“Honey, what’s the matter?”
I walked into my youngest daughter’s room to tuck her in for the night and discovered her practically awash in tears. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know,” she sobbed, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her pajamas. “I’m just sad.”
“Why are you sad? Is anything wrong?” Being the only man living in a house full of women has taught me to be patient when trying to fathom the complex mysteries of female emotion. This one in particular is a tough nut to crack and she requires lots of questions to get her talking about her feelings.
“Do your legs hurt?” Over the past few weeks she has experienced severe leg pains at night; “growing pains” we call them.
“No, I’m just tired.” Her standard answer for “I don’t want to talk about it right now because I haven’t fully explored the depths of this emotion yet myself” confuses me. Just ten minutes ago she was a happy-go-lucky sixth grader as she placed her request for me to play on the piano while she brushed her teeth and got ready for bed.
I circled back around to one of her previous answers; usually an effective icebreaker for me. “What are you sad about?”
As she prepares her answer I give her a monster tuck, one of her favorites, pulling her comforter up to her chin and wrapping her like a mummy, pinning her arms tightly to her sides. This is not a tuck for the claustrophobic or faint of heart. I kiss away her tears and encourage an answer, “What’s making you so sad?” I reach over and turn off her light because sometimes answers come easier in the darkness.
“It was so pretty. I had to cry.”
“What was pretty?” I’m still lost but starting to make some headway; she’s opening up. I think to myself, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." I was gearing up to impart some fatherly wisdom.
“The music,” she paused, “It was so pretty but it made me feel so sad inside. I had to cry.”
I thought to myself, Vangelis’ theme to Chariots of Fire is sad? In the almost twenty-five years since I first played that piece I have heard it called many things, but sad was never one of them. As I thought back to my high school years, I remembered why I loved that piece so much. It was because of the energy I could put into the keys as I pounded out the first seven measures of staccato sixteenth notes. What teenaged boy wouldn’t love the rapid pace and heavy punishment of the ivory this song demands of the pianist? I can still hear Mrs. Janes emphatically calling out time for me, “one-e-and-uh, two-e-and-uh, three-e-and-uh, four-e-and-uh” and clapping her hands to emphasize the staccato nature of the introduction.
But, in quieter times, I also remember Mrs. Janes encouraging me to put my heart into the pieces I was learning to play. Every time I heard that directive, I would recommit every fiber of my being into the piece, playing ever harder, sadly realizing I was not accomplishing her desired effect but not knowing how to change my style to reflect my heart in the piece.
I realized tonight that, while I had started playing the piece with my typical tempo and gusto, a feeling of melancholy had swept over me part way through the song. Tonight I had unconsciously played the song differently than I had ever played it before. The music spoke to me and I had responded as I massaged the keys.
“Would you like me to play it again for you?” Heather nodded. “I will check on you when I am done, okay?”
“Okay.” In the dim light I could see the faint smile she managed to tweak out for me.
This time, as I started to play her request, I played through my heart.
When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Show and Tell
"Show, don't tell." I have heard that advice hundreds of times in the past few years as I work to develop my writing skills and hone my craft. For the longest time, I really struggled with what that meant. Show, don't tell. My first reaction always was, "I am showing...see?" Eventually, I got it and began developing a much clearer voice, showing my reader details about my characters through dialogue and action rather than simply listing them.
But why was it so hard for me to learn this simple concept? Why is it so difficult for others to grasp as well? Well, for starters, we all (most likely) grew up with a grade school tradition called 'Show and Tell' where we would bring something exciting or dear to us and share it with our classmates. Show and Tell. Depending on you level of self-esteem and extraversion, this event was either something you eagerly anticipated, or it was an event that inspired vivid nightmares, launched imaginary pandemics, and eventually led to wet pants in front of your peers.
For me, the showing part of Show and Tell was always the easiest; hold up the object for everyone to admire and bask in its radiance (ooh, ah) and then fight off the waves of jealousy emanating back from my class. Don't hate me for what I have.
