Posted by Elizabeth

When I heard that Elizabeth Gilbert had written a new book, I was nervous.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to read Committed, which picks up where Eat Pray Love leaves off, chronicling her difficult decision to marry Felipe, the man she literally sails off into the sunset with at the end of the story.  There was no way this book could ever live up to EPL, for I am one of those women – and I know there are many of us – for whom EPL changed my life.  Although Maikael and I had already been toying with the idea of taking eight months out of our life to embark on a journey of self-discovery around the world, EPL sealed the deal for me.  Inspired by her tale, we even spent two weeks lapping up life and culture in Ubud, Bali, which she details in such a mesmerizing way.  For me, Gilbert’s prose captured what I was feeling but was unable to put into words at that time in my life, feelings about being caught between a conventional and unconventional life, about being unsure what I wanted from life, about not knowing who I was or what made me happy in the slightest.  As different as our lives were – I was ten years her junior and not considering divorce – I identified with Liz Gilbert.

But I know not everyone felt this way.  When my former bookclub read Eat Pray Love, our group was fiercely divided by equal amounts of adoration and dislike of the book.  Some felt her journey was trite, her head inflated, her love story too tidy and saccharine.  Other just simply didn’t “get it,” which was unfathomable to me, who had found such connection and solace in the book.  As I traveled around the globe, the subject of the book often came up in conversations with fellow explorers (it really was a worldwide phenomenon), and, even amongst the highly self-selecting group of long-term travelers, the division of opinions was just as acute.  Love it or hate it, the book clearly made people feel something.

However, when I learned that Elizabeth Gilbert was coming to town – and that $35 could buy me two tickets and a hardback copy of the book – I was Committed.  So last Wednesday night, me and 500 fellow Liz Gilbert fans, including my former therapist, filed into an expansive ballroom at the University of New Mexico, which was stuffed to the gills with conference seating and estrogen.  The audience was one loud hum, buzzing with the anticipation of a cultural icon about to speak.  But a loud hush fell over the room as soon as Elizabeth Gilbert stepped to the stage, a flowy grey cardigan draped over her thin frame, her tousled blond hair pulled away from her face in a messy twist, a genuine smile etched on her face.

For the next 30 minutes she talked about the process of writing Committed, which represents the fruits of her second attempt to write a follow-up book to EPL. She spent two years writing a 500-page manuscript…and then threw the entire thing away. As she spoke these words, I’m pretty sure I heard myself groan audibly.  I’ve never written anything 500 pages in length, but I’ve written something a tenth of the size, and even throwing that away is vomit-inducing.  Gilbert discussed how difficult it was to ditch the manuscript, one in which she had received a considerable advance from her publisher and who, after two years of work, was soon expecting a publishable book.  “But the book was horrible,” she said.  “It wasn’t ‘me.’  It wasn’t written in my voice.  It was written in the voice of who I thought I should be after the success of Eat Pray Love.”  Her best bet, she reasoned, was to take six months off to figure out the follow-up book she was meant to write.  In the meantime she gardened.  And one day, with her fingers dug hard into the soft earth, a single sentence – the sentence that was to become the opening line to the book – simply came to her.

Late one afternoon in the summer of 2006, I found myself in a small village in northern Vietnam, sitting around a sooty kitchen fire with a number of local women whose language I did not speak, trying to ask them questions about marriage.

From there she “took the sentence for a walk across the page,” and proceeded to pen Committed in a mere two months.

While not all of us have the luxury of time or literary advances, as I sat in that overheated ballroom, surrounded by a sea of like-minded New Mexicans, it dawned me on me what a powerful lesson her process presented for living a life in pencil.   There is nothing more important in this life than learning to be YOU – whoever you are.  In fact, is it even something we should have to learn? If we are skilled and equipped to be anything, it’s to be ourselves.  And yet, how difficult it can be to discover and then speak our voice, whether we are writers or not.  It shouldn’t be easier to be someone else, but that is often the case.  Borrowing someone else’s tastes, pleasures, preferences, and aversions is a simple game of mimicry; to truly face who we are, and not who we think we should be, is a lifelong project.

