It’s been a long, full, busy, and tiring year. I scrolled through my photos, and pulled out the most representative ones – just a few, you know – and ended up with nearly 80 of them. Yeah, like that.
That’s too many to put in a blog post, so I put them together into a video, just in case you’d like to see (if you can’t see the video above, click on the post title so you can look at it in your browser). It’s mostly about art and travelling, because that’s what I have photos of; the ordinary everyday things, like cooking and spending time with family and friends and sorting and cleaning cupboards and all that – you know, the stuff that makes up the bulk of one’s life – doesn’t show up in photos as readily (and if it does, it’s not that interesting).
The other thing is that it is, once again, the midnight of the year. Did I mention I’m tired? So I think I’ll draw the curtains, turn down the lights, grab my bear, and snuggle under the covers.
For the last couple of months or so, I’ve been meaning to write a blog post. I was going to call it “Unsocial Media”, and it was meant to have been all about why I haven’t posted much for most of this year. I was going to be eloquent, and witty, make excuses and give explanations, be philosophical, tell you all about the important things in life…
But then, last night, this happened.
It was literally awesome.
I’ve been hoping and wishing to see the Aurora Borealis for years. It’s been a bucket list item for me. I’m on an Aurora Watch mailing list that sends me notifications with yellow alerts and red alerts when there’s likely to be one in my area. But I’d never actually seen them. Until a couple of days ago, when one of the Offspring came home after dark and dragged me outside: “You gotta see this!”
Truth be told, I needed to have them pointed out to me. I’d been expecting and looking for something spectacular, bright, red-and-green, undulating in the sky exacly north of here. But what I saw were some brightish, whitish, streaky things that I could have easily mistaken for clouds, in the Eastern sky, no less.
That’s them? That’s the Northern Lights?
It was. And once I knew what I was looking for, I saw them. All over the sky, not just the North like I expected. They come and go so quickly, you can miss them if you don’t pay attention. And to the naked eye they’re mostly white, at least the ones I saw were.
But they do dance. And they are spectacular. And there are colours – just not quite what I had expected. In fact, it’s quite possible that this was not actually the first time I’ve seen the Aurora Borealis; in all my times of hopefully gazing north, I might well have been looking right at them, and not known what I was seeing.
Last night, I was ready with my fancy camera and tripod. And I caught pictures of them, and the camera saw things my eyes did not and showed me the colours. But that’s not even that important. I sat outside on my balcony for more than an hour, wrapped in a hoody and a blanket and a poncho, and I think I had a big huge silly grin on my face for almost the entire time. I saw the Aurora.
So I’ll spare you my eloquence on that other stuff, there is no need for it.
Because this, my friends, is Life, the Universe, and the Things That Really Matter. It truly was awesome.
Your attention is one of the most valuable things you possess, which is why everyone wants to steal it from you. First you must protect it, and then you must point it in the right direction. As they say in the movies, ‘Careful where you point that thing!’ What you choose to pay attention to is the stuff your life and work will be made of.
I ran across that quote from Austin Kleon the other day, and it really struck me. The man knows what he’s talking about. (He really does. Go buy his books.)
In our world today, it’s become more and more important to point our attention in the right direction. If we don’t intentionally point it at what we want to pay attention to, it’ll be pointed for us, by an attention economy that is extremely expert at making us look where it wants us to look.
And what we pay attention to will fill our whole vision. If all, or most, of what we pay attention to is what’s bad in the world or in our life, pretty soon that becomes our life. It’ll be all we see. The world is a bad place to be, “they” are out to get people like “us”, everything is awful, and we spend our time wallowing in misery.
It’s not that there’s not plenty of bad stuff out there—there is. Or that there aren’t undesirable things happening in our lives—there are.
But listen to the language: paying attention. Spending time.
Because that’s exactly what it is. I have a finite amount of attention and time available. If I use up that attention and time on negativity, on things I dislike and disagree with, on matters that are bad and I can’t do anything about, that time and attention is gone. Poof. Kaputt. I no longer have it available to spend on the things that really matter.
What do I really want to spend the precious coin of my time on? What do I want to pay attention to?
