One-handed reading

Per my previous post, my life has changed pretty radically recently! I am enthralled by my adorable baby girl, Aria. But even she can't keep me from reading. I've managed to read a few books so far, including the moving Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett and Madame Bovary, which I thought I had read already but apparently hadn't. Now I'm in the midst of 1Q84 (happily loaded on my new e-reader so I don't have to balance its bulk with a 2-month-old baby in the other arm), as well as Momma Zen by Karen Maezen Miller. I'd heard some quotes from Momma Zen and her other book in my yoga class, but now that motherhood has descended full force, I wanted to read the whole thing. I'm enjoying it so far and trying to take to heart the idea of being gentle with myself. There are no mistakes, only life.

I'm curious if anyone else out there has read or is reading 1Q84. It's compelling and interesting, and I'd love to hear what other people think (without spoilers). Even better, are there any other moms, or other folks, balancing a book in one hand and the treasure of their lives in the other? (And do you ever find time to write??)

And here is a baby picture because I can't resist :)

A Practice, Not a Competition

I am a horrible sports fan. My husband is a die-hard Giants football fanatic and I have really, really tried to bring myself to some level of enthusiasm for the game. I have dedicated Sunday afternoons to watching football or made a point of reading the sports page to pick up some Redskins coverage. But I can't seem to spark any interest. The same goes for the mixed martial arts fights he now follows with intensity.

One reason watching the games is so difficult for me is that I have a hard time with the losers. Without a compelling personal reason to root for a particular team (unlike my brief years as an enthusiastic Tar Heels basketball fan), I can easily see that they both want to win. And it's so sad when one team's ambitions are crushed. It's hard to feel unalloyed excitement for a player who gets a chance to prove himself because it always comes at the expense of someone else who is benched or injured or stuffed. All of this is even more the case for the MMA fights, and in that case the guy losing is getting his nose bashed in.

Yoga by contrast is a practice, not a sport. You can't win yoga. And any competitive spirit, any jealousy that someone else can hold a pose "better" than you goes entirely against the spirit of yoga. We are only competing against ourselves, recognizing that everyone's body is unique and striving to work within our own bounds.*

Writing, I think, is similar. Although we may try to determine the best writers it's truly impossible. That's why those end-of-year lists are so interesting, why literary prize decisions are so controversial, and why book club discussions can be so contentious. Taste is subjective. That's ok.

It's worth thinking of writing as a practice, I think. It's something we as writers return to as often as we can, each time thinking only of trying to write the way that we each individually write. Anne Lamott addresses the need for each of us to find our own, unique voices in Bird by Bird: "Every time Isabel Allende has a new book out, I'm happy because I will get to read it, and I'm unhappy because half of my students are going to start writing like her." She continues, urging writers to open the doors inside their lives that are accessible only to them. "The truth of your experience can only come through in your own voice."

And the only way to get there, I think, is to practice. Not trying to win, or be the best writer in your writing group, or to prove yourself to that mean girl in the 7th grade who said smart kids were losers, or whatever. Just trying to deepen your own practice.

*I'm not trying to argue yoga is better than competitive sports, only explaining why it works for me!

New number, same us

According to the Gregorian Calendar, we have entered into a new year. Two thousand and eleven - a lot of years. But there are different ways to count a year, since a date is, after all, only a human construction. We are in year five thousand, seven hundred, seventy-one of the Jewish calendar; or year one thousand, four hundred, thirty-two of the Islamic/Hijri calendar; or either 4704 or 4647 of the Chinese continuously numbered system. All those different ways of counting time make me feel a little unmoored - where are we?

In a way, releasing ourselves to look at the date as a construct is liberating. Nominally, we are entering a new year. But that year has only the meaning that we give it and by framing it we create its own story. Kind of like writing, right? Of course, in life there are plenty of things outside of our control. I can already tell 2011 will bring curveballs and challenges for me. But, like with writing, I can set the tone and try to explore what happens.

The stillness of winter is a lovely time to sit back and evaluate, so, taking advantage of the tradition, I do have a few goals for the new year. I want to continue to use my yoga practice to open my heart and creativity. I want to write more and try to write better. I want to challenge myself by reading new and different books. (More on that later - I'll be looking for recommendations!)

I'm interested to hear how others feel about the "new" year. Do you feel we have marked a milestone? Do you have objectives for the months that come?

Opening Up

I started practicing yoga almost two months ago and I am totally hooked. I love the part that I thought I would enjoy - the physical challenge, the alignment and the improved flexibility. But I'm also struck by how much I'm enjoying the emotional (or spiritual?) side of it. I was skeptical about the idea that a bunch of body twists could put me in touch with something, anything more than my muscles and tendons, but it seems that there's something to the supposed mystique of yoga. This morning, at the end of practice, one of the teachers helped me push back my shoulders - opening up my heart. Then, another teacher read a passage from Hand Wash Cold by Karen Maezen Miller. It was a portion I had heard before, and appreciated: about the inevitable suffering that life entails and how we can choose to turn towards the glimmers of beauty available to us in our ordinary lives. This same teacher had read it only two days before, so this was nothing new. But this morning, something about the story and, I think, having physically opened my heart, made the passage far more poignant. I found myself crying. Wow!

I came home and, after a quick breakfast, used the opening I had found to return to my novel-in-progress. This novel and I have had a contentious relationship, and recently, I've been a little mad at her. But I resolved today to overcome that. We sat down together, thought a little bit, imagined a little bit, and then I wrote more in one sitting than I've written in weeks.

So, do you have writer's block? Maybe try yoga! What else works for folks?