Make a joyful noise

I've been struggling with this last phase of writing. Friend/critic tells me to perk up, having come this far all I have to do is this one last thing. Be boisterous and command attention, glorify the work and end on the high note. But the voice in my head refuses to go away. It reminds me of the screw-ups, the failed experiments and the many, many let-downs. Of the critique I'm still waiting to receive, the observation that I did the right things and wasn't rewarded in kind. The voice in my head refuses to shut up and let me remember why I'm here.
Then I came across this story-


A wise old gentleman retired and purchased a modest home near a junior high school. He spent the first few weeks of his retirement in peace and contentment.

Then a new school year began.

The very next afternoon three young boys, full of youthful, after-school enthusiasm, came down his street, beating merrily on every trash can they encountered. The crashing percussion continued day after day, until finally the wise old man decided it was time to take some action.

The next afternoon, he walked out to meet the young percussionists as they banged their way down the street.

Stopping them, he said, "You kids are a lot of fun. I like to see you express your exuberance like that. In fact, I used to do the same thing when I was your age. Will you do me a favor? I'll give you each a dollar if you'll promise to come around every day and do your thing."

The kids were elated and continued to do a bang-up job on the trashcans.

After a few days, the old-timer greeted the kids again, but this time he had a sad smile on his face. "This recession's really putting a big dent in my income," he told them. "From now on, I'll only be able to pay you 50 cents to beat on the cans."

The noisemakers were obviously displeased, but they accepted his offer and continued their afternoon ruckus.

A few days later, the wily retiree approached them again as they drummed their way down the street.

"Look," he said, "I haven't received my Social Security check yet, so I'm not going to be able to give you more than 25 cents. Will that be okay?"

"A freakin' quarter?" the drum leader exclaimed. "If you think we're going to waste our time, beating these cans around for a quarter, you're nuts! No way, dude. We quit!" And the old man enjoyed peace and serenity for the rest of his days.


..It's not about the quarter, or the dollar. It's just about the fun of banging the tin cans together.

About a story

A story like a tree, out of context. Out of context, a tree is an aesthetic, shapeless continuum- Root and leaf-tip turn to branch and root hair, and who can tell one end from the other? In a space beyond soil and sky, where does a tree begin, and where does it end? With twists and turns and sudden dips, we are like trees too, unchanging in our essence as we move through life. Our stories have no beginnings, and no clear ends, in the immenseness of time.

Yet the tales we tell must have these points, starts and finishes and dramatic changes, as if our continuum must have these reminders, that there is another space, a story-space, where lives begin and end in sharp punctuation. It takes a rare talent to move through these spaces and make them meet- Weave words like fingers tracing the lines of a tree, marking cracks in the bark and the softness of petal into the shape of a story one can tell, a tale worth sharing.

Gently, word-fingers probe disastrous lives, turning them into things of beauty, each in their own light. An alcoholic mother, a struggling step-father. The life of a writer. Drug abuse and unsafe teenage sex. Imperfection made perfect, in the light of kindness. What can happen, in these fragments? A story, most stories, would begin and end, characters stepping into glorious sunsets or people placing sawed-off shotguns in their mouths. The tree-story, instead, just watches, as the mother and daughter fight at the end as they did at the start, as the father struggles to write as he does throughout. Friends flit in and out, incidents occur, and life goes on, in much the same vein as it did on page one, if you called that the beginning.

Less about conflict and resolution than about the observation of both, and the reminder that people, however lost and angry and screwed up, have these sparks of loveliness, like perfectly phrased joy in a story of despair. It's about paying attention to these moments, because in a story like this, people, like trees, are unchanging and ever-growing, a seamless weave of beauty and imperfection.

(The book: Imperfect Birds, by Anne Lamott)

Note to self :)

"It's about paying attention. When people ask me how I am these days, I say, "Better than I think", because it's good to notice that my life is pretty great, even if my mind isn't."

