And/Both

I’m thrilled to announce that my (er, humorous?) short essay on balancing parenthood and creative endeavor appears in the Fall 2017 issue of And/Both magazine.

And/Both is a new art and literature publication based out of my former home state of Kansas, making this a double honor.

The debut issue comes out in November, and pre-orders are available now at http://andbothmagazine.bigcartel.com.

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For more information, visit http://www.andbothmag.com or http://www.facebook.com/andbothmag.

 

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Finite

time

When I was a kid, time seemed infinite. In those dreamlike years before junior high’s end-of-innocence reckoning, summer breaks were an annual stint of freedom: three full months of 70s-era-childhood, running free range in a small town. Meanwhile, each elementary school year endured eternally; graduation to the next grade was a personal evolution.

I had no concept of the finite back then. Time was a vast ocean. I floated, buoyed and boundless. I recognize a similar mental paradigm in my own kids’ assessment of time, change, and future plans. Yes, they are impatient, and often bored as children are prone to be—things consistently take “forever,” and rewards delayed in any way will “never” happen. Yet these very words themselves belie childhood’s core naivete: sweet oblivion to the gristly existential meat of what forever and never really mean.

Through later childhood, this sense of floating in time gave way to a new mental paradigm: movement through time. Forward trajectory. The precise analogy varies with the environment of the era. A sense of transformative growth accompanied new creative pursuits and many years in school: upwards, outwards. Caterpillar to butterfly. Seed to tree. Tendrils of a vine, expanding in many directions, intertwining and combining with its environment to climb higher.

During a dark period of change in my late twenties, time’s forward-movement analogy best befit a tremulous walk along a tightrope in the dark. Only my most immediate steps were illuminated, and I had no confidence in my final destination. One wrong move seemed to threaten disaster. In such anxious times, excitement for the future was exchanged for dread and uncertainty.

In the earliest years of new parenthood, time flowed like a powerful river (please forgive the cliché). Control was surrendered to new-infant chaos—which was, in truth and retrospect, not chaotic at all, but rather a discernible pattern of feeding, sleeping, and growing. These were sweet little cycle-patterns of eddies and swirls, all moving together in the general direction of time’s rushing river. Oh, man. Time’s rush is everything with a baby in the house. Exhilarating. Exhausting. There were moments when I felt in harmony at last, flowing with All Time. There were also moments I felt myself drowning, crushed by the rush, unable to cope.

The concept of time’s finiteness has loomed dark and imminent lately. Just in the past year, my mental paradigm began to transform again, although I struggle as yet to identify the best analogy. What triggered this change? Perhaps returning to school last year—being on campus again, participating in a creative classroom setting. It was a pleasant if bittersweet re-experiencing of a youthful tradition. Or perhaps it was the onset of new, degenerate effects of age, beyond the occasional grey hair and laugh line. I hear it just gets better….

In anticipation of my forty-fourth birthday, I’ll call this new looming finiteness a midlife crisis of mind. Maybe a midlife epiphany. In all recent considerations of time, awareness of the finite has lent a new sense of exhilaration—if alongside a twinge of morbidity. It has invoked a life-affirming restlessness—or maybe it’s panic, dulled by midlife exhaustion. Time’s running out! Only forty-four more years to go! But I’ll still be in bed by ten.

In all recent considerations of time, the sense of time as finite has, for better or worse, replaced previous paradigmatic concerns. It has replaced worry over the crushing river’s rush. Replaced dread over the trembling tightrope in darkness. In the first mistaken analogy, the river rushes on forever. In the second mistake, the tightrope never ends.

Sometimes it seems like life is taking forever. But listen up, kids. It isn’t.

Time is running out, and it is never guaranteed.

On Bukowski and Motherhood

The famous first line from Charles Bukowski’s Roll the Dice: “If you’re going to try, go all the way.” He implies: let your creative fire consume you to the exclusion of all life’s dross.

I love it.

From a theoretical standpoint, I love it.

But I have questions.

I’m compelled to sit down over whiskey shots with Bukowski and clarify.  When you mention not eating for three or four days, surely you mean just during the day? Regarding the loss of relatives, what’s the selection process? And when you say “it could mean freezing on a park bench,” could that possibly mean for just a half-hour, waiting for my three-year-old to take one last slide ride (“Okay, now say ‘bye bye’ to the playground!”)—and then I can go inside and warm up?

As much as I adore the notion of the extreme creative life—as darkly intrigued as I am by its most tragic tales—I’ve come to realize something over the years. The angsty, 80s-era goth teen in me hates to admit it: my creative life has not been representative of Bukowski’s dice-rolling sentiment. It has not been extreme.

I’ve tried several serious creative pursuits over my lifetime, but none to the exclusion of all else. Music was a huge part of my life for many years. I rarely had to choose between music and jobs, school, friendships, or relationship. My husband and I spent a decade in the same band together before we married. Friendships were a consequence of musical pursuits—not collateral damage.

Writing is different than playing in a band. A solitary pursuit. “Isolation is the gift,” Bukowski says; he’s talking about writing. Sometimes it’s hard to discern another writer in your real-life midst, but when you do find one out there, it’s a super-cool common bond. Well, or maybe it’s just my one-sided perception. Regardless, I find it motivating, invigorating.  I dig thinkers. I dig those who sanctify time to craft words to articulate thoughts. And I wholly admire what I call the “comfortable alone”: those who can withstand silence, who are willing to forego interaction long enough to reflect and process and bring forth eloquence.

When I find another writer, I’m struck by a sense of camaraderie in mutual isolation.

Writing requires silence in a noisy world. It demands isolation and introspection in an era of social networking and immediate gratification. Pre-Facebook, pre-Twitter, Charles Bukowski implied it in Roll the Dice (although he gives voice to the extreme): to bolster and intensify that creative fire, one must understand there’s a tradeoff. For periods of isolation, sessions of silence, one must push back against status quo culture.

But may I suggest, perhaps over another whiskey round—one need not trade it all to “go all the way”?

When I was pregnant with my first child, I knew everything would change. Of course: we had just dismantled my home office and repurposed it for a baby’s room. Everyone told me things would change. I was told by seasoned parents that I would put everything on hold. Music, writing, painting, drawing. All that could wait, would have to wait. My child would come first now, in every aspect. And I’d be okay with that, I was told.

I would necessarily, happily trade it all away: my creativity, my ambition, my times of solitude—all for motherhood.

Quick. Before last call. Again may I suggest—one need not trade it all?

May I hope?

I am determined to find the middle ground. To honor one’s creative fire is something I plan to teach my own children. They’re small now, and they need a lot of attention, so my carving out alone time is sometimes impossible and often impractical. But I’m willing to work gradually. They’re growing up fast, and they pick up on a lot.

In order to teach it—this respect of one’s internal creative drive—I try to do it, when I can. I want them to understand it’s not only “okay” to take that time, it’s crucial. By integrating the concept of occasional, regular alone time in my family culture, I hope to provide my kids validation to seek and treasure their own aloneness, and what creativity may come of it.

But striking a balance is key. The active pursuit of writing is, strangely, much like a child: given attention, it wants ever more attention.  I negotiate with my own writing-addicted id/ego complex the same way I bargain with my kids. “Patience, you’ll get your turn.” “Be good for me, and you’ll get a treat.” “I’ll be back, and then we’ll do something fun together!” My creative fire is a toddler.

If he could read this, Bukowski would probably laugh at me. But who knows? Maybe he’d at least pay the tab.

Either way, the angsty goth teen in me would dig it.