Welcome to the first edition

Becoming, Oct. 18, 2022

Good morning, and welcome to the inaugural edition of Becoming

Read about decluttering, recluttering and old clothes, find something to meditate on, savor two poems, and maybe do some homework (I hope you will!)

Road Map

—Signposts that are meaningful to me—

Go slow now: Take time, feel gratitude, forgive. 
Remember what matters: Spirit, authenticity, justice, words.
Every day: Watch things grow. Live with silence. Reflect.

A Bit of Housekeeping

I’m planning on publishing one newsletter a week, on Monday. That will work until it doesn’t. Monday has already passed, so this is coming out on Tuesday .

Soon, I plan to introduce subscriptions. But I don’t intend to put any content behind a firewall. I just want to give readers a chance to support me.

I welcome comments.

I’m slowly exploring other Substack writers and will be adding recommendations.

There are also older posts, good writing, from when I was thinking of Substack as a blog. They are below.

Thank you for being here.

Essay: So . . . How’s That Working Out?

—Trying not to be the fly that keeps hitting the window—

Back in 2013, I spent a few weeks in a rehab facility after some big setbacks in my multiple sclerosis. What I learned there, sequestered from my tools of living—my cooking and quilting and errand-running, along with a tendency to start one project only to break off to pursue a new shiny thing—was:

Do Less. Live More.

Around that time, I read a book called The Clutter Diet, by Lorie Marrero, and resolved, Marie Kondo-like, to cut down on things. I could still have projects and interests, but the race to see how much I could accomplish in a day—that race was over. Or so I thought. What followed was a classic case of, so . . . how’s that working out?

We have patterns in our lives, and they repeat, repeat, repeat.

Soon, I was right back at it, trying to stuff each day full of activity like a squirrel maniacally preparing for winter. Running errands, playing with cloth, shopping for groceries, chopping vegetables, quilting and knitting, reading books, writing recipes and playing fiddle music.

I was back in the whirl for another two years—until I crashed again. This time I didn’t go home after rehab. I moved into assisted living.

Here, I’m doing less, living more. It’s a process. Last month, I shed about half of my collection of fabric and scraps. My quilts are downsizing too, from queen size to twin, then to lap and crib. The medium is still scraps, just smaller pieces in smaller quilts.

In assisted living, I can focus on putting one foot in front of the other; more sequence, less scattershot. So . . . how’s that working out?

I’m still that erratic little fly, landing on one project, then drawn to another, and another. Tasks get finished, but on their own schedule. I’ve had to learn to relax into this crazy rhythm. I’ve also learned how to shut it off.

Folks, I bought a recliner chair. Now I have a place to just sit and be.

What’s important? I want to create—write, quilt, knit, sew, make music—but the arc of time has spread like a sheet in the wind. I don’t have to get it done today, or tomorrow, or next week. It may never get done, and the Universe doesn’t care.

That includes posting to Substack. I lived with deadlines daily my entire journalistic career. I can do deadline. Now I slip the leash of my weekly date without a guilty afterthought. I do my daily writing exercises (see Homework, below). I know the stories will come.

That’s because of another slow, hard lesson: Living is more important than doing. Trying to do too much creates life clutter, just as papers, objects—stuff—are physical clutter. I do just a few things a day, then rest and recharge. (See the R Words, below.)

Of course, there are so many things to do: call friends, meditate, pray, wait in the dining room for hours each day (while enjoying conversation with fellow residents), read books, listen to audiobooks, watch streaming TV and film, file stuff, read magazines as the past issues pile up, sew or craft, knit, draw, make kimchi and kombucha in my tiny “kitchen.” And where is writing in all of that? I make room.

Life is slower, more sane where I am now. No more intensive cooking—a little garlic, a little ginger and pretty soon the salad has a dozen ingredients. No more frenetic errands. I call friends rather than go see them. Sometimes they visit me.

Still, the road to less clutter is never straight or well-paved. It’s full of switchbacks and drop-offs, potholes and the occasional dead end. Now is the time to proceed slowly down the way, bothering to notice the wildflowers on the verge or the vistas that sometimes appear amid the trees.

If I gather a little wool every day, soon I’ll have enough to knit a comforter.

As if I’d ever take on such a big project again.

The design wall in my apartment.. Still a lot of clutter. But it’s my clutter.

Essay: Old Clothes

—But new quilts—

A sage-green t-shirt, soft and ragged, holes all along the seams, the neck ribbing, the pocket. Yet it maintains its integrity. I often wear it as a nightshirt. It comforts me.

It was already ragged when I bought it for a quarter at a church rummage sale many years ago.

It’s a man’s shirt, and I figure the man who wore it out was a saint. His essence clings to the fibers, and I feel his goodness every time I wear it.

Almost all of my clothing is used. For a disabled person, it’s so much easier to shop in a thrift store than go from store to store downtown or at a mall. The visual clutter and dissonance—all those screaming messages to consume—are too much to bear.

It’s rare that I have a sense of the previous owner, as I do with that t-shirt. I did once own a beautiful blue brocade jacket in the Chinese style that I loved but just couldn’t wear. Every time I put it on I could intuit the vindictive nature of the woman who previously wore it.

Finally, I gave it away. Perhaps I should have destroyed it.

A friend told me I couldn’t make her a quilt because she would not wear clothing that has been worn by another. What she didn’t know was that I never use old clothing in my quilts. I do use scraps, but they are virgin in the sense that they’ve never been part of a garment.

That ensures that each quilt I make has only my own essence in it. Each quilt is a product of my love and the creative energy that flows from the Universe to my hands.

I wish for the same to be true of what I write. I want the love that crafts my words to pass untrammeled to you, the reader.

Not worn by another, just my essence revealed to you.

Some R Words

—Every day we re-create. Remember these. Practice them.—

Take a breath with each one. Contemplate.

Rest

Relax

Reset

Reboot

Refresh

Reorder

Recharge

Recreate

Re-create

Renew

Revive

Reserve

Remember

Ahhh. It’s all right now, isn’t it?

Poem: Little story

Little story,
Why do you hide from me? 
Please come out and play. 
I’ll let you go down the slide first. 

We’ll dance with the Universe, 
Let it measure our steps.
You know the changes—
You can teach them to me. 

You are frail, little story,
Your head a bobble on a slender stalk.
But I can nurture you.
I’ll feed you the honeydew of my longings.

Come out, little story.
Dance in the rain with me. 
Come with me, explore the sedges in the marsh.
We’ll spy the pulses in the frogs’ throats 
and follow the speckled fish
as they breathe bubbles in the shadow of the bank. 

The sunlight is bright here, 
And you will prosper.
I will keep you safe. 
I know how to do that.
Many years, life, illness, children—
These things have made me wise. 

I am going to sleep now, little story. 
In my dreams I will walk with you, 
And you will whisper to me, quiet, precious.

You are shy, yes, but you are fearless.
I, too, am fearless, 
And maybe a bit more bold. 
Still, like you, I seek the comfort of darkness.
We both pace the painless, shady path of innocence.

But soon, soon, let’s play in the sunlight,
We’ll step away from the shadows.

Come out, little story,
Come out and play.

Poem: The November Walk

Last leaves 
A big chair 
Rain against window 
Window wins 
Birds defend 
Gutter nests 
Gutter snags leaves 
Leaves win 

Homework:

—This will change your life—

Should you choose to accept it, this is an incredibly powerful assignment. All you have to do is . . .

Write.

Write every day. Three pages longhand (the method Julia Cameron extols in The Artist’s Way) or 20 minutes at the keyboard. Cameron suggests that you destroy your work, but I keep everything.

I cannot emphasize too much how important this practice will be for you. And I can guarantee, if you can hold to this craft every day for some days or weeks, it will change your life. You will be amazed at how you can excavate an entire story or completely flesh out an idea in just that short time.

Some background: I came upon the practice three decades ago in Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, by Janet Burroway (Little, Brown, 1987), who notes:

“In Becoming a Writer, a book that only have half-facetiously claims to do what teachers of writing claim cannot be done—to teach genius—Dorothea Brande suggests that the way to begin is not with an idea or a form at all, but with an unlocking of your thoughts at the typewriter. She advises that you rise each day and go directly to your desk (if you have to have coffee, put it in a Thermos the night before) and begin writing whatever comes to mind, before you are quite awake, before you have read anything or talked to anyone, before reason has begun to take over from the dream functioning of your brain. . . . It doesn't matter what you write: what does matter is that you develop the habit of beginning to write the moment you sit down to do so.”

[Footnote: I was later able to interview Burroway when she was in a Portland suburb teaching a writing workshop for middle-schoolers. I shared how the Brande practice had transformed my writing. Burroway was later surprised that I was able to turn our conversation into a feature story in the space of about an hour. But that’s what the practice—I was doing it every day—had taught me. You sit down and start writing and something gets written.]

Here’s the comment button:

I didn’t want the clutter of a comment button after each piece of this newsletter. But I would really like to hear from you.

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