I’m Too Busy to Write
Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.
~Mary Oliver
I’ve done it again. I have filled my life to the brim. I didn’t mean to end up with thousands of flight miles, new adventures, some misadventures, and stories to tell.
I retired from my teaching career five months ago and my intention was to write every day for a couple of hours. I found the perfect place to hang out. There was internet service, peace, solitude, and no distractions. I managed to follow my plan for about two weeks.
And then …
I traveled to the Bahamas to swim with dolphins. I wrote about it.
I went to Taos, New Mexico to a writing conference. I wrote every day. This adventure was an unexpected positive writing experience. Helpful feedback from people who know how difficult it is to write in the flow of life, travel and unforeseen interruptions.
Next, I went on a 2,300 mile road trip to visit my mother in Western Nebraska. I have written about my hometown before. Nothing new to say. It’s the same. The only spot on the planet that doesn’t change.
After that, I went to West Virginia to do the Upper Gauley on a white water rafting trip. Miles of class four and five rapids. I had plenty to write about. And did.
Finally, I spent three weeks in Italy. I haven’t written about that travel adventure. It was the trip of a lifetime and I enjoyed everything — except driving in a foreign country. I have much to unpack.
I didn’t write about Italy because … I didn’t have time.
While wandering the ancient walkways, I noticed elderly Italian grandmothers walking their cute little dogs. Watching them inspired me and I decided I was ready for a dog. I am not Italian, not a grandmother, and only a tiny bit elderly.
I told myself that wouldn’t search for a canine friend, but I would be open when the right pooch came into my life.
Footnote: This was my philosophy about finding a male companion and I’m still very single after nearly two decades.
The dog god had a plan.
A couple of days after I arrived home, a neighbor texted me a photo of two abandoned dogs and asked for my help. I had sworn off fostering dogs as the last one nearly destroyed my house. However, once I looked at the photo how could I not get involved? I called my contact person from SAFE (Saving Animals From Euthanasia).
He said, “I can get them into see a vet if your willing to foster them.”
What could I say?
I took them both under my wing, drove them across town to a vet (six times) for various medical issues, bathed them, and fell in love.
It’s been a long time since my tiny heart has had a big feeling. I’m jaded. Maybe from a lifetime of teaching special education in a world of changing expectations and political upheaval? Or perhaps, I’m slightly elderly and couldn’t stomach the bullshit any longer.
I named the boys Foxy and Sandy. Foxy has a face like a fox and my neighbor found him sleeping in a burrow. Sandy reminded me of the little dog in the Broadway musical, “Annie.”
They have been a lot of work. Both of them have blossomed into beautiful, affectionate, companions. Foxy follows me around and gazes at me with such devotion that I’m totally creeped out.
The vet stopped in mid sentence, “Wow, that’s intense. He is in love with you.”
“It’s a lot, he won’t stop looking at me,” I replied.
Foxy is still on a medical hold. I’m concerned about the financial responsibility of taking in two little ones. However, the thought that another human might mistreat Foxy in the future is enough to convince me I should include him in the pack.
Sandy is my shadow. I have officially adopted him. Anything that happens in my care is better than where he came from.
Another reason I have not been able to follow through with my plan to complete and publish my novel, write anything, or post a blog, is a part time gig cleaning Airbnb units. This commitment sucks up a couple of hours a day. I’m grateful for the opportunity to earn a little extra retirement money.
I listen to Audible while I clean. Not the same as actually writing.
One of the books I couldn’t stop listening to was Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. She is my all time favorite author and a true inspiration for me as a reader and a writer. Kingsolver is the Queen of the Metaphor. Her work is focused on the tragic state of social services, and the opioid crisis in Appalachia. She nailed it in this recent novel. Another New York Times Best Seller.
It’s no wonder I’m jaded. Professionally I often worked with children who are true victims of parental incarceration, addiction, overdose, and death resulting from big pharma and their plan to make big bucks from the very population that has nothing left to lose. Appalachia is not the only place where social services drops the ball and fails to protect children.
Michelle Obama has a second book out, The Light We Carry. Ms. Obama is an inspiration. One of the many points she makes in this book, is that she has lived a life of strategic decisions to get to where she is today.
I would say both of my daughters have that skill set. And, it drives them crazy that I don’t. They both are people of science. They refer to data, and research, and shit like that to determine their next step.
Years ago, I invited one of my daughters to attend a Ho’oponopono (traditional Hawaiian healing practice) retreat on Maui. We each made a pendulum from string and a paper clip. Then we asked the pendulum questions. It would swing back a forth to answer yes and no questions.
I have never lived this down.
When I decided to move to the Czech Republic, my daughters only response was, “Did you check in with your paper clip?”
“Nope. I’m winging this one.”
I have lived a life of opportunistic choices to be where I am. The difference between making strategic decisions is obvious. Half of the time I don’t know what I’m agreeing to. It is fun to be surprised.
In order to make strategic decisions to get what I want, I had to know what I wanted. I didn’t.
Instead, I went along with the program of marriage, career, family, finances, and made the best of it.
Once, when I was in my early forties, my therapist asked the question, “What do you want … to make your life work for you?” I was completely dumbfounded. It had never occurred to me that what I wanted mattered? I couldn’t come up with an answer until many years later.
“Freedom.” That was my final answer.
Another distraction from writing was a house guest from Hawaii. This person showed up and forgot to leave. My neighbor pointed out that I seem to have a thing for strays. I didn’t want to adopt anyone who wasn’t housebroken. I had to show him the door.
Another surprise, albeit unpleasant.
Is it too late for me to learn to make strategic decisions?
Is it my personality to make sweeping life choices without the complete picture?
Is it my generation of women who made the best of “it”?
Does it really matter? It’s doubtful I will ever be the First Lady of The United States of America.
Do I care? I have my freedom.
I have lived a long and varied life, I paid attention — sometimes to clutter instead of contentment. I have been astonished to get to where I am and be satisfied with okay. And, I want to tell about it.
Foxy and Sandy are all ears.
