Rediscover Your Love of Writing: How to Choose What to Write About

What I’m about to say about this is likely very different from the ten thousand things you may have run across on the internet about choosing what to focus on and finding inspiration for your work.  Not that those other things aren’t cool – they are.  I’ve gotten a lot out of writing prompts, and Nanowrimo’s Adopt a Plot forum, and blogs about find topics about writing blogs.

But if I’m working on something bigger – a novel, the copy on my website that’s supposed to be an authentic representation of the kind of work I want to do to change the world, or a magazine article to submit to a publication that goes out to tens or even hundreds of thousands of people – my heart has to be in it, one hundred percent.  It has to be the work’s beginning, and it’s end.

Tell me if this sounds familiar: you have a feeling that there is something within you that wants to come out, if you could just put your finger on it.  Maybe it’s an idea for a whole new project, or maybe it’s finding the next step in something that you’re already working on.   It’s the perfect thing.  It feels beautiful, powerful, like a spark of fire inside of you.

But it’s also a slippery little devil.  And you can’t think of exactly what it is.  And then the monkey mind starts to have it’s fun.

One of the favorites tricks my monkey mind likes to play is search and search and search for a good idea, and when I come up with one, to tell me that it’s cliché, or rote, and that I’ll put tons of time into something that my friends will read and think less of me for, because it’s so trivial.  So then I try to think up something that will be new and fresh and unusual, which monkey mind will respond is pretentious. 

There’s just no winning in that game.  The key is getting out of the game entirely. 

We need to source our writing ideas from someplace else, other than the intensity of our analytical prowess.  It can still be from within our minds – after all, our minds include the beautiful powers of visioning and imagination.  And we can use the powers of our linear capabilities in service to our imagination and our hearts, when we are developing plot or synching up a series of blog posts to create a series, for example.

But when trying to decide what to write, or anytime you’re really stuck, it’s the heart that will guide you through.

To do that, here’s what I invite you to do:

1) Find yourself someplace lovely, and private, to be.  That could be a café, if your home is too busy for you to be undisturbed there.  It can be Tilden Park, or Bernal Hill.  It can be the shower.

2) Do something to get your mind to be quiet, and to set the judgement-and-expectation-demons at bay for a little while.  That could be some kind of breathing or meditation technique, but it also could be listening to your favorite music, or stretching and moving your body for a little while.

3) Ask yourself, “What do I want to write about?  What is pulling me right now?  What would I really like?”  Then be quiet and let your Self answer, in all of the more subtle ways that it does.  Give Self a little time to pontificate without asking it the hard questions about how, why, or for whom.  Just see what floats up.  You could also do this as an automatic writing exercise by setting a timer for five minutes, putting your pen to the page or fingers to the keypad, and letting loose until the buzzer goes off. 

4) After you have a couple of possible ideas or bare-glimpses-of-ideas (two to four is a good number), do something to shake out the energy.  That could be literally shaking, standing up to stretch, or changing the music on Pandora. 

5) Now go back to your conversation with Self.  Ask, “What’s important about this?” for each of the ideas that you came up with.  Notice that we are not asking ourselves what stinks about it or is unrealistic or is has poor marketing potential.  Just, what’s important about it, or “what will writing about this do (or mean) for me?”  You could set the old timer again if doing this as an automatic writing exercise works for you.

6) Shake out the energy again, and ask yourself, again for each idea, “How would I know that this piece of writing was successful?  What would the language be like, the tone, and how would I feel reading it, and writing it?”

7) Go take a short walk. 

8) Come back, look at what you’ve written, and make a decision based on that.  Or sleep on it, and make your decision the next day – unless, of course, you’ve committed to writing 1500 words a day and already 855 words behind, like I am.

9) Tell us all how it went and what else works for you when you’re trying to figure out what to write about in the comments below.

In the writer’s trenches with you,

Rebecca

Words for yesterday: 1845 (1200 for the blog, 645 novel) 

Rediscover Your Love of Writing: Finding Your Writer's Mission

Step 1: Figure out what your Writer’s Mission is for today, and for the week, and for the month.  Just don’t spend three hours on it when you should be writing.

Your Writer’s Mission for the day (and week, and month) is your intention.

Think about all of those amazing fantasy movies you’ve seen about wizards and witches who need to learn to cast powerful spells.  Whether it’s Tolkien’s Middle Earth or Hogwarts or Percy Jackson, when someone wants to learn how to use magic, they always begin with gathering their thoughts and focusing on what they want – a fireball, someone to fall in love, or fall asleep – and then putting their will and lifeforce into it.  That’s what makes the magic happen.  Without the heart, and then the drive, the spell won’t work.

You probably already know that writing is magic.  But we all could use a little reminder, sometimes. 

So we begin with our intention.  Our Writer’s Mission.