“Do you want to be happy? Be grateful!” says Brother David Steindl-Rast of grateful.org. He’s not talking about “looking on the bright side”, or “trying to find the silver lining in the cloud”, let alone “shutting our eyes to what is painful and ugly and evil”. No, this is about attention: the attention to the surprise and wonder that surround us, every day, no matter where we are.
And I, for one, want to cultivate that kind of grateful attention. I don’t want to be miserable, thank you very much. Over and over I make the choice (at some times more successfully than at others) to spend my attention on the things that really matter, that matter to me. And once I’ve paid that attention, I find I have none left to spend on those other things, the ones that “they” want me to pay out my attention for and that make me upset and angry and depressed. Those things are still there, but I don’t have time for them; I already spent it all.
And that’s just fine with me.
“What you choose to pay attention to is the stuff your life and work will be made of.”
Life, the Universe, and Paying Attention. I want to choose my spending wisely.
“Where do you get all those ideas from?” someone said to me the other day. “You have such an interesting life, you do so many things… You make things, and write books, and go to conferences, and go travelling…”
True. I do all those things. They are pretty special, which is why I write about them in this blog, and I’m very grateful that I can do them and that I can share them with you.
However, looking at the blog this past year, it has been rather full of stuff I do and places I’ve gone, and there hasn’t been very much about what my life really looks like in between all those “highlighty” events. You know, those long periods when I didn’t post anything, not even a “Wordless Wednesday” photo. When the blog was staring at me accusingly from the bottom of the long list of things that I needed to do, and that I, as per usual, didn’t do terribly well.
You see, while there are lots of things I can do, there are also lots of things I’m not very good at. I wish I were, but I guess there’s always a trade-off, isn’t there? You can’t be good at everything.
So in the name of balancing out the record a bit, here are a few things that I’m not good at. Never was, and, most likely, never will be.
–Growing plants. I’ve posted pictures of my garden that make it look quite lovely, but, oh my. Those are very select images. The amount of money I’ve spent at nurseries on seedlings, the number of vegetable varieties I’ve tried to grow, the labour I’ve invested in trying to establish garden beds, all of which just… died… As for indoors, the houseplants I’ve killed are myriad; I only keep plants around that can tolerate the utmost neglect* (“Oh, you poor thing, you look dead! I probably should have watered you a month ago…”).
–Keeping my house clean. On my “About” page I claim to live with, aside from my family and Steve, “a large number of dust bunnies.” That is not a joke. Okay, fine, it is—please laugh at it. But it’s also true. Well, I actually call them dust kitties, because they consist of a considerable proportion of cat hair. It’s not that I don’t see them congregating in the corners, I just don’t get around to dealing with them. And boy, can they ever pile on the guilt trips! For something that doesn’t have any eyes they can sure give you a nasty look every time you walk past them.
–Oven-roasting or barbecuing meat. I make a mean pot roast, but oven-cooked beef or barbecued steaks tend to fall in the neighbourhood of shoe leather, while an oven-roasted chicken is either still half-raw or overcooked, but hardly ever tender and juicy and succulent and cooked all the way through when I want it to be.
–Being consistent with things I ought to or even want to do. Like writing blog posts. Or going for walks. Or flossing my teeth. Or practising drawing or music skills. Or any of the many other good things we all know we should or would like to be doing.
I could go on for some time here, but you get the picture (I won’t post one of the dust kitties. Because, eew).
The chief contributor to the dust kitties in his pear-shaped glory
In a nutshell, what Burkeman points out is that we’re all on limited time here on earth. Four thousand weeks, give or take (which amounts to roughly eighty years), that’s it, that’s all each of us gets. And, as I was saying with my analogy of the plate full of meatballs, you cannot pack more into those four thousand weeks than what fits. If you choose to spend Week #2834 on one particular activity (say, digging a garden bed), you’re not going to spend it on another (writing a blog post, for example). Poof, that week is gone. There is only one week in a week, etc. And what that comes down to, Burkeman says, is that you have to choose. You have to choose what to do well, choose what matters. And choose what to suck at.