What I really struggled with was the telling part. How do I convince my peers that this dingy, ragged, stuffed dog was actually my soul mate and confidant; the only person in this world with the patience to hear all my fears and insecurities? How do I convey the thought that this scrap of man-made materials with a missing eye and torn ear gives me the confidence to make it through another heart-stopping night filled with bogeymen and other assorted unseen monsters making strange noises throughout the house?
Please permit me to digress for a moment; the stress of the telling part of Show and Tell led me to develop the amazing ability to express my thoughts verbally in order to convince others to accept (or buy) what I was telling them...leading to the ability to sell anyone on my ideas. (Later, I would learn these were called features and benefits and the process was called consultative selling.)
My college literature classes and life in the corporate world added more lessons on telling versus showing. Myriad college professors wanted me to analyze the content to extract details and meaning without paying any particular attention to the methodology of how the author provided me the details and generated the meaning. In the corporate world, I would receive relentless barrages of "tell me what is going on" or " tell me the results" without anyone ever asking me to show them how I came to those details. Tell, tell, tell.
The only real-world application of showing I ever engaged in prior to launching my writing activities was photography. In this case, the old adage "a picture is worth a thousand words" exemplifies the art of showing. Create the picture and let the critics and viewers tell you what they see.
For me, writing mirrors photography to the extent that my words create an image for my reader. These words are most effective and productive when they are transparent to the reader. This, to the credit of my teachers and mentors over the years, is accomplished best through the action and dialogue of my story.
So the next time you are faced with the comment, "Show, don't tell" let your words create a picture without telling your reader what is in the picture.
But why was it so hard for me to learn this simple concept? Why is it so difficult for others to grasp as well? Well, for starters, we all (most likely) grew up with a grade school tradition called 'Show and Tell' where we would bring something exciting or dear to us and share it with our classmates. Show and Tell. Depending on you level of self-esteem and extraversion, this event was either something you eagerly anticipated, or it was an event that inspired vivid nightmares, launched imaginary pandemics, and eventually led to wet pants in front of your peers.
For me, the showing part of Show and Tell was always the easiest; hold up the object for everyone to admire and bask in its radiance (ooh, ah) and then fight off the waves of jealousy emanating back from my class. Don't hate me for what I have.
What I really struggled with was the telling part. How do I convince my peers that this dingy, ragged, stuffed dog was actually my soul mate and confidant; the only person in this world with the patience to hear all my fears and insecurities? How do I convey the thought that this scrap of man-made materials with a missing eye and torn ear gives me the confidence to make it through another heart-stopping night filled with bogeymen and other assorted unseen monsters making strange noises throughout the house?
Please permit me to digress for a moment; the stress of the telling part of Show and Tell led me to develop the amazing ability to express my thoughts verbally in order to convince others to accept (or buy) what I was telling them...leading to the ability to sell anyone on my ideas. (Later, I would learn these were called features and benefits and the process was called consultative selling.)
My college literature classes and life in the corporate world added more lessons on telling versus showing. Myriad college professors wanted me to analyze the content to extract details and meaning without paying any particular attention to the methodology of how the author provided me the details and generated the meaning. In the corporate world, I would receive relentless barrages of "tell me what is going on" or " tell me the results" without anyone ever asking me to show them how I came to those details. Tell, tell, tell.
The only real-world application of showing I ever engaged in prior to launching my writing activities was photography. In this case, the old adage "a picture is worth a thousand words" exemplifies the art of showing. Create the picture and let the critics and viewers tell you what they see.
For me, writing mirrors photography to the extent that my words create an image for my reader. These words are most effective and productive when they are transparent to the reader. This, to the credit of my teachers and mentors over the years, is accomplished best through the action and dialogue of my story.
So the next time you are faced with the comment, "Show, don't tell" let your words create a picture without telling your reader what is in the picture.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Death of My Muse
As a young boy, I would lay awake at night composing stories in my head. I was a prolific author, writing story after story every night. At times, I even would compose stories in my sleep. I found it interesting that, as I dreamed, my writing process appeared to be more like reading than physically writing. I could imagine the story, see the action, and even hear the voices of the characters. But in my dreams, I was holding the book the story was contained inside of. I know I was creating the stories because they were of events, characters, and plots I had never read before. In one particularly vivid dream, one that I have never forgotten, I became so frustrated because I could not turn the page to see what was going to happen next. The frustration was so palpable it woke me up. I guess you could say that was my first known case of writer's block!