I bootlegged the term “Writer’s Mission” from Roy Peter Clark’s book, Help! for Writers, which I think is pretty fabulous in many ways.   He dislikes the word goal as much as I do.  Here's what he says about why the word 'Mission' is better than other words, say, "goal" or "task-list:"

The word goal comes t us from Old English, where it meant ‘barrier,’ and Middle English, where it meant ‘boundary.’  It suggests something to hurdle.  Mission, on the other hand, comes from the Latin verb ‘to send.  I like that better.  I am sent to accomplish something important; I’m a missionary of the word.

For those of us who are doing the Nanowrimo thing of a novel-in-a-month, our Writers’ Missions might already seem spelled out for us: 1500 words a day.  Fin.  But what about if you are working on a webpage, or a collection of short stories, or… you have a life, and that life doesn’t allow you to write 1500 words every single day?

I think deciding on a writer’s mission for your day, your week, and your month should help you stretch out of your comfort zone, and be exhilarating and stimulating – but it shouldn’t burden you down with dread or disempower you by setting you up for failure.  We all have our triggers, for good and for bad.  If you know that you already feel completely overwhelmed by the thought of writing your bio or your first chapter, what’s the point of telling yourself you need to write the entire “about me” section or the whole first act before next Tuesday?  Is that really going to help you get to your ultimate goal?

So, start with what you can do, and add about 10-20% on top of that.  For me, I’m going to let this blog post count towards my 1500 words today – but, I’m also going to devote extra time this weekend to my novel, so that I feel good about where I’m at.  Will I be done with 4500 words by Sunday night?  That’s my Writer’s Mission.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

It’s already late afternoon.  Have you done any writing yet today?  If yes, awesome!  Kuddos!  Bravo and bravissimo.  If not, that’s totally okay.  Like, really, truly, totally okay.  What can you today, to set yourself up for a great weekend of writing?  Maybe you can do 250 words, and also spend a little time outlining the next two or three sections of your work, so they’re easier to write when you come to them.  You can set yourself up for success this weekend by blocking out chunks of time for writing, and maybe even calling up a writing buddy to work with you and provide some accountability (we’ll get more into setting up the conditions for inevitable success later). 

Finally, know that Writer’s Missions change.  They are subject to our moods, our bodies, heavy winds, the weightiness of living in a reality of traffic jams and children with runny noses and beautiful evenings with friends that run over.  Let this be a process where you learn about yourself, as a writer, while also pushing yourself that extra little bit.  Says our friend Clark:

A mission statement of any kind must be expressed in strategies and tactics.  It cannot be frozen in time.  It will change.  Expect it to melt and flow into something else…. And please don’t wait until the end of a project to celebrate.  You need more moments of joy than that, rewards scattered across the span of a writing projet like gorgeous shells on a long sandy beach.

I’m looking forward to hearing how it’s going from you.  And please do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help by leaving me a comment below!

In the writer’s trenches with you,

Rebecca

the truly free, Rediscover-Your-Love-of-Writing 30-day challenge

Kindle the fires of your expression.
Find focus, pleasure and clarity as a writer.
And get the darn thing done – in 30 days or less.

It’s the time of year that other folks are gearing up for Halloween and Thanksgiving, snuggly warm and safe by the fire in cozy sweaters, and drinking cider – but I often find myself living in a very different fall than other people… slithering around on the outskirts from society… or holed up in my room with a strange gleam in my eye…

I will finish this novel in thirty days.  My mantra.  This year will be different.

For those who don’t know, tomorrow, November 1^st, marks the beginning of the international phenomenon known as Nanowrimo.

Na-no-what?  Na-no-wri-mo.  Short for National Novel Writing Month.

Some 200,000 writers participate every year.  The intention: to complete 1500 words a day, or 50,000 in a month, the length of an average novel.

I have been one of those 200,000 intrepid souls every year, for the past five years.  For half a decade, every November, I’ve begun a Nanowrimo novel.  But I have yet to finish a single one.

But this year, it will be different.

No, not because I’m going to succumb even more madly into a state of unwashed-writer-living-in-the-attic-surviving-on-coffee-and-chocolate-alone.  This year will be different because I’ve decided to take a whole new route: I’m dedicating myself to a month of inspiration, wellness, and community for the entire month.

And I’d like you to come a long with me!

In fact, I need you.

It’s okay if you don’t want to write a novel this month – there might be something else you’ve been dying to set your mind and fingers on:

• Your marketing copy for a new program. 

• Your blog, which has been languishing idle for months and needs a fresh influx of new ideas. 

• The articles you’ve been saying you’re going to submit to Mind Body Green, Rebelle Society, Rolling Stone or the New Yorker.

• A series of letters about the summer you spent Ocheesee, Florida, selling ice cream cones on a beach boulevard frequented by a biker gang and beautiful Cuban women wearing floppy hats, which you’d like to send to your grandfather – or your grandchildren. 