I suck at things—and let me tell you, it sucks. When you’re born a perfectionist, it hurts to not be able to do all those things that you’re told by—well, something, somebody, the last novel you read, the ubiquitous “they”—you should be able to do. But the reality is, that’s a hurt we have to live with. That I have to live with. It’s embarrassing to be this way.
But also (and again I’m quoting Burkeman here, in spirit, if not verbatim) to realise your limitations is also immensely freeing. I can’t do everything, and that, as I’m trying to get through my head and into my heart, is okay. Because it’s true for everyone; it is, in fact, to be human.
I’ll never definitively win the battle with the dust kitties. But maybe we can come to a truce. And meanwhile, I’ll admire those of you who have lush, thriving gardens and tidy and serene homes, with a juicy roast in the oven that you return to after your daily run. You are a gifted person, and I salute you.
Life, the Universe, and Things I’m Not Good At. And that’s okay.
One of the houseplants that has managed to survive the treatment it gets around here
I must have been around nine or ten, reading an article in the yearly Reader’s Digest Youth Anthology about Marie Curie. You know, the famous scientist? First woman to receive a Nobel Prize? First woman to receive multiple Nobel Prizes, in fact? Only person ever to get a Nobel Prize in two different fields? Yeah, her. So inspiring, such a role model.
There’s one sentence that stuck out to me so much I still remember it forty-odd years later. The article was talking about Mme Curie’s life, and it described how she would get ready for her day at the research lab, making sure her two little girls were looked after, putting a stew on the back burner for their dinner. A little while later, she would be in the lab, and, so the article said, “adjusted the flame of her Bunsen burner with the same care that she had used for the flame of the stew pot that morning…”
Ah, thought little pig-tailed nine-year-old me, that’s how it’s done. If a girl wants to be a famous scientist and do life-changing work, she has to make sure that the beef stew for her family back in her kitchen is as well-regulated as the flame of the Bunsen burner in her lab.
Pierre and Marie Curie at work in laboratory Credit: Wellcome Library, London. CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/
This morning, as I was thinking about this in the course of my never-ending struggle with running the multiple tracks of my life, I came up with a phrase to describe this idea: the Parallel Lives Fallacy. It’s the idea that if you only work hard enough, you can, in fact, excel at multiple different roles—you can lead Parallel Lives. Like Marie Curie, who so admirably regulated the flames of her role of housewife and mother and Nobel-Prize-winning scientist.
Parallel Lives: in one life, you’re a full-time award-winning scientist; in another, you’re an excellent housewife and devoted mother (also full-time). Maybe you even add a third one, where you’re a dedicated volunteer and full-time caregiver to your ailing parents. Or, wait, you could be an artist, as well! Write novels, or make pottery to sell at the market, or paint pictures to go in exhibitions!
Full-time jobs, all of them. Several full-time jobs. Wait—full-time. Several full-times. Nothing wrong with that concept, is there? It’s just like, when your plate is full, you can obviously go back to the buffet with it and start loading it up with another plateful’s worth of food, right? Several platefuls.
Yes, I know the image that brings up. “On top of spaghetti / all covered in cheese, / I lost my poor meatball / when somebody sneezed. / It rolled off the table, / it rolled on the floor, / and then my poor meatball / rolled out of the door…”
Marie Curie was amazing. She pulled off the Parallel Lives stunt to admiration, without losing a single meatball, from what I can tell. However, her work eventually killed her, because she didn’t know to protect herself from the fascinating stuff she had discovered. It also killed her daughter, Irène (another Nobel Prize winning scientist working with radiation). Apparently (according to Wikipedia), Marie Curie’s papers—including her cookbooks!—even more than a hundred years later have such a high level of radioactive contamination that they’re kept in lead-lined boxes and are considered too hazardous to handle without protective equipment.
I can’t help but wonder about the state of that stew on the carefully regulated burner—was that contaminated, too?
The Parallel Lives Fallacy is a fallacy. Because unless you’re Marie Curie (and I sure am not), you just can’t pull it off without losing at least one or two of your meatballs off that plate. Which is a patent waste of good meatballs (I have a recipe, if you’re interested). You get one plate, and it only holds one plateful of food. There is only one day in a day, only twenty-four hours in twenty-four hours, and only space for one full-time job in your full time.