When we are living a life that isn’t attuned to who we are, it’s been my experience that things take forever to manifest themselves.  Everything feels like a Sisyphean task, making it difficult to differentiate between sheer hard work towards a difficult goal and being engaged in the “wrong” thing.  The difference, I think, is that when we are living a life attuned to who we are, things come more easily, more quickly.  While there are bumps in the road, setbacks, and hard uphill battles, the effort feels purposeful.  We feel a deep sense that, while the path is bumpy, it’s the right path to be traveling down.  No amount of construction can reshape the wrong path.

While we talk often here at Life in Pencil about making changes within the parameters of our existing lives, Gilbert’s story teaches us that sometimes life requires us to start over.  If a plan is born from a place that doesn’t feel true or authentic, no amount of “editing” is going to make it right.  Sometimes, major revisions are required.  Sometimes, we have to throw the baby out with the bathwater.  Sometimes, we have to start from scratch.  When Gilbert threw away that first draft, without another story idea in sight, she was facing a problem that needed to be solved, a puzzle of the highest order.  “A puzzle,” she said, “is just a crisis with the volume knob turned down.”  But rather than panicking, she trusted that time – and a vegetable garden – would eventually bring order to the puzzle.  “Problems are like cheap underwear,” a Buddhist monk friend once told her.  “Eventually they wear themselves out.”

And it’s true, isn’t it?  Over time, even the most pernicious problems wear themselves dull and raw, until we genuinely wonder what we were ever worried about in the first place.  Such was the case with Gilbert’s book, and such may be the case with any dilemma, crisis, or life change that you might be facing.  Sometimes, the best thing we can do is take a break and trust that the process will work itself out.  I have always believed that the only way out is through.  Whether we are talking about a failed book project, a career crisis, or a relationship gone awry, there is no easy shortcut or “work around” (as my computer programming husband would say).  We need those seemingly impossible puzzles, those failed attempts, to push us through to the other side.

Just last week I was cleaning out my office, and I discovered a draft of the first essay I had ever written nearly six years ago.  Back then, I was a graduate student in counseling psychology, and a career in writing was the furthest thing from my mind.  And yet, much like Elizabeth Gilbert, I was drying my hair one morning before school when a single line popped into my head.  I immediately scrambled to write it down, and proceeded to skip my morning classes – which I never did – to write an entire essay, which tumbled forth from that one line.  I wasn’t sure where this line had come from, or where it was going, but two years later I submitted that essay to a local writers’ conference.  I remember feeling very proud of my effort, a reflection of the best I could produce at the time.  But reading this essay six years later, while there are lines that are still gems, it struck me that it just wasn’t very good!  The ideas are there, but the execution is sloppy, amateur.  It dawned on me how much I have grown as a writer in that time span, but how necessary it was to write those first stumbling drafts on my way through to becoming a writer.  And when I read this post in another six years, I’m sure I’ll be struck by the same thought.

Gilbert’s friend, an artist, often reminds her, “The creative product is the unidentical twin of the dream you had in your head.”  In other words, what we produce while pursuing the creative process – be it writing a book, baking a pie, or even living life itself – is often a flawed copy of the perfect image we held in our head when we conceived the idea.  It seems to me that the purpose isn’t to create a facsimile but to simply chase after that image to the best of our abilities.  Whatever we produce will never be as perfect as we’d hoped.  But with time and experience, I think our image and the real thing grow closer together.  Just like Gilbert’s book, this blog, as imperfect as it is, couldn’t exist without that first humble essay.  And whatever goal you are working towards in your life couldn’t be accomplished without whatever fumbling efforts you are making right now.

Are you a fan of Eat, Pray, Love (or not)? Have you read Committed?  What lessons do you take away from Gilbert’s process that I have missed?  Do you think that sometimes starting over is the best thing?

Posted by Anne

Once again, the light’s are on, but nobody’s home!  So please head over to our “neighbor” Kristen’s blog, Motherese, where I’m featured today as a guest-blogger.  Kristen has been inviting guests to her “home” over the past few Fridays, as part of the Won’t You be My Neighbor series.  Life in Pencil was flattered and delighted to participate.  Click over and find my post, It’s Not Over—especially if you’ve ever wasted a moment of your Sunday afternoon stressing about Monday morning.  And do yourself a Friday favor and stick around to enjoy Kristen’s fabulously thoughtful meditations on writing, mothering, and the everyday complexities of life.