Maybe you can find time to write for an hour a day, or an hour a week.  Or you might be like me… taking on the exciting dare of 50,000 words in one month.  Whatever your writing goal is, let’s do it together.  Let's stay accountable.  Let's get it done, and rediscover our love of writing in the process.

Here’s what you can expect from me:

• Daily emails to provide constant motivation and inspiration so that you can finish your dream project, whether that’s a novel or the copy of your new website or a series of newsletters on staying sane during the holidays.  You’ll get writing prompts, productivity tips, and meditation practices to help you get you out of your mind and get the words onto the page.
• Ideas to create your own writer’s sanctuary so that you have a place to focus on your work, connect to the heart of your message, and delve into your genius ideas.  (This makes it a thousand times easier to begin every writing session and also much more likely that you’ll stay in the flow… instead of getting distracted by Facebook and youtube videos of kittens doing funny things).
• Tips to begin structuring a regular writing practice that leads to the inevitable success of your creative endeavors – one that feels sacred, enjoyable, and uniquely your own.
• Comraderie.  I’ll be blogging about my Nanowrimo experience as a way to keep the social pressure on myself and also so that you know that you aren’t alone in struggling with the challenges of writing.  I'll also give you ideas on how to get through it.  This is especially helpful for new writers, and established writers taking new risks with their work.
• A 3-Day “Clear the Channel” cleanse that you can do at home and use whenever you need during the month to clean your inner slate and jumpstart your writing project if you’re in a slump (or if you’ve just been using tons of coffee and sugar as a way to get to that 1,500 word finish line every day).
• Quick, easy, nutritious and delicious recipes for writers-on-the-go AND recipes for magical herbal potions to help with focus, inspiration, and, of course, stress.
• A “Find Your Focus and Overcome Overwhelm– the Love-to-Write Strategy Session.”  Get clear on your unique writer’s process, your work, and getting past blocks, overwhelm, and distraction.  Think of it like your very own "get out of writer's block free" card, and use it when you need it most.

And yup, I’m doing this all gratis.  Why?

Because I love the energy of November as writing month, and I think that there’s something special and powerful about being a part of the shared intention of hundreds of thousands of people that can help us do things we never thought were possible.

Because I believe that the people in my community – and truly, all writers – are visionaries.

Because I think you might send me love letters about how this challenge is working for you, and what you want more of.

And because it’s going to be tons of fun, and I need it as much as you do.  To stay accountable.  To finally finish a Nanowrimo novel.  To really commit to my message and my words – just like you.

Ready to get on board, and really commit to a month of writing pleasurably?

You can join at any time during the month of November!  It’ll only take about 30 seconds.  Just click here!

The Serpentine Crossroads: On Desire, Being Lost, and Diving In

A few weeks ago we celebrated the autumn equinox, the time of the year when the night and day are exactly equal in length.  Now, with the moon waning above us, ebbing new, we move fully into the season of deepening, darkened nights.  It's a time for turning inward, of quieting down from long summer days with appointment planners and to-do lists that stretch for miles.  Where I live, in the San Francisco Bay, this is the time of pumpkin spice lattes for some and pumpkin chia smoothies for others, carrot cake (possibly gluten free), newly-planted kale in the ground and reddening leaves on the trees, chilly nights and warm afternoons finally free of fog.  

I may be a summer baby, born in June, but cozy-sweater-and-hot-cocoa autumn has always been my favorite season.  At the same time, fall can be hard for me.  I get moody, quit jobs, wake up too early, fall asleep too late, gain weight, and mull over relationship woes long forgotten by my partner (generally ones that I, too, had forgotten but that suddenly, and with great passion, rear up).  Often, I feel an intense longing in my chest that is almost like physical pain, cutting me to the quick, which no amount of coconut sugar or half-caff lattes can take away.  

To the ancients, this was a time sacred to the goddess Hecate, also known as Dadouchos (She of the Three Ways) and Phosphorous (Light bearer, torch bearer).  She is awakening magic and the dreams that whisper our secret desires in the night.  Hers were the in-between places, the places of choice, Crossroads.  Hers were long nights and the sky dark with starlight, or sometimes, glowing silver with the heavy moon.

In my own life, I feel Her crossroads as the difficult choice points before me: dive forward, drop back, or let go; focus on lucrative career moves or serpentine creative passions; invest in yet another promise-filled program or allow my autumn afternoons breeze open with emptiness and the perfectness of my imperfect life.  Which is easier said than done.  The cool sunny days feel moody and demanding, as usual.  I can't be easy inside for any notable stretch of time.  But maybe that's only what might be expected, if it's true that we are in her liminal realm. most of us still attempting to navigate by ordinary means and hold to a sense of time dictated by email, synching calendars and stock tickers.  

"The only way to gain power in a world that is moving to fast is too slow down," Marianne Williamson tells me this morning, by way of my friend Tara's status update.  "The only way to spread one's influence wide is to go deep.  The world we want for ourselves and our children will not emerge from electronic speed but from a spiritual stillness that takes root in our souls.  Then, and only then, will we create a world that reflects the heart instead of shattering it."