The problem with Marie Curie’s Bunsen burner is not that we admire her for her balancing act of flame-regulation. It’s that we (okay, that I) instantly think that that’s the only way to do it, the only way to be a successful and worthy person. That we succumb to the Parallel Lives Fallacy.
The reality is that one plateful of food is enough. One day in a day, one life in a life. If you try to stack more on top, the meatballs go rolling under a bush, and, contrary to the song lyrics, don’t grow into a meatball tree but just attract maggots and rats. At least in my life they do.
So I’m going to turn my back on that Parallel Lives Fallacy. I’m going to try to choose more carefully what I want on my plate, because I really enjoy meatballs and don’t want them rolling under a bush on me. I also like spaghetti noodles, and tomato sauce, and a lovely green salad, and maybe some cooked carrots or a piece of garlic bread… I want to have room for them all on my one plate, so I can enjoy the whole meal, savour it and get nourishment from it. One plate, one plateful.
Oh, but you know what? A little secret: You get dessert. In a separate little glass dish. You don’t have to pile it onto your plate with the meatballs. Make of that what you will.
Life, the Universe, and Marie Curie’s Bunsen Burner. One life to live is enough.
Steve guarding the old watering can (it’s a family heirloom)
I keep getting emails from WordPress these days: “Shenoptikus Caractacus [or whatever other name] is now following your blog. They will receive an email every time you publish a post. Congratulations.”
Oh dear, I think to myself, I wonder what Shenoptikus Caractacus thinks he’s getting into. Perhaps he started following because of the advertising on Enchanted Conversations’ newsletter, and expects regular erudite Editorial Pontifications. Or he picked up my blog because of a fairy tale story post, or a cooking one, or a “Wordless Wednesday” snapshot, and he thinks that’s what there is going to be on a bi-weekly basis – writing, recipes, photography.
Instead, Shenoptikus, what you’ll get is a hodgepodge of topics (not unlike the hodgepodge of my house), posted with less-than-perfect-regularity. Sometimes I drop out of the blogosphere for weeks or months at a time, then there’ll be a flurry of posts and blog engagement for a bit. And every once in a while, there are posts involving a small stuffed bear – his name is Steve. You’ll see him in the photo above.
So I apologise in advance if my blog doesn’t meet your expectations. But it’s not like I asked you to follow my blog, is it?
Aaagh, yes – yes, it is like that. I did ask; I want people to follow my blog. I’m jealous of bloggers who have a huge following, who get dozens of “likes” on their posts and lots of comments. Truth is, I have a jealously problem. I’m jealous of others who’ve achieved what seems so far out of reach for me – for example, writers who have traditionally published books, or an actual income from their self-published ones. Or editors who have a large clientele of gifted writers lining up and clamouring for their expert services.
For that matter, I’m also jealous of people who have clean and tidy houses and neatly weeded and trimmed yards with thriving plants and beautiful cosy patio nooks (yes, I’m looking at you!), and whose ducks are all nicely lined up in a row, doing synchronised swimming.
Mine – well, I don’t even have ducks. I have cats, and you know what they say about herding them.
However, cats are also far more comfortable to cuddle than ducks (I think – I’ve never tried cuddling a duck). And, sure, they shed fur (Louis currently exists in The Cloud, i.e. he raises a fur cloud every time you pet him), and they bring in dead things (or even worse, live ones), and they claw the furniture (my dining room door post is completely shredded). But they’re soft, and cute, and such personalities; and it makes me happy to have them around. They’re part of my life, in all its messiness.
So I think I’d rather have my cats than someone else’s tidy, cold, quacking ducks, even if they’ll never neatly line up in a row. Like my blog posts – they don’t line up neatly under one topic, either. Which might mean I won’t ever get that really large blog following, and once Shenoptikus figures out what an eclectic mess this page is, he might unsubscribe again. Oh well, too bad.
Then again, if Shenoptikus Caractacus is a spam bot, I don’t care about him anyway. Steve and I don’t need him; we’ve got all of you.
Life, the Universe, and Herding Cats. Jealousy is a waste of time, isn’t it?