Posted by Elizabeth

I just finished reading The Happiness Project (book #5 since The Waiting Game started last month!), Gretchen Rubin’s account of one year spent trying to lead a happier life.  What struck me about the book is that, when she begins her experiment, she’s already a fairly happy person.  And yet, there is something wanting in her life.  But rather than starting her life over from scratch through drastic and dramatic measures, she concludes that she’d like to implement change within the context of the life she already leads…which is basically what we here at Life in Pencil espouse!  Given that Rubin’s book is currently ranked #2 on the New York Times’ Hardcover Nonfiction Bestsellers’ List, this tells me that a lot of people feel this way:  their lives are pretty good, although not all they want it to be, but starting over from scratch (if that’s even possible) either isn’t an option or very appealing.

Throughout the book, I was surprised to discover that Rubin persistently mentions bluebirds (even the cover art features a little bluebird winging its way over New York City).  As I’ve mentioned before, bluebirds represent a powerful symbol in my life; in a sense, they’ve been with me all along.  When I was five, my mother registered me for an art class, wherein we created giant masks fashioned from chicken wire and papier mache that slipped over our head.  Where I got the idea to create a bluebird is beyond me, but for years that massive mask, which I slathered with electric blue paint, sat at the top of my closet, gathering dust but unable to be thrown out.  At some point my mother started gifting me bluebird tokens and trinkets – again, why or when that started baffles me – which I’ve continued to be drawn to my entire life.  My Christmas tree is literally filled with bluebirds.  I often see bluebirds in nature – even in places where the birds aren’t known to nest.

Once somebody asked me, “But what do the bluebirds mean?”  I honestly had no idea, but after pondering the question for awhile, I responded, “I’ve always taken it to mean that I’m on the right path.  It’s a symbol of reassurance.  When I see a bluebird, I know that whatever I’m doing in my life at that time is the right thing.  If I’m considering some sort of change and a bluebird wings its way into my life, I feel good moving forward.”  As I was nervously finishing up a writing project last fall, silently wondering to myself where it might lead and if it was worth my time and trouble, I suddenly looked up to see a fat bluebird perched on the wall of my courtyard, staring intently at me.  I took this as a very good sign.

On one hand, Rubin’s use of the bluebird is not surprising.  Bluebirds have long been associated with happiness (we’ve all heard of “The Bluebird of Happiness”).  On the other hand, when Rubin decides to start a collection and chooses bluebirds, I couldn’t help but feel a little spooked out, for I have never met another soul who felt as drawn to bluebirds as I have (they’re not exactly kittens or cows or any of the other ubiquitous animals that people tend to collect).  However, I got the sense that Rubin selected the symbol for its significance more than being genuinely drawn to it.  The thing about “spirit animals” is that you don’t choose them; they choose you. If you pause for a moment, I bet you can think of certain animals that consistently seem to make their way into your life, who you feel an unusual connection to.  These animals – what they symbolize – have something to teach you about yourself, about the choices you’re facing, about the life you’re trying to lead.  Last week, Kristen from Motherese wrote about woodpeckers, making elegant connections between their behaviors and being a writer.  I encouraged her to do some reading on the bird, because I bet there’s something she needs to learn about herself as a writer that’s revealed through them (just as I enjoy diagnosing people with existential crises, so, too, do I like to assign people spirit animals).  Over the past few weeks, usually-timid roadrunners have made a happy home in my yard, literally waiting for me by the front gate (which, coincidentally, is blue); I probably should do some reading on them, too.

I’ve always wondered about the origin of “The Bluebird of Happiness,” and Rubin gratefully answered the question for me.  The earliest mention was in a 1908 play called The Blue Bird, and the plot goes like this:  two kids go in chase of happiness, guided by a bluebird around the globe.  When they return home, they find the bluebird waiting for them.  “We chased you all around the world, and here you are, right where we started!” they exclaim.  “Happiness is right where you are, not something you need to go in search of,” replied the bluebird.   The hairs on the back of my arms stood at attention as I swallowed these words, for if there is one lesson I’ve have spent my life trying to learn, it’s to be content with wherever I am in my life.  Perhaps that is what the bluebirds have been trying to teach me all along.

What animals are you naturally attracted to in your life?  What do you think they are there to teach you?  Do you think making an already happy life happier is a worthy goal; or, do you think we have to start from scratch to enact any meaningful change?