It's true.  With the summer's strength and sunlight becoming mere memory, I feel more in touch with my vulnerability than ever, the shattering my heart experiences every day, sometimes a little and sometimes a lot.  But even were it not so, one doesn't usually linger long at Crossroads, with the paths before, behind, and beyond all beckoning.  Stopping to breathe, feel, pray and play at the essential choice points of our lives is the wisdom She gave to her initiates, those who knew her sacred words and her sorcery.  Sometimes I feel like I've been here so many times that all I have to do is close my eyes and navigate by feel -- other times, lately especially, I just feel lost.

It's at least interesting to be lost -- you're never bored.  I like to notice what I do and how I act, being lost.  One thing seems to be a lot of free life-coaching calls.  You know, those beautiful thirty minute sessions that coaches offer up to tease you with the taste of another map or process or transformative philosophy with so little commitment required (after all, if I was in the right mindspace for committing to things, I wouldn't need the coaching calls nearly so much).

I'm pretty fortunate, being in a coaching program myself, because I have access to a seemingly endless supply of free thirty minute sessions with well-trained, wise people who want nothing more than to be the person that guides me through the dark crossroads.  A revolutionary life, thriving career, authentic creative expression, time for rest and dreaming: they all assure me that I can have it all.  And the beautiful thing is, they're right.  When I'm connected to the infinite, to love, to mystery, I know that is true.  The hard thing is, I don't want them to help me find my way -- not this time.  I want to go within, light a torch and find my own way through my lost recesses --  and in doing so, find my radiance.  

I don't sign up for any new programs, but I do allow the sense of potential and mystery to infuse my feeling of being lost.  It reminds me of what one of my local heroes, Rebecca Solnit, writes in her book A Field Guide to Getting Lost:

That thing which is totally unknown to you is usually what you need to find, and finding it is just a matter of getting lost.  The word 'lost' comes from the old Norse 'los' meaning the disbanding of an army. I worry now that people never disband their armies, never go beyond what they know... To be lost is to be fully present, and to be fully present is to be capable of being in uncertainty and mystery.  And one does not get lose but loses oneself, with the implication that is a conscious choice, a chosen surrender. 

I like that Rebecca reclaims being lost as a conscious choice (by the way, I've never met another Rebecca that I didn't like).  This is something I can get behind -- which isn't to say that there have not been times when I was physically lost, or emotionally, and it did not feel choiceful.  But I suppose even when being lost wasn't my first choice, going on the journey, was.  I chose to live this unconventional, creative, purpose-driven life, and to marry a broody Capricorn with strong opinions, and pursue dreams and ideals rather than security and respectability.  I took this path, which has led me to the crossroads now before me -- new in some ways, and in other ways, the same as before.  The path is a spiral, circling down into the dark.

This is another of Hecate’s faces -- the guide deeper into dark places, into the unknown.  Her wisdom is the wisdom of plunging beneath turbulent waters in search of the gold that lays in barnacle-covered, seaweed-tressed treasure troves rather than splashing and flailing around and begging for someone to throw you a white foam doughnut.  

As the archetypal queen of magic whose sacred texts detailed love spell after love spell, she is also the guardian of desire.  It is desire that pulls us forward, down, beyond, through, outside the box.  Sometimes that yearning feels like a prayer, other times, a curse.  

Solnit says this about Desire:

We treat desire as a problem to be solved, address what desire is for and focus on that something and how to acquire it rather than on the nature and sensation of desire, though often it is the desire between us and the object of desire that fills the space in between with the blue of longing.

Here's another good one:

Desire is the absurdity that holds open the infinity of possibility.

-- Wendy Farley, The Wounding and Healing of Desire

And this:

We are desire.  It is the essence of the human Soul, the secret of our existence.  Absolutely nothing of human greatness is ever accomplished without it.  Not a symphony has been written, a mountain climbed, an injustice fought, or a love sustained apart from desire.  Desire fuels our search for the life we prize.  Our desire, if we will listen to it, will save us from committing soul-suicide, the sacrifice of our hearts on the altar of 'getting by.'  The same old thing is not enough. It never will be.

-- John Elderidge, Desire

She is stirring this up in me now: the desire for greatness, for mountains, for fighting for freedom and fairness and a kind world, and for navigating by starlight towards absurd, infinite possibility.  When I hide from it, when I close over-illuminate the early evenings with fluorescent light and turn away from the nip in the breeze so that I can tackle my to-do list and flash too-sunny smiles at my colleagues, its like pouring gray ash on my white-hot, brimming, vulnerable heart.  My heart, my desire, the blue longing that fills the gap between all that I've been and known and held fragilely in my arms, and all that calls me onward to her new moon.

I'm not going to do that anymore.

Right now, this dark moon time between Autumn Equinox and Halloween, is Her time.  It is not always easy, soft, warm, bubbling.  But it is rich: in the traditional seasonal cycle, we are headed towards the last of the harvest festivals.  There is so much here to reap, if we are able to open to it and stay open.