- From Imperfect birds, Anne Lamott

Disconnect

Imagine, now, the most serious relationship of your life. You and a significant other, bound as close as two individuals could possibly be. Life without this other is inconceivable, he/she is essential as breath and blood to you. Your well-being depends on the other. Sickness and health, laughter and security and fun. Even the glow on your face and the sparkle in your eye. Without this being, you would never even try: Hanging out with friends. Shaking hands with your colleagues. Taking a vacation. Playing in the waves. Growing with your children.

What do you imagine this other to be like? Someone you know and love, deeply care about? Reality check. This being is a stranger. You spend every minute of every day together, without ever getting to know one another. You never have any fun together. You hang out on the couch, eat together and sleep together, never knowing what goes on inside each of you, what the other likes to do or what he/she is capable of accomplishing. The other never achieves their potential, only exists. And when someone asks you, "What does _ do?" You reply with a laugh, "Oh, nothing at all. Does _ really look like _ is capable of anything?"

Despite your closeness and absolute need for one another, this other is never worthy of your esteemed time, attention or respect. Why would you bother, when your exalted mind has so much more to occupy itself with, and the other is so quiet, so insignificant, undemanding and tolerant of your impositions?

Until the day he/she gives up on you, this stranger is ignored. And the day it happens, miracles are forgotten and feats extraordinaire ignored, and you moan to the world about how you're growing old and heavy, and your body no longer serves you the way it used to.

The popularity credo

Want to be THAT girl/guy? You know, the one that's always dressed right, the center of conversations, the one that gets invited everywhere! You can be him/her- Now you too can get all the jokes and never be sidelined again! Why would you want to be the one in the corner when you could be the star of every show, every time? Follow these instructions, and you should be there in no time ! :)

Conversations-

1. Only discuss 'patriotic' things- Football (not soccer), tailgating and those immigrants that ruin your life.

2. Forget absolute truth. The only important facts are the ones that work in your favor.

3. Smile often, however meaningless. If possible, fling yourself at people at intervals and hug them randomly.

Looks-

4. Spend all your available hours online, 'researching' the latest colors and trends. It helps to just buy everything on the 'look' in a single purchase. Plus, free shipping!

5. Gym mindlessly. Tell people you run. Run because it is popular. All these things are much more effective than doing something you might actually enjoy.

6. Count calories. But go to Tim Horton's anyway- how can you not hang out with the guys/ chicks?

Personality-

7. Reference #1. Don't waste your time trying to figure out what you like or who you are. What does that matter?

8. Drink often. Or just get drunk often. It helps you fit in at the tailgating parties.

9. Read the reviews. When discussing books/movies/ art, it helps to be able to say what everyone else is thinking.

10. Complete selflessness. Your personal mantra- I am what is in today, I am what is popular, I am merely a vessel for your greater thoughts, O Latest Trends.

Moving on

I am afraid to cut the tags on these clothes. New clothes, for a new life. Across a continent they will fly, with the tags of my fear trailing behind. A simple line to cross, from precaution to paranoia. After years of waiting and hoping, I find myself suddenly unable to hold on to the right side of that line. Through so many dark months I have waited and prayed, prepared for the worst, and now- I am unable to have faith in the best. The self that I believed in, that held on to strong words and courage, laughed through hunger and hurt and disbelief and fear seems suddenly dead. Replaced instead by a woman that trembles at good fortune, and leaves the tags on the new clothes, leaves the boxes half-packed. Having spent my strong self on hope, the shell that remains is lost, unsure of what to do with the future that was once hoped for.

The only certainty that remains is uncertainty, this sureness that fortune is not in my hands. The girl that called to the winds and trusted the universe to hold her up in flight suddenly cowers under this single certainty- that the winds are treacherous; they turn without warning and dance to malicious calls that I do not hear.

And so I leave the tags on the clothes, in case they must be returned. And I leave the boxes half-packed, unsure of where to send them and when. I worry about what comes next, even as I say I have lived through the worst. And when I am spent with fear, I free fall with the words of my favorite poet, that give way under my feet and don't even attempt to hold me up-

"Ek sailaab tha, sara ghar beh gaya. Phir bhi jeene ka, thoda sa dar reh gaya."
(The flood washed all of my home away. And despite that, I am still a little afraid to live.)