This Sunday’s New York Times Book Review featured a great article on the recent surge in happiness-related books (including one called Bluebird!).  And, if you’re interested in reading more about your “power animal,” or discovering what your power animal might be, I highly recommend Ted Andrews’ Animal Speak.

One final note:  I had no idea what an uproar my Groundhog Day post would cause!  Apparently, I was under the (false) assumption that everyone hated the Bill Murray/Andie McDowell movie as much as I did.  To quell the fire, I am offering this YouTube video from LiP Reader Meghan, featuring her nephew Zach and his eloquent thoughts on Groundhog Day (the holiday, not the movie).  Enjoy!

Posted by Anne

Next to my bed sits a jumble of written words.  Some of them were written by me.  Most of them were not.  This ever-growing stack of volumes on my bedside table is where I keep notebooks, journals, and the 4 or so books I’m reading at any given time.  I love this untidy pile; I love going to sleep with books and words by my side.  But there’s a downside to this pile…I tend to forget what’s at the bottom.  But last weekend, I was reminded of my pile’s contents when I dusted said bedside table.  And this time, I decided to actually take the extra 30 seconds and remove all the items from the surface of the table, instead of lazily snaking my way around picture frames and tubes of chapstick with a cloth.

In my burst of cleanliness, I made a discovery.  Sitting at the bottom of my signature pile was a journal.  There are actually a few journals in my pile, but I’d forgotten I had this one.  I was eager to dive in, curious as to what I’d find in its messy pages.  You see, my journals aren’t really journals.  For as much as I like to write, I’ve never quite latched onto the concept of a diary.  So my journals tend to be highly random, and highly disorganized.  They’re more like receptacles for ideas, thoughts, and beginnings.  In my journals, you’ll find the typical descriptions of events and heartbreak, as well as random quotes I’ve picked up, song lyrics I’ve printed and stuck in-between pages, cards given to me by dear friends, rough character sketches for novels I haven’t written, and journal entries written on the pages of church bulletins and airline magazine pages that I’ve hastily torn out and thrown in between the blank pages.

But this journal I found…it was different.  It was orderly.  It had dates.  Sure, when I opened it, there was the usual cascade of loose paper and cards.  But there was a structure to the entries of this journal.  They began in January of 2000—winter of my sophomore year of college.  Looking now, I see two headings on each page…two little phrases.  The first is “In my prayers…”  For each entry, there is the name of someone I’d been thinking about, or worrying about.  The second heading reads “Grateful for…”  And there I recorded someone I felt particularly grateful for on the day I actually wrote in the journal.  Nice, huh?  Here’s a little sampling…

In My Prayers…
“My sister, as she waits to find out what she’ll be doing post-graduation.  I hope everything turns out as it should.”

Grateful For…
“My parents, and how they never get tired of hearing from me while I’m at school.  I value their friendship so much.”

Reading the entries now, I’m struck by how simple this action was, yet totally heartfelt.  It couldn’t have taken much time—10 minutes tops.  That’s why it saddens me to see how long this routine lasted.  16 entries.  That’s it.  The other pages remain blank.  I’m not shocked—but I’m curious as to why I couldn’t have held on longer. Needless to say, life got in the way of my daily reflection.

These days, I’m no better.  Often, I talk to the people I’m thinking about, or I might say a private prayer when I think of it.  And those thoughts and prayers don’t mean any less than they did when they were carefully recorded in my blue, linen-covered journal.  But sometimes I lose track.  I become preoccupied with myself, my blog, my life.  So looking back on that journal—I believe there was something really beautiful about giving my time (brief though it was) to do nothing but think of someone else, and write it down.  That time was dedicated—special—even if it lasted for a mere 16 days.

I wonder if I could move my little journal to the top of the pile for awhile, and see how long I can take time—just two little phrases and a little bit of time each day—to write something nobody else will read.  To dedicate my time to thoughts of someone else.

Posted by Elizabeth

In case you forgot, today is Groundhog Day, the day when we discover if we’re in for an early spring or doomed to suffer the slings and arrows of a late winter.  I can’t say I’m a huge fan of Groundhog Day, maybe because it reminds me of that insufferable movie circa 1993 starring Andie McDowell and Bill Murray, where a weatherman is doomed to repeat the same day over and over (and over) again, which, as a change-a-holic, is pretty much my worst nightmare.  Truth be told, I never understood what those two things – repeating a day and a traditional rodent – had much to do with one another, but, now that I think of it, Groundhog Day does seem particularly suited to people who appreciate comfortable routine.  I mean, is it me or does Puxatony Phil seem to see his shadow, sending him racing back into his hidey hole, more often than not?