So tell me, what is being stirred up in you, and what are you sacrificing on the altar of 'getting by?'  What waits for you to harvest?  

What greatness is desire pulling you towards?

What magic is She calling for you to bring forth, that only you -- with your small, imperfect, beautiful and potent life -- can create?  Will you answer the call?  

If you do, I will stand with and for you.  Together, we can orchestrate symphonies, and create lives worth prizing beyond reason. 

A little village called Berlin...

I'm sitting in the parklet in front of one of the most amazing cafes that I've ever been to, in the Prakrow neighborhood of Berlin, just a couple of blue streaks in a gray sky.  It feels right, somehow, to have gray Berlin skies.  And it doesn't dampen the magic for me at all.

It's not simply that I'm enjoying quite a delicious latte that I find this cafe so fabulous.  Next to the white picket fence that encloses the parklet I'm sitting in, a tiny girl with cocoa skin and an orangey-pink ice cream cone sits next to a slightly overweight German woman wearing a sweatshirt that matches the girl's ice cream exactly.  I doubt either of them planned it.  Between them is a white metal tables with a tin bucket on it planted with bright, spritely flowers -- I think they might be dahlias.  In the back of one of the three strollers parked in my immediate eyesight, a bouquet of dandelions (the German's call them "Lions Teeth,") wilts out of a netted pocket.  They were probably quite a bit more attractive when they were picked some hours back, but they manage to retain their cheer, probably because seeing them where they are, as they are, captures a sense of the exuberance with which they were picked by little hands.

Another young woman pulls up with a stroller, this one empty: it's white-capped inhabitant walks on unsteady little feet next to her mother, her face lighting up with joy as she spots two notably more sure-footed toddlers in the boat-shaped sandbox at the other end of the parklet.  I actually don't know if they call them that here -- that's what we call these small communal spaces in San Francisco, which are popping up with more frequency but are still uncommon enough to seem unique, even sometimes slightly mystifying.  I've walked past several, with seating and other features that seem very cleverly designed and yet not very comfortable looking, where once there was a spot to park a car.  In spite of the fact that they are far from cozy, they are almost always full. 

In Berlin, these parklets or small patios are not a rare sight -- they seem to be in front of every single store on the street.  Some have tables and chairs for eating and drinking; others have unordained raised garden beds dotted with blooming flowering plants or small trees -- still others are bare, like blank canvases, awaiting a gathering of some type.  I have often heard that in America our cities aren't designed for people and become less so with every passing year -- they are designed for cars and consumers.  (Consumers bear some resemblance to people but aren't, actually -- not in what their needs or desires are, and certainly not what the spaces designed to accomodate those desires would look like).  

Sure, I had heard that, but I didn't get it until coming here and seeing what it is actually like to have spaces that are designed to be community- and people-oriented, and to see what that does to the daily life of folks who live in such spaces.  It's a powerful thing for an American girl to see. 

I once had a French roommate who told me that in France, everyone has what they call, "the Third Place."  The Third Place is that place that you go, and maybe even belong to in some way, that is not your home or your work.  It's often a bar or cafe, where like Cheers, everybody knows your name.  I'm not sure if it's the same in Germany but I can see the shared thinking beneath both the Third Place in France and the many parklets here in Berlin -- people need places to gather and be together, as people.  When people have places like that, they come to use them and even depend on them.  They become an integral part life.  

I've noticed that people act differently on the buses and trains that we take to get around the city, too.  I hardly see anyone with their eyes glazed over, immersed in iPhone or Android business -- there are some, but it's not very common.  There are people with books, and people talking, and many standing around, simply being.  Being, but not immersed in the process of being anywhere but where they are now, as I so often am when I'm on BART or muni.  I like the presence.  It reminds me of when I was younger...actually, being here, I think I actually act the way I did when I was younger, instead of the stressed-out oblivious adult that I so often am now.  I notice what people are wearing and watch them talking to each other, even though I don't understand more than a couple of words in any given conversation, with curiosity and a feeling of easy contentment. 

One of my teachers, Matthew Fox, always talked about how we needed to reclaim Wonder as part of our spiritual processes and philosophies.  Wonder is an integral part of gratitude and humility, but it's also really enjoyable.  When we allow ourselves to be curious, and to wonder, and imagine, we stop thinking we know everything, and stop believing that everything and everyone else is ours to exploit, and a kind of sweet sense of mystery and even optimism infuses our lives.  I feel that in myself again, being here. 

Maybe that's because I'm on vacation, away from the pressures of my daily life, but it might also be because it's simply not as buzzy and hectic here.  The static energy that saturates the air in the nearer Bay Area, zinging with EMFs and anxiety and overarching 3G networks from five different service providers at any given point, simply isn't present.   I mean, I'm sure there's plenty of wireless internet all around me and that every one of these stroller-wielding mamas has a cell phone.  This is a major metropolitan city, after all, not some little village in Bavaria.  But nonetheless, I do not feel that same charged atmosphere.