Unfortunately, as a child, not many of my stories ever made it to paper. I would rather read stories and only wrote when it was assigned for school work. My stories were something I took out each night and played with in my mind as I drifted off into sleep. My muse would speak to me, entertaining me or helping me to escape the angst and drama every teenager passes through on the way to adulthood.
I cannot pinpoint the moment in my life when my muse died, succumbing to the drudgery and mind-numbing effects of the corporate world. But, at some point in my early adulthood, my muse left. I no longer fell asleep creating new stories but rather rehashing the latest office conflict. My dreams, once fertile ground for creativity and imagination, now became a desolate wasteland void of ideas. I no longer felt the urge to create, it took too much energy to create a world away from reality and soon it became easier just to slip into the swamp of unconsciousness.
Where oh where did my muse go? Today, I have the desire to write but I am lacking my creative muse. What once was a simple process of closing my eyes to create a new story is now a laborious task fraught with fitful starts and uninspired prose. Come back my muse!
Maybe if I improve the conditions for my muse, it will come back. My mind is becoming more accommodating for my muse; I read fiction daily and have begun creative mental exercises, creating stories about people and objects as they appear in my vision...flexing the imagination that was once depleted by a fast-paced corporate job.
I know I will be able to tell when my muse returns...it will be the night I wake up frustrated because I cannot turn the page of the story being composed in my mind. That is when I will fly to my laptop, eagerly listening to my muse as it narrates my story!
Unfortunately, as a child, not many of my stories ever made it to paper. I would rather read stories and only wrote when it was assigned for school work. My stories were something I took out each night and played with in my mind as I drifted off into sleep. My muse would speak to me, entertaining me or helping me to escape the angst and drama every teenager passes through on the way to adulthood.
I cannot pinpoint the moment in my life when my muse died, succumbing to the drudgery and mind-numbing effects of the corporate world. But, at some point in my early adulthood, my muse left. I no longer fell asleep creating new stories but rather rehashing the latest office conflict. My dreams, once fertile ground for creativity and imagination, now became a desolate wasteland void of ideas. I no longer felt the urge to create, it took too much energy to create a world away from reality and soon it became easier just to slip into the swamp of unconsciousness.
Where oh where did my muse go? Today, I have the desire to write but I am lacking my creative muse. What once was a simple process of closing my eyes to create a new story is now a laborious task fraught with fitful starts and uninspired prose. Come back my muse!
Maybe if I improve the conditions for my muse, it will come back. My mind is becoming more accommodating for my muse; I read fiction daily and have begun creative mental exercises, creating stories about people and objects as they appear in my vision...flexing the imagination that was once depleted by a fast-paced corporate job.
I know I will be able to tell when my muse returns...it will be the night I wake up frustrated because I cannot turn the page of the story being composed in my mind. That is when I will fly to my laptop, eagerly listening to my muse as it narrates my story!
Monday, October 26, 2009
Life of a Craftsman
I am a smith; I work with myriad tools at my disposal. Each morning, prior to working on the daily orders, I carefully look over my tools, discriminating as I select the ones most appropriate for the day's labors and hone them to a razor's edge. My life is creating finished goods out of raw elements, carefully forging functional items and simultaneously brilliant works of art. Now I hammer away at the amorphous mass, each ferocious strike follows the previous, energetically building on the work already completed. Within mere moments, I have produced a finished work based solely on a vision. I am most pleased with my choice of tools; today, I chose adjectives.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Milking 101
“Grab the pitchfork and go get a couple flakes of hay. I’ll get Belle.” Dad whistles and yells out across the pasture, “Here Belle!”
Belle’s head pops up from her grazing, a small tuft of grass hanging limply from her mouth. Her ears were cocked towards Dad; she was assessing the situation with her limpid eyes.
I’m not sure what breed Belle was, but she had to be the largest of all the cows that paraded across the Ranch over the years. Whenever I walked near