Phil has always struck me as somewhat of a scaredy cat – maybe someone who’s a little afraid of change?  Rather than bravely facing the daylight and the possibility of a new season, he often retreats to the comfort of his warm, safe burrow, prolonging the inevitable.  How many of us are like Phil, clinging to the changing seasons of our life with a death grip, trying our hardest to hang onto the shut-in nature of winter when spring, with its new life and beginnings, is at our doorstep?  How many of us hold onto a season past its prime, rather than face the turn of the calendar with grace?  Given Phil’s propensity for dodging the new season, Groundhog Day seems perfectly crafted for the world’s change-phobes, wanting to hang on to the comfortable, old way just a little bit longer.

This winter has felt especially interminable; I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for a spring in my entire life.  I was delighted to receive a seed catalog in the mail last week whose pages were splashed with colorful photos of heirloom vegetables, the first tender sign of spring.  As someone who is always chomping at the bit for the next new thing, I sincerely hope Phil doesn’t see his shadow.  Although I can’t help but wonder, in my fervent desire to cut winter short and push through to the next season, if I am any better than Phil, who insists on hanging onto winter?  Maybe, rather than preparing to banish or cling to a season, we need a day to remember what’s good about this time of year — even if it’s sometimes hard to see — to remind us to be in the moment?

Are you a fan of Groundhog Day (the movie or the holiday)?  Do you root for Phil for see his shadow or not?  Am I crazy, or does Groundhog Day seem uniquely suited to the world’s change-phobes?

I have to mention – because when else am I going to mention this? – that I have a friend whose mother loves Groundhog Day so much that she throws a party every year.  I have always wondered if she’s able to find Phil-themed paper products.

UPDATE:  Once again, that scaredy cat Phil saw his shadow; six more weeks of winter in 2010 folks.

Posted by Anne

A Life in Pencil strawberry tart...created the weekend Elizabeth and I planned to start our blog.

If you’ve read this blog for very long, you’ve probably deduced that both Elizabeth and I are avid cooks.  We tinker in the kitchen, swap recipes, and drool over food blogs.  When Elizabeth visited me last summer, we spent a chipper afternoon in my teeny kitchen, creating a strawberry tart from farm-fresh Northwestern berries.  I left the custard up to Liz, knowing she’d manage just fine, while I rolled out a crust and eased it into the tart pan.  We cook.  I’d like to humbly (or not-so-humbly?) submit that we both cook pretty well.  And we cook from scratch.

From Scratch. I wonder about this phrase.  There’s value in this phrase…and pride.  It’s the barometer for “real cooking.”  Go to a party bearing a homemade pie or batch of zucchini bread, and you just might be asked, “Did you make this from scratch?”  99% of the time, my answer is “yes”.  And part of the reason I cook from scratch is because it’s simply what I know…it runs in the family.  One need look no further than my sister or mother.  My mother is notorious for only buying the makings of a tasty meal.  I had a friend in high school—he’d enter our kitchen, open the fridge, and groan.  “Don’t you have any food?” This was always odd to me, since my Mom’s fridge is generally stuffed to the gills with…food. When I’d point this out, my friend would reply, “No, I mean SNACKS.  You always have very fine looking ingredients with which someone might make something.  But that’s not the same.” And my Mom has passed this on.  I can confidently say Elizabeth is the same—her culinary gifts were handed down by her equally gifted mother, and then honed to a talent by her own curiosity.

But there’s another reason I cook from scratch—beyond the influence of my mother. I love the process.  I love starting with a few raw ingredients, and crafting them into a whole.  I love beginning—pulling bottles of spices from my cabinet, and veggies from the drawers of my fridge.  I love stirring, whisking, and wondering how the finished product will look and taste.  And despite my love of lists, I often find myself tampering with recipes, or ditching them altogether.  Cooking—from scratch—is part of my routine, and my life.

My cookbook shelf. (Or at least one of them...)

From scratch. It’s an integral part of my culinary self, but I’m afraid it ends there.  If there’s one thing I avoid in my life, it’s starting over again…from scratch.  It’s puzzling to me, because I have the ingredients to start from scratch.  I am resilient.  I can even be tough.  I’m an extrovert who loves meeting new people.  And at times, I’m even creative.  The raw material is there.  But new beginnings still exhaust me—making me wish for the brownie-mix version of a head start when it comes to planting myself in a new situation, new job, new community, or new life.

We often need to start from scratch.  For good reasons and difficult reasons.  Marriage.  Divorce.  Loss.  Birth.  We need to know how to start over, and use the gifts (ingredients) we’ve inherited and developed.  We need to know how to blend them together, into a new and satisfying version of ourselves.  We need to adapt to change.

If only it was easier.  Like baking a cake…from scratch.

How about you?  Are you better at working from scratch when it comes to your life, or your kitchen?

Posted by Elizabeth

The lights are on, but nobody’s home!

Actually, I’m “next-door” at my virtual neighbor Kristen’s “house”, who kindly invited me to guest blog as part of the Won’t You Be My Neighbor? series.  Over the course of the next several Fridays, Kristen will be featuring a guest blogger, and we were lucky enough to be selected (Anne will post next Friday)!  Kristen is the author of Motherese, a blog providing “cultural commentary and musings on modern motherhood.”  Like the best mothering blogs, you need not be a mother to enjoy Kristen’s writing.  So c’mon over and read my contribution, It’s Not You, It’s Me…And You, in which I explore the nature of change in relationships.

I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but there are people out there who actually don’t read fiction.  People who enjoy non-fiction more than novels.  Can you imagine?

Okay, so maybe this is not a news-flash to you.  And of course, I’m jesting to an extent.  I’m actually keenly aware of the anti-fiction reader.  I’m aware because my husband is one of these people.  And this post today springs from a conversation we had over dinner recently—well, an “unreasonably heated debate” might be more accurate.  It went something like this…

Anne:  “I’m curious—why is it that you don’t ever read novels?”

Husband: “Well, they’re not real.  Why bother?”

Husband (still calmly amused):  “Isn’t that the definition of ‘real’?”

Anne (voice raising):  “Well, a novel can possess TRUTH without being factual.  The essence of what it teaches—what it communicates—doesn’t change because it didn’t actually happen in real life.”  

Husband (possibly reaching a greater level of intensity):  “I don’t know…I like a great story, but I love knowing that it happened. I find that more inspiring than just wondering if it happened.” 

(Disclaimer:  If you’re wondering if our dinner conversations are always this deep, I have to assure you…no.  Just the other day we devoted a substantial amount of time to discussing what our dog Murry might say if he could talk.)

Bursting with truth...

Several days after that conversation, I still find myself wondering why on earth I should feel so eager to defend the novel.  Or why I should be so dumbfounded by my husband’s reaction.  Sure, I’ve read plenty of non-fiction books—with some I’ve even found myself engrossed in the pages, and eager to learn.  But it’s the truth behind the fact that pulls me in.  Not the facts themselves. 

Judging by my reaction to this our friendly debate, I have to admit and conclude that fiction plays a massive role in my life.  I find this both totally normal, and slightly disturbing.  On the one hand, it’s harmless.  I love to lose myself in other worlds, other times, other stories.  What’s wrong with curling up in a chair, and bursting with anticipation (and caffeine) as I lovingly open the binding into a new and fascinating (albeit fictitious) world?  What’s wrong with experiencing sadness—true sadness—when a perfectly woven tale reaches its end?  Nothing…I don’t think.  But then I wonder…

Why is it that I learn through characters?  I’m comforted through characters.  I even aspire to the same qualities as characters.  Shouldn’t I feel more inspired by reality than fiction?  What am I more invested in the actions of the imaginary?  So often, I wonder how beneficial it is to pursue a Life in Pencil, when so much of that life is inspired by people, events, and stories that don’t exist.  Stories that are literally a collection of pencil strokes (or keystrokes) in someone else’s imagination. 

But I always return to my original argument—my original thesis.  Fiction works for me.  It speaks to me.  And stories shape me…showing me how to erase one piece of my life and re-write another.  These characters of mine mold me and encourage me to develop new qualities, and to craft my own story.  And the meaning I take away from my favorite stories continues to shift and change as I allow my own life to shift and change as well…in pencil.  In the end, fiction shapes me because it carries grains of truth.  And for me?  That truth is just as “valid” as biographies, memoirs, or historical accounts.  Fact or fiction, I’m looking for truth. 