Speaking of being present, here in the parklet, an apparently major dispute has just broken out between a little brunette boy with rosy cheeks and a dark-haired German woman who responds with firm yet gentle words.  The woman goes inside into the cafe and the boy, clearly deciding that the best solution is to try and worry her into acquessing to his wishes, batters at the latch of the white picket gate until he manages to get it open.   Uh-oh.  I rise to sweep him back into the parklet, but I'm too late.  Someone's dad is already there, ushering him back with a forced look of disapproval.

I was at the birth of Leonie, who is the daughter of Sabine, our German friend who's hostessing us here.  Sabine told me the other day that in San Francisco, she felt like it was expected and necessary to watch your children at all times when you're out in public, but here in Berlin it's just different.  As I watch the rosy-cheeked little boy start shoveling sand in a boat-shaped sandbox, I realize that not only do these Berlinians have a much different lived experience of spaces designed for people, they also have a whole different orientation towards what it means to be kid-friendly -- and as I watch the kids and their mothers in this relaxed, easy space, I feel a sharp pang of jealousy.  

If I ever have kids, it won't be like this.  I mean, maybe I will be able to find one great place to go where I can write and drink a latte while my little one plays with some random kids their own age and be delighted and well cared for, possibly, but it would just be that one special place.  That's just not the same as a whole culture that nurtures and honors families.

To be totally honest, before being here I never desired my neighborhood, cafe, home, or anything else be more "family friendly" -- there's something about the way that phrase is used in American culture that kind of makes me nauseous.  When people say "family friendly," I think of stepford wives pushing BMW-sized strollers.  No, it's beyond that.  I think of people trying to restrict my sexuality, sometimes with rules and other times with frowns.  I think of garishly colored packaging that masks the chemical-filled "food" that my own stepchildren are clearly addicted to, something that inevitably leads to a fight whenever they visit, as I turn my nose up at even one Taco Bell meal and they complain of starvation in the face of my organic vegetables and wheat-free pasta.  I think of the $30 that Jason and I  pay per person to hang out with them at indoor play parks in Indiana, which are little more than kiddy-casinos: titilating, over-stimulating, and filled with uninspiring games that award tickets but lack any significant intellectual or physical challenge.  I think of the hotel we stayed at once with an indoor swimming park where even the bedding in our room reeked of chlorine, happy meals, Disneyworld, and movies like Scooby Doo whih lack any artistic merit whatsoever -- or even a remotely interesting plot to anyone over three feet tall.  Which is to say, that even though I've always wanted a baby of my own, I've never been remotely inclined towards anything "family friendly" -- but without an alternative in mind, it's been worrisome to me. What could our lives -- mine, Jason's, the baby -- look like if we eschew the saccharine consumerism that comprises "family friendly" in America but don't have something else to replace it?

In Berlin, I can catch a glimpse of what that alternative could look like.  Here, I can see what a truly friendly neighborhood looks like -- one that integrates children and adults and creates spaces for everyone to feel satisfied and their needs honored -- instead of the cloying shmaltziness that for some reason we Americans seem to think our kids want and which is a complete turnoff to any adult with intellectual, political, or artistic sensibilities.  Sabine's street is lined with beautiful stone and brick apartment buildings, tall and stately, with playgrounds in every backyard, bike stands in the front, and stroller parking in the foyer.  The cafe we are at, which gurgles with the happy laughter of children playing, serves quiche, gelato, and the fine latte I'm enjoying at the moment.  Yes, the ice cream cones are geared towards the kids, and the kids love them.  But that doesn't mean that their espresso comes pre-sweetened from powder, or that there are plastic flowers hanging off the walls, or that you can't also get yourself a bagel with arugula, brie, and plum jam.

It's so very inspiring.  Yes, a moment ago I did have that one pang of jealousy, a fleeting sense of defeatism.  But immediately following that, a warm surge of excitement and possibility comes.  Because this is possible where I live, in North Berkeley, where we already have Totland and Adventureland and many places that serve quality espresso.  We just need to figure out how to integrate the worlds -- not just of kids and adults, but of single people and families, artists and musicians and mothers and fathers, gardeners who cultivate rare irises and playground designers.  In doing so, we can create a culture where having kids is seen as something that enhances your life rather than apparently ending every aspect of it which is sexy and avante-garde, and also where people who don't have kids are happily exposed to them in ways that incorporates the entirety of our community into the raising of children (it takes a village, they say).  I know that in doing so, we'll create a better culture for both our kids to grow up in and for adults of every walk of life. 

And that excites me quite a bit.

Happy Birthday, Occupy Oakland! Where do we go from here?

Today, I’m thinking a lot about Occupy. 

No, I’m not simply being late to the party – I know that Occupy Wall Street celebrated its one-year anniversary some weeks ago with a glorious 135 or so arrests in New York and a smattering of media attention.  But today, October 10^th, marks the one-year anniversary of Occupy Oakland -- the most notorious and widely controversial “Occupy” of the nation.  And, in spite of all of its many challenges and inadequacies, the one closest to my heart.

A year ago, Occupy Oakland started as a dozen or two dozen folks sleeping in a park – which is nothing much to shake a stick at, believe me, because people sleeping in parks is hardly news in downtown Oakland.  And as far as political activities go, I’ve attended dozens of actions with more organization, more arrests, more media, more puppets and far wittier banners.  But somehow, in a matter of months, Occupy Oakland became a driving force that helped sweep this apathetic nation off its feet.  

A little pinpoint of light that became a spark, and then a movement.  Like a wildfire.  Like falling in love.

Falling in love is about making a connection – and Occupy did that, it made the connection between the unemployed steel workers and the students drowning in debt and homeowners facing foreclosure in the face of nation-wide corporate bailouts.

Falling in love is about giving up the inertia of a disheartened life and opening to passion -- with all the delights and risks that anything that truly transformative holds.

The delights and risks of transformation seemed more tangible in Occupy Oakland than anywhere else on the Occupy map – it quickly showed itself to be a dynamic microcosm of the whole, as the whole was being inexorably, violently squashed by the powers that be. 

I remember one particularly accurate Daily Show moment, where Jon Stewart does his “daily round up” of all of the Occupy protests, set against idyllic easter-parade sweet music, finally “landing” on images of the General Strike on November 2^nd, 2011.  They literally look like pictures of ‘Nam under heavy artillery: hazy with tear gas, people scattering everywhere in terror, the sky lit from above by helicopter spotlights. That was the night that ex-marine Scott Olsen suffered a devastating head injury from a tear gas canister – the first infamous veteran to be wounded in the harsh police crack down on the Occupy protests here, but not the last.

“OAKLAND?  What the FUCK is happening in OAKLAND?” Stewart cries out in mock-surprise.   His flippant question was one echoed a thousand times in the coming months as the crowds of protestors, the brutality of the police, and the desperation of Oakland Mayor Jean Quan all grew in equal proportions. 

I’m not sure that any of us involved in Occupy Oakland last year ever truly understood what the fuck was happening here – not the protestors, or the police, and certainly not the city government.  We were swept up in a perfect storm of racial tensions, political ideologue and intrigue, passionate emotion, and a collective history of injustice and violence.  In the midst of it all, the Occupiers tried to organize together and the city (possibly due to pressure from the Department of Homeland security) did everything in its power to stop them.  

Sometimes it worked, at least for a little while.  I still remember the moment that I first walked into the beautiful commune in Oscar Grant plaza, with free food and medical services and childcare for anyone who wanted it amidst a vibrant pageant of nylon camping tents.  Occupy Oakland, more than being any one thing, was motley crew of sub-communities, from the People of Color Caucus to the Women’s Bloc to the Children’s Garden to the medic collective and groups of unionized and non-unionized workers alike, from truckers and nurses to domestic workers.  Perhaps one of the brightest lights of Occupy Oakland, the Interfaith Tent brought together leaders of different faiths to lead services to help heal the trauma the community was facing, speak out against oppression, and provide caring, grounded energy to a group of people rapidly spiraling into chaos.  (At some points, the “Interfaith Tent” was downsized to an “Interfaith Umbrella” as OPD discovered and /or created very specific laws to justify their repeated attempts and the methods use to shut down the Occupation).

When I think of that moment – the beautiful blue sky above, tents of every color, a pathway made of reclaimed wooden pallets leading beneath sprawling oak branches that shield children from the sun, the smell of food in the air, and the voices of people from across Oakland’s wide demographic spectrum – it still brings tears to my eyes.  In spite of many intense moments that had more airplay and retweets, when I think of Occupy Oakland, that is what I think about.  I think of the promise. 

While inspired by Wall Street protestors in New York’s Zuccotti park, Occupy Oakland quickly made a name for itself as something uniquely West Coast and specifically Oaklandish.  Occupy Oakland was unwelcoming to police presence from the start, in solidarity with communities that suffer at the hands of its notorious police force; early on, occupiers dubbed the plaza they had taken in downtown “Oscar Grant Plaza,” in honor of the young man shot by Bart police on New Year’s Day in 2009.  In a city where schools are increasingly over capacity and understaffed, activists rallied around teachers and schoolchildren facing school closures and held marches, sit-ins, and teach-ins in support.  When the media started quoting business owners and police sergeants more than activists, they created their own media complete with local celebrity bloggers and livestreamists, which quickly gained traction in the techno-savvy Bay Area.  They shut down the Port of Oakland, the fifth busiest port in the richest nation in the world, not once, but twice – a feat local activists had often attempted over the years, and failed nearly just as often.

Occupy Oakland spent a month in December of 2011 wrestling the idea of formally changing its name to Decolonize Oakland.  Supporters of the proposal argued this move would express solidarity with the Chochenyo Ohlone and other Native American rights activists opposed to the term “occupy.”  Many activists in the Occupy Oakland community had also taken part in actions designed to protect sacred indigenous land in nearby Vallejo, where city planners originally okayed the development of Glen Cove but eventually caved due to pressure from local tribes and their allies.  Other activists feared such a move would further fractionalize the Occupy Movement, which across the country was suffering growing pains as it tried to organize 99% of the American population while also facing increasingly brutal municipal oppression.

The proposal was eventually rejected by the General Assembly.  For me, that day marked the beginning of the end -- though I didn’t know it at the time.  It was the last General Assembly that I attended.  The American Autumn was over. 

Winter came, with its constant rain and gray skies, and holiday gatherings heralding in the new year – an election year, more specifically.  Dinner party conversations shifted from occupations to nominations.  The credit cards that I had allowed to build up over months of working very little so that I could occupy and write started to send me notices in pink envelopes.  My withered garden, which had been terribly neglected, gave me dirty looks every time I walked past it on my way to the front door. 

But with all ends come new beginnings.  It isn’t that I don’t understand the frustration, the disheartenment, the “Where did Occupy Oakland go?”  I know those feelings and thoughts, and I’m certainly not immune to them – in some ways, they cut me to the quick even more deeply than my friends who, although interested, never made it out into the streets or a general assembly.  In those moments, right after Where did Occupy Oakland go? comes the next question: Where should Occupy Oakland go? What’s next?  

I’ve done my time in Occupy – sat through the endless general assemblies held hostage by the one crazy person who won’t shut up, been tear gassed and arrested, been “found” by the movement’s beauty and grace and lost to betrayal in the same day.  As I look back at it all, what interests me most is the deep yearning I felt beneath the jubilance and chaos and righteous cries for justice.  That yearning isn’t a sign of the failings that doom our work -- its the magic thread that leads to the heart of this work – which, beyond tents and protests and all the rest – is what the powers-that-be that rely on an apathetic American public fear the most.  If we get there, I think we’ll finally understand what the fuck was really happening in Oakland – and what is still happening, beneath the currents of election-year politics.

Occupy Oakland showed us, in a concentrated, bite-sized for the media way, all that is the most desperate and the most beautiful in our culture: the veterans without their promised benefits, the homeless addicts, the laid off school teachers.    We saw people living together, in public spaces they had reclaimed as the commons, planting gardens to feed themselves and helping save one another’s homes by putting themselves at risk of violence and arrest.  We saw the savage means that the government, police forces, and corporations were willing to resort to in order to protect their interests and also the impunity with which they do it. 

We fought amongst ourselves and undermined those willing to step into leadership.  We made grandiose agreements amongst ourselves and then broke many of them.  We sat in silence with prayer and loving-compassion, and we descended into anger and violence. 

For me, what I came to see most of all is that there is something beautiful and immanently possible that wants to be born, right now, during this time of worldwide planetary destruction and human suffering.  There is a rising of love, power, and hope springing up all around the globe – and it is this rising tide that we are yearning for, because we feel it just beyond our fingers and taste the first hints of it on our lips -- elusive and ephemeral, but ever so slightly less so, when we were in the streets with Occupy Oakland.  We catch glimpses of it on tumblr and twitter, when our over-critical rational minds have been hypnotized into a stupor by too much time on the internet.  Occupy is not the name of this upwelling of wisdom and connection – it is simply one spring that feeds something much larger, and it may return in the form that stormed the nation last year, or it may not.  There are many other springs, and many other names.  Joanna Macy calls it the Great Turning.  Martin Luther King called it the Beloved Community.  Given that it's 2012, it might even be what the ancient Mayans were referring to in "the end of the long count,"or what the acidic hippies called the Age of Aquarius.  

I don’t care what we call it – I just don’t want to go back to the old days, when the only choices the American public entertained were those on preprinted menus presented to us by corporate-controlled media and corporate-controlled politicians: democrats or republicans, capitalism or communism, Nike or New Balance.  I don’t want to fall into the sleepy days of inertia and despair.  Last year in Oakland, I saw that we are a people that are capable of passion, empowerment, and cooperation in spite of heartbreaking differences– and it turned me on.  Now, on the anniversary of Occupy Oakland, I find that I am still quite ready to follow the path of justice and passion and see where it goes -- and my guess is that I’m not alone.  Not by a long shot.

Such Singing in the Wild Branches

It was spring

and finally I heard him
among the first leaves -
then I saw him clutching the limb

 

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

 

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness -
and that's when it happened,

 

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree -
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

 

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

 

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing -
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

 

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky - all, all of them

 

were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

 

for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

 

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

 

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then - open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

 

~ Mary Oliver ~

 

 

 

(Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays)