The Low Bar (again)

It's possible I've written about this before, but originality isn't a bar I need to clear. I've lowered the bar to writing something on my mind that feels important.

I'm trying to be a little healthier. I want to be a lot healthier, like thirty-five pounds lighter and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I keep failing at that.

So the hell with lofty goals.

My "get a little healthier" to-do list this week is:

• Run/Gym 3 times
• Weigh In 3 times
• Walk To Work once There are two checks next to Run/Gym, three at Weigh In, and today I checked Walk To Work. It was just too beautiful this morning not to walk.

If I run or to the gym today, tomorrow, or Sunday, I'll have reached my goals. No big celebration will follow, just a quiet attaboy. These are only low-bar goals.

That's the point.

Change is tough for me. All sorts of things get in the way. Clearing low bars is good. Not great, just good.

And that's good enough.

Shaving Soap (A Zen Parable)

In the bathroom sits a shaving mug into which I swirl a wet brush each day to soap my face before I shave with an old-school safety razor. I could go on and on about why I use such things, and I'm sorely tempted, but instead I'll just describe how the shaving soap seems never ending.

In December, seeming near the bottom of my shaving cup and having found a local shaving soap maker, I bought a puck of new soap. Two things to know about me in these situations: I love that the shaving soap lasts and lasts, but once I buy a new puck, I can't wait until I finish the old one.

There remains just the smallest sliver of soap in the mug. Hardly enough for a lather, yet each morning there's still soap left for the next day. It's kind of driving me crazy because I'm stuck on a couple stories I tell myself.

The first is that I'll finish the soap any day now. The second is that a new soap will change my life.

Both stories are fictions, but that doesn't keep me from acting on them over and over. I'm Charlie Brown with the football, except eventually I really will finish the soap. Charles Schulz never got around to drawing Lucy letting Charlie Brown kick the ball, but I know what happens. No matter how he kicks the ball, Charlie Brown remains Charlie Brown, no happier than he was before, maybe not even as happy.

I'm writing this at night. Soon I'll go to sleep, proud to have figured this much out and developed a bit of wisdom. Maybe I'll sleep well and wake tomorrow refreshed. Then I'll wet the shaving brush and swirl it in the cup, and I know just what I'll be thinking: "Today just has to be the day I finish this soap, start the new one, and begin living a tremendously better life because of it!"

Lucy, Charles Schulz, and maybe Buddha (looking a lot like Snoopy) will all laugh themselves silly watching me stand at the sink, froth all around my mouth, wearing a hopelessly naive smile.

A Gentle Bell

This morning I set a timer for thirty seconds to close my eyes and concentrate on the breath. Thirty seconds is as much of that as I felt I could do. I closed my eyes, tried not to think or analyze. At thirty seconds, the phone rudely returned me with shrill beeping.

There has to be a better way.

I tried the other tones on the phone but none sounded calming. I needed a Zen bell, something gentle enough that I carry back into the world some sense of presence.

It took fifteen minutes searching online to find the right sound freely and anonymously downloadable. I found a recording of a "lovely meditation bell" in Big Sur, California and downloaded it to the phone. A moment later I had it set as the timer's sound.

I asked the phone for thirty seconds and focused again on the breath, trying not to project ahead to the ending sound and whether I had succeeded or failed. It was a challenge. It always is. But when the bell sounded a soft, deep tone, I smiled and kept my eyes closed, gently letting go the satisfaction.

I don't know how much longer I stayed with the breath. I was kind of done measuring things.

Give Me A Break

The first two rules of writing are these: apply butt to chair and just write. Last Saturday, I followed both rules and yet, two hours after having started with a workable idea and good head of steam, nothing came of it. I had a deadline to spur me on, something that often pushes me to produce good work. Not this time. Not even close. The pages aren't fit for lining the compost bucket. Really, they just aren't any good.

About now I'm supposed to say what a failure I am and complain that writer's block is worse than COVID. Sure, I felt some of that but not much and certainly not for long. I mean, give me a break. It's just writing.

Just writing?

Aren't I the guy who loves writing more than just about anything? Surely, I must be kidding.

But I'm not kidding. And don't call me Shirley.

It's just writing, just words on paper. Here's the thing: I'll write more words. I already have. In the week since Saturday, I've committed more than five thousand words to screen and page. Some of them have been just as terrible, but some are alright, and writing them has taken me to new places.

Places such as this.

Between paragraphs I sipped an espresso I made before sitting down to write. It's good espresso. Not great, just good. I'm too new to the craft to know what I'm doing yet. I've watched James Hoffman's espresso-making videos. He makes it look effortless because he's a gifted master and has done this sort of thing for years. I got my espresso machine a month ago and pulling great shots remains beyond me for the moment. Wait a couple months and I'll have a good espresso to offer.

James Hoffman is expert at this stuff, gifted after having practiced for decades. Being gifted and well-practiced are intertwined. He pulls scores of shots daily and has for years. Even if I was gifted at this — and maybe I'll turn out to be — I'll need years of practice to develop the gift. I'm too new to espresso to pull a great shot, so give me a break.

I'm talking to myself when I say give me a break. No one but me is as harsh a critic of my poor and novice attempts. No one else is so likely to tell me to give up.

Writers, especially those who aren't very practiced, are susceptible to the cruel voice within that says, give up, you have no gift. You and your writing will never measure up. Surely, there's no point in going on.

I respond this way: Stop calling me Shirley. And give me a break.

Last Saturday, I could feel that the writing wasn't going to work out, that at deadline I would find myself with a sad sheaf of pages unfit for sharing. I kept writing anyway. Some of that was obligation to deadline, but mostly it was faith in the practice of moving the pen, a practice I've maintained for decades. All that and I gave myself a break.

When it comes to espresso, I'm giving myself a break because I'm a novice, just beginning the practice. When it comes to writing, I give myself a break knowing that I'll write more and that I'm still a student of the craft, an eternal novice.

The voice within tells me to quit. It says I lack talent. I say, talent-schmalent.

Writing has less to do with talent than with applying butt to chair and just writing, going at it one day and coming back the next to go at it some more.

Whatever I draft today informs tomorrow's writing. This morning's shot of espresso has in it the taste of all I learned yesterday. Tomorrow's espresso may taste better, smooth with hints of caramel, or turn out bitter and awful. The writing could go either way too.

I had a good idea last Saturday but still haven't been able to write it. I'll try again but it may refuse to come together. There's a chance it's beyond my ability to write. Wouldn't that be a pisser? End of the freaking world, right?

Give me a break.