Are you a novel junkie like myself, or a lover of non-fiction?  Or are you so well-rounded that you read both equally?

Posted by Elizabeth

It should come as no shock that I’ve been bored out of my skull lately, an unwelcome accomplice as I play The Waiting Game.  So when I read an essay called Our Boredom, Ourselves, tucked at the back of last Sunday’s New York Times Book Review, I was immediately captivated.  The author examines the idea of boredom in literature and literary pursuits, but goes a step beyond to consider the history, definitions, and uses of boredom (I was relieved to learn that boredom is, in fact, useful, and even good for us).  And all of this got me thinking about why I’m bored, and how I can use the boredom to work through this current phase of ennui.

First, let me admit that I feel a certain amount of guilt and shame every time I write about being bored.  I imagine you, dear reader, hunched over your computer screen, rolling your eyes at my bourgeois problem.  “How much more stupid does a problem get than being bored? Doesn’t boredom imply that you have free time to do whatever you’d like?  Sounds fabulous to me!”  And to some extent it’s true.  In Schuessler’s article, she notes that boredom is a relatively new aspect of the human condition, “a luxury – and a peril – born of the Industrial Revolution, reflecting the rise of individualism, leisure and the idea of happiness as a right and daunting personality responsibility.”  It’s true: boredom feels trivial, a problem reserved for those of us who are lucky enough to have met all of our basic needs and spend our days fretting over self-actualization.  And yet, when you’re in the midst of boredom, there is no worse feeling in the world.  Free time feels anything but free, a dull procession of minutes that marches by in a never-ending parade.

So why is it, I wonder, that free time feels free when you’re busy, and a jail cell when you’re bored?   How can idle time be transformed as quickly as Jekyll and Hyde, depending on your state of mind?  I turn to a definition of boredom by Saul Bellow which captures the potential anguish of what can be easily dismissed as a trifling emotion, “a kind of pain caused by unused powers, the pain of wasted possibilities or talents,…accompanied by expectations of the optimum utilization of capacities.”  When I am busy and productive, free time feels free because that time is specifically reserved for leisure.  Knowing I am using my potential as a human being in other spheres of my life, I don’t feel the pressure to make the most of my free time.  In other words, I don’t feel like a total schlup when I spend an entire morning reading the New York Times. But when all of my time is free, when I’m not working towards any meaningful life project, I am constantly reminded of my “unused powers” and “wasted possibilities.”  Then I feel like a total schlup, because it’s difficult to enjoy much of anything when that activity feels like a sheer distraction from bigger concerns.

And yet, I realize that boredom – even small bouts of it – is a normal part of post-Industrial life.  Much like I believe that doing nothing often accomplishes more than doing something, so, too, does boredom have utility in our lives.  It is not something to be avoided or glossed over, but something we can work through and learn from.  We need fallow periods of our life:  to promote creativity, to give our brains times to think and rest and come up with answers that are difficult to produce when we are racing around at a hundred miles a minute.  According to Schuessler, studies in neuroscience have shown that, even when we are consciously engaged in the act of doing nothing, our brains are quite active.  Doing nothing is doing something.  But when we fear and actively avoid that fallow time – as I have for the past month – spending it focused on mindless distractions and time-killers, I think we’ve eradicated any useful qualities that boredom has to offer us.

So what does boredom have to doing with living a life in pencil?  It’s easy to equate life in pencil with change, and, as an avowed change-a-holic, with change comes excitement and novelty.  Always in search of the next adventure, I’ve struggled with avoiding boredom my entire life.  But life in pencil is just as much about living in the moment, and sometimes those moments aren’t particularly full, interesting, or exciting.  Therefore, to truly live one’s life in pencil, we must go into the boredom, even if we don’t really want to, because, according to author David Foster Wallace, bliss is the shadow side of boredom:

Bliss – a second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious – lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom…Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you.  Ride these out, and it’s like stepping from black and white into color.  Like water after days in the desert.  Instant bliss in every atom.

In order to understand bliss, we have to feel boredom.  Pure and simple.  And I know that, when I come out on the other side of this period of boredom, I’m going to feel just that.  Although I’ve been using reading as my primary weapon to combat my boredom (growing up, when I moaned I was bored, my mom would always respond with, “Read a book!”), I couldn’t help but laugh when Schuessler aptly notes that, while we often use reading to avoid boredom, nothing carries a greater risk of active boredom than picking up a book!  Clearly, there is no escaping boredom when you’re in that phase.

