Password to the Pavilion

I am writing on the day after Christmas, exhausted, but in a good way. Yes, I am tired because the last few days have been like riding on a rickety roller coaster while holding onto wrapped gifts for everyone in your family… oops? You forgot to wrap something? Then get OFF the ride until you wrap that thing, and wait in line to ride again. Go over your holiday schedule while waiting in line. Is that your phone alarm reminding you that right now you are due at Roller Coaster #4? Where your Uncle Barnabas has made reservations for your whole family? Best drop out of this line again. You’ll just have to come back at midnight, if you have time, for this ride. And you must ride it, because it is so much FUN. Just look at all those happy souls on the ride right now with their mouths frozen into grimaces as they whip around the curves, clutching those wrapped packages with a death grip. How can it only happen once a year?

Actually all of that was just in fun. I am exhausted  in a good way because I have spent the holidays doing just what I want to do and nothing else. In the Holiday Amusement Park of life I am seated in a secluded pavilion on a park bench, aware but undisturbed that so many others around me are overextending themselves. I am comfortable and at peace, surrounded by those who mean the most to me. Back here in the pavilion I can see the festive lights and hear the noises, but I am removed enough so that if a stressed out roller coaster rider lets go of a wrapped fruitcake while at the summit of the ride, it can’t hit me or mine in the head.

It's shiny out here, but out of the way f flying debri.

It’s shiny out here, but out of the way of flying debri.

I enjoy myself so much in my  holiday pavilion; I only wish I had known about it sooner. Come to think of it, many of those I have seen walking  among the pavilions are closer to my age. Perhaps the way out here cannot be seen  clearly until one reaches a certain age. We who have found our way to the pavilions are at peace because we decide how much hustle and bustle we want. Others do not dictate it for us. Sometimes we may decide to dash briefly into the melee and race one  other past the midway rides and back to our sanctuary. When we return, out of breath and laughing, we relish the fun we had.

Things don't  get over the top unless we say so.

Things don’t get over the top unless we say so.

When you are at the Holiday Amusement Park, have you noticed the signs that point to the outer pavilions, where folks may be less active, yet at the same time more present? If you have not seen them I do hope that you will look. You won’t look until you are ready, but just in case, I will pass on a little hint. There are many signs posted at the park. You’ve seen them: “Frenetic  Friends and Family Roller Coaster”, “Codependent Merry Go Round”, “Big Box Shopping Dodge’em Cars “, “Yes You Will Attend This Party  Scrambler”, the “Yes You Will Buy Me This Hurricane” , and the like.

If you want to see the sign for the Peaceful Pavilions, you must pause in front of each preceding sign, read it, and say out loud, in a firm voice, the word “No.” Just that one word. But you must say it each time. Do not despair if it takes you several years to say no to each sign; no one ever said they weren’t tricky little devils. But remember that no matter how hard it may seem to say no, that eventually saying yes is going to become even harder than you can imagine.

But only if you want to.

Don’t say yes unless you want to.

Quality time at the peaceful pavilion.

Quality time at the peaceful pavilion.

I hope you will join me at the pavilion one of these years. I’ve met so many nice people out here. At first we are incredulous that we found the place, and that  enjoying the holiday season can be just as easy as saying “No.” Then, very quickly, we get involved with what we have always wanted to be able to say “yes” to: relaxed days and nights, making memories with friends old and new, helping those less fortunate than ourselves, even thinking about the new year to come. Until we meet in the wooded area beyond the midway rides, happy holidays from me and mine in the peaceful pavilion. We’ll keep the lights on for you!DSC_0351

The Book Of Life

My book club had its annual holiday brunch this Sunday. After feasting  merrily we got down to the business of choosing the first six  books to read in 2014. We wrote down the titles of books we might potentially read, and one or two people looked up each book and read us a synopsis. I sat among readers of all kinds: serious literary fiction readers, readers who hate romance, readers of “beach books”, and readers who will not even try a book that is more than 300 pages long.

books

Source:aonetwork.com

I listened to the comments of these women after each synopsis had been read. Some books were not chosen because of length. Less complicated  books were postponed until summer when apparently lighter fare is required. One author was turned down flat because his work was judged too inaccessible. None of these opinions disturbed me; after all, we must have some method of choosing what to read.

Another  type of comment, however, did stick with me. It too is one that is probably shared around the world at book clubs:  ‘”Oooh. That sounds boring. Nothing much happens.” “Yeah, let’s don’t read that one.” Because  my tastes in reading are not representative of the reading group to which I belong, I remained silent as I  often I am  in these discussions.

But I had things I wanted to say. Thankfully I can say those things right here in this blog. First I wanted to say that if the blurb of a book does not mention much action, then maybe the actions that take place are interior ones.  Books about characters’ inner lives are the books that I love more than any others on earth. I can think of many authors whose work centers on the meandering of the characters’ minds. Henry James, Richard Ford, John Banville, James Joyce, Ian McEwan are  but a few who come to mind.

Though I enjoy a clever  plot, I am more interested in the movement of the characters from within. How does the character struggle? How does he change? What does he grieve?  What must he let go of, or what will he not let go of despite the consequences? Does he feel his life is worthwhile, and how so? Naturally the characters’ quandaries  bring me to ask the same existential questions of myself, because as humans we share the same basic conditions, whether we are alive in 2013 or 1813.

quote-one-of-the-most-important-and-most-neglected-elements-in-the-beginning-of-the-interior-life-is-the-thomas-merton-347825

izquotes.com

My sister was at the book club because she was in town this weekend. Later that day we discussed the importance of the interior life. We decided that an outwardly uneventful life is not by definition one of quiet desperation. In fact, most of us live lives in which nothing all that dramatic happens. Rather, we experience a series of small events which, while  perhaps not meaningful to others, are the stuff of untold drama for us as individuals, and in the end they make up our lives.

I also did not mention to the book club that I might have been a little sensitive on that day to the plight of the person with the uneventful life. I belong to a facebook group for those who graduated from my high school during the 1970s. The group/page was spearheaded by a woman I knew only to speak to in high school.   She was one of those people I walked past without a second thought. I don’t know who her friends were; in my teenaged hubris I was focused mostly on which boys boys thought I was how hot in whatever ensemble  I wore that day.

But when she invited me to the page I did remember her. I’ll call her Cindy. Cindy posted frequently with news of our classmates’ joys, trials, and tribulations. I gathered from her posts that she was single and worked in a hospital setting. Occasionally she would post something of a spiritual nature or request prayers for classmates with health challenges.  She mentioned that her parents were deceased and that she lived with her brother. I came to expect her regular posts about studying for a test, ( She seemed to also be a student.) having to work late or watching a football game. She was not one of those TMI sharers, just friendly and concerned for her classmates.

Right before Thanksgiving I saw a post from the page co- administrator that she could not believe Cindy was dead. WHAT????? I asked, along with several other classmates. Over the next few days some details emerged. Yes, Cindy was dead. Her brother, who is mentally challenged, found that she had fallen and passed out in the bathroom of the apartment where they  lived.  It is not known which event occurred first, or why, but she died.

Cindy’s brother’s church came to his aid. There were not funds for a burial, so the church had her remains cremated. Cindy’s life ended with no funeral or memorial service and no obituary. Cindy’s classmates are now in the process of finding out whether there is a fund for her brother’s care  to which we might contribute in her name. There has been talk among the classmates of trying to arrange a memorial service for her.

Though I do not expect a book to be written about Cindy’s life, if it were written I would be eager to  read it. What were the hopes and dreams of this woman who buried  both her parents, supported her brother, and died so young?  How did she find meaning in her everyday life? Was her life all that she had once hoped it would be?  What did administering  the facebook page mean to this woman who had so few resources that we could see? Or did she have a wealth of inner awareness and peace which sustained her and helped enrich her short life?

We will never know the answers to these questions.   Maybe Cindy was just a woman who lived and died like the rest of us. I guess nothing much ever happened to her. Or did it? Fiction at its best can only imitate life.

It's the small things that make up a life.

It’s the small things that make up a life.

It’s the Real Thing

Hi Everybody! The Magpie is BACK after spending November, the month of Thanksgiving, typing furiously as well as inaccurately, which I know how to do at the same time, on my NaNoWroMo novel. I seem to have come out the other side with few ill effects except for realizing that I had been washing my hair with conditioner and wearing my bedroom slippers with the cardboard inserts still inside. What will become of my little novel? Thanks so much for asking. At the moment I plan to correct the typos and save it as a PDF so that a few carefully selected persons can read it. After that, I don’t know.

Naturally the NaNoWriMo experience has changed me. I am flooded with gratitude to all the authors out there who have slaved throughout history to create imaginary worlds for me to inhabit. I cannot even begin to count how my life has been enriched from their efforts which have allowed me to   know unforgettable characters, to identify  with their struggles, and to become  a part of their lives. Do not  say their lives aren’t real. YES THEY ARE!  And how I have mourned when a beloved tale has ended, for I was not ready to say goodbye.

I have greedily taken in all these riches provided to me by hard working men and women of vision and perseverance just the way I imagine ancient Romans used to feast at their ….parties, as though there were no tomorrow. That is no problem in itself; I consider daily reading to be a necessity, not a luxury. Read, read, for tomorrow we may die, I believe the saying goes.

But where I find fault with myself is in my not having been able to  see what very hard work it is  for these authors to craft their collections of words and sentences. Previously, after polishing off a book, I would say with a dismissive sniff something like, ” This author has used the word magnificent five times already”, or, “I can see where this plot is going. Is this author trying to insult my prodigious intelligence with this elementary story?”  And here’s the most infamous one of all ,”I could have written this.” NOT!!!!!  Readers, I have  now seen the light. Even a so- so, run of the mill, no brainer story requires serious work!

My second big NaNoWriMo change is a renewed appreciation for those who read what I write. In today’s  WordPress forum, reading a post is even more work than ever because of all the buttons one must push to get to the original post, a procedure which, like a long line at the grocery store, gives one time to decide if he REALLY wants to read this post. I did not formerly take readers for granted; no, I have been thrilled to have anything of mine read. However,  while writing for NaNoWriMo I came to see how important it is for a writer to have some feedback from the audience. I found myself wondering how readers would react to the creative decisions I made. That is why I am so eager, even hungry, for someone to read my little NaNoWriMo and meet my characters. They’re real, you know.

When I finally hit the “validate” button on the NaNoWriMo site this year, I did not know what to do with myself. Suddenly it was December. It began to sink in with me that I am traveling a lot this December and that I actually just had one day to Christmas shop and had no ideas of what to shop for. My poor tortured spirit, so depleted after my monumental authorly marathon, rebelled. It demanded to connect to something more real, more authentic than chasing around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to purchase and give away material items to folks who don’t really need anything. Really, Christmas shopping is no substitute for the thrill of writing.

So of course, I grabbed for a very comforting something real: a book series that I have already read. I am sure you all have your favorite go-to, read-again books. But in the spirit of gratitude I am sharing one of mine. Who knows when you may need to take refuge from the unrealistic expectations and disgusting commercialism that make up the holiday season?

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Source:bookmarcsonline.com

You may be familiar with Louise Penny’s well written Inspector Gamache detective series which takes place mainly in a tiny Canadian village called Three Pines. Why do I love it so? The main draw for me is how the author draws me in and makes me long to jump in my car and drive without stopping the 36 or so hours it would take me to get to this ancient village, where all the inhabitants seem to be sitting by a warm fire, drinking hot chocolate and saying words in a sexy French accent.

Source:louisepenny.com

Source:louisepenny.com

If you were to join me in Three Pines we could stay at the Bed and Breakfast run by an engaging  gay couple, Gabrí and Olivier,  where we would be served gourmet meals while we discussed who could have committed the most recent murder. We might be interviewed by Inspector Gamache, the honorable, perceptive Head of the Sûreté de Quebec, who prizes above all the ability to listen in order to solve a crime. And his ability to quote poetry by heart is a definite plus. That evening we would be invited to the home of one of the local citizens, perhaps that of Myra Landers, the  caftan clad retired psychologist who runs a used bookstore. Other guests would include  foul mouthed Ruth Zardo, the eminent poet, and the artists Clara and Peter Morrow. Dinner would consist of a simple but hearty stew with a crusty French bread and local wine, followed by cheese, fruit, and coffee.

Source:wallpaperweb.com

Source:wallpaperweb.com

After all my NaNoWriMo frenzy,  nothing would have suited me better than to be taken into the arms of the Three Pines residents. Ah, how they would congratulate me for committing myself to the NaNoWriMo project; I would bask in their approval. After our dinner at Myra’s we would walk through the snowy white wonderland of the village, our boots crunching in the  silent snow. Gabrí, one of the Bed and  Breakfast proprietors, would be waiting up to serve us a snifter of brandy. Then it would be time to go upstairs to sleep in one of the antique beds with its crisp white linen. We would sleep soundly until awoken by the heady aroma of fresh baked croissants and maple cured Canadian bacon cooking on the stove.

Source;hdwallpaperstop.com

Source;hdwallpaperstop.com

I would love to say I would meet you in the town where my own novel takes place, but I don’t yet dare to have such lofty dreams. But if you are game, and want a cozy place to recuperate because of the holidays, or because you have taken the trouble to read my blog posts, I would love to meet you in Three PInes, Monsieur.( Or Mademoiselle, but Monsieur sounds so much more cosmopolitan.)  Come, let us begin to memorize some poetry to recite when we meet Inspector Gamache! Yes, he is real!