Tonight at dusk I wandered for a little while in the wooded park behind our new apartment building, where except for the distant roar of freeway traffic and the occasional like-minded, back-trails hiker I get to feel totally alone. I gulped in the smell of dirt and trees and berries and flowers, and I closed my eyes to better hear the crickets, toads, and wind in the branches. Once, a deer and I startled each other, and we both stopped to stare for a few moments before she turned and scrambled farther up the hill.
It may not seem like much, but these are the things that make me feel alive and rooted in something. These are the things that make me want to write.
I’m glad I read this detailed and open-minded exploration of where our Chinese food comes from (both the recipes — many of which are all but unknown in China — and the people who cook, serve, and deliver it to us). I’ll never look at General Tso’s chicken the same way again.
I’ve been doing a lot lately. Not blogging, obviously, or any other kind of writing (unless you count addressing envelopes). Not reading. Not going out for dinners and drinks and movies. Not taking walks.
I have been intensely stressed out, mostly in the name of bridesmaid dresses and perfect invitation wording and the outrageous cost of rented chairs. And planning to move. That too. We found a place that’s perfect for us, for now, adjacent to a beautiful park with a lake in the not-too-distant suburbs with more than twice as much space as we have now (Did you know that we’ve been living in a 480-square-foot apartment? I didn’t.), a den to use as an office, and a private balcony with a view of trees and grass instead of a busy street. And — this was important — next spring, we can get a dog.
So I’m alive, and busy, and happy (if tense). And I’ve been thinking about writing, I swear: I even took a beautiful weekly photograph two weeks ago. I’m just a little wrapped up right now. It’ll pass.
This book was interesting (with philosophy, magical realism, truisms worth dogearing pages for), very exciting (with fight scenes, earthquakes), and funny (with dry humor that usually caught me off guard), but it didn’t draw me in very deeply — I think because I couldn’t see enough of myself in the characters.
My plan is working, and it’s not. On a beautiful day about a week ago, I walked to a nearby meat market instead of driving, and was rewarded with uncharacteristically warm feelings toward my neighborhood. As a bonus, I found these daffodils growing in a flower bed alongside the church where we voted last year.
I didn’t realize until after I’d finished taking my pictures that I was crouched in front of a large window and being watched by a woman working inside the church. As soon as she saw that I’d noticed her, she gave me a huge wave with her whole arm, and I waved back before walking on. So between the walk, the sunny little flowers, and the neighborly encounter, my hard little heart started to soften that day.
But that was a week ago, and I’ve barely been outside since. Even though I know exactly why and to what degree a walk will do me good, I can’t seem to make it a priority. I blame it on the way I write: I spend the majority of any writing day sitting at the computer, waiting for the words to arrive. If I let my attention find other topics (which happens more often now that I’m in the thick, hazy midst of planning a wedding) or leave my chair for any reason, I may miss my date with the words.
It’s also inconvenient that if I want to go outside, I have to put on real pants.
I’m not giving up on this idea, though. I’ve never considered myself an indoor girl; I’m naturally happier outside. That should be motivation enough to get past the hurdles laid out by my work and the uninviting view from my windows. But I think I need to finish giving myself permission to walk away from the work and the view more often. In the meantime, we may have to settle for a Photograph Every Ten Days or So.