One part of The Waiting Game was supposed to end yesterday (and I know there are some readers out there who are on pins and needles, waiting to find out what this Game is).  But it didn’t.  And all I could think was, “I haven’t learned my lesson about boredom yet.”  I’ve decided to take LiP Reader Terry’s straightforward yet profound advice:  I’m simply going to stop waiting.  It’s the only way out at this point.  And I promise to tell you soon, dear readers, what all this Waiting is about.  But now, for some more boredom.

What lessons do you think we have to learn from being bored?  Is it a necessary part of the human condition, or a post-Industrial problem?  Should we go into boredom or try to avoid it altogether?  Anybody want to make any guesses what this Waiting Game involves?

Posted by Anne

How long before my community becomes a part of me?

Remember what they told you back in college?  During orientation?  If your experience was anything like mine, there was a constant refrain.  If you want to connect with your new school and be a successful little coed, you should get involved.  And if you decided to follow that advice, there were countless systems in place for just that mission—the Fall Involvement Fair.  Sorority Recruitment (or “Rush”, as it was called back then).  At my college, they offered “Freshman Interest Groups”, affectionately called “FIGS”.  And I joined them all.  I joined a FIG.  I joined a sorority.  I joined clubs.  I did NOT want to feel alone. 

Oh, if it were still that easy.  Finding your community at a university (even a large one) is one thing.  Finding your community within a city—and as an adult—is a different story.  If I’m being honest, my current town isn’t even that big.  Mid-sized, I’d call it…some would even call it small.  I moved here with my husband about a year and a half ago, and still find myself wishing it felt more like “my community”.  And while it certainly feels more like home than it did a year ago, I still find myself wanting. 

As an adult, finding your place within a brand-new community is overwhelming at best.  The challenge feels compounded for me, since I work in another town—an hour away.  Without the crutch of “work friends” or “school friends” (as I leaned on for so long), I seem to wade aimlessly through town, looking for kindred souls and the adult version of an “involvement fair”.  My sister calls it “dating for friends.”  She couldn’t be more right.  Perhaps this is why I found myself at an informational meeting last night for my local chapter of the Junior League.  (Fear not, if you’ve read The Help.  Times have changed, I assure you.)  And lo and behold, the highly welcoming and organized membership chairs each shared their own story of joining the Jr League…most of which began with, “I wanted to get involved.”  Nothing like a highly organized group of nice women, community service, and yummy cupcakes.  I was sold. 

And even before my entrée into the Jr League, I did make some progress.  Through our Church here (a challenge in its own right when you live in the Northwest), my husband and I have made some amazingly kind friends.  They are friends we can count on for a supportive conversation, and a cold microbrew.  They are wonderful, quirky, and make all the difference in my ability to feel some semblance of “home” in this region of the country that still feels new—and even a little foreign sometimes. 

But amidst all these adult-involvement efforts, I sometimes wonder why I’m so preoccupied with this need to feel (as Elizabeth captured awhile back) “amongst my people”.  Why does it matter so much? It matters because people (along with a certain cultural vibe) are the backbone of the community I’m seeking.  While I believe in being challenged, I also believe we all need to see our values and beliefs reflected in the eyes of like-minded souls.  And if those people are the ones that live in our community and join us for dinner on Saturday nights?  All the sweeter. 

Is it just me, or was it easier to make friends when we were kids?

And this need for community matters for yet another (perhaps even more profound) reason.  In my psyche, community = stability.  At some point, I must have decided that stability means I no longer have to change.  I no longer have to move.  I no longer have to start over.  I’d like to believe this, and at the same time, I know it’s a false hope.  Deep down, I know that even if you live in the same city that raised you, your experience of that place is constantly changing.  Your social circle morphs, and your sense of community morphs along with adult goals, changing interests, and perhaps even changing ideologies.  And so perhaps the better question is:  How do you find and capture a community that changes right along with you?  I’m still learning. And until I find it, I’ll continue to soldier on, and get involved.    

How long do you think it takes to feel “at home” somewhere?  To find a kindred community?  Anyone found an adult “involvement fair”?