hallelujah symphony
the ocean rocked the earth beneath a foggy vest,
your rich and ready nest,
your mother and father,
every mother and father,
came together and apart
trusting their lives for you
making a place for you
to come home.
You are too good to be untrue.

A welcome blessing for Cedar Leonard Kroon, in full amazement and gratitude for life.

Now, leave your own wish here for what you may not yet believe could come true, and let’s see, let’s just see, what unfolds.

Keep a goldfish alive in 20 easy steps

A-Goldfish-In-A-Bowl-1530827_jpg_472x225_crop_upscale_q85I’ve had this post in my mind for a very long time, nearly every time that I look at Redhead, age 4, and her next-door fishmate, Firefly, soon to be 3. Actually, I’m not certain of their chronological age at all, just that they have been in our disbelieving care for what seems like forever. Here’s my secret formula for goldfish longevity.

1. Suffer the immediate demise of two to three other goldfish and tell yourself you will never be so foolish as to bring another one home.
2. Leave the house for the morning.
3. During which time your husband drives by the pet store and escorts your daughter inside, then leaves with a 25-cent fish and $40 in tank, decoration, and filtration supplies.
4. Install said fish in this high-dollar, intensive care, assisted living habitat.
5. Remind your child every morning and evening to feed the fish.
6. This requires repeating the following phrase eight full times, twice a day, every day, for 1,460 days: Did you feed the fish?
7. Repeat after me, Did you feed the fish?
8. Repeat it 23,360 times over four years.
9. Then feed the fish yourself.
10. Leave the house for the morning.
11. During which time your husband takes your daughter to the old-fashioned carnival in the park, then leaves with a free, 25-cent goldfish in a cellophane bag.
12. Inwardly scream, then regain your calm with the thought, “I bet these fish could share the same tank.”
13. Remove remains and give teary daughter a tutorial on “survival of the fittest.”
14. Leave the house for the morning.
15. During which time your husband drives by the pet store and escorts your daughter inside, then leaves with a 25-cent fish and another $40 in tank, decoration and filtration supplies.
16. Repeat steps 4-9.
17. Use only distilled water to refill tanks.
18. Fully and/or partially refill tanks every Saturday.
19. This requires two gallons of distilled water at $1.29 each once a week for 208 weeks.
20. Marvel at the lifespan of your fish, but do not do the math.

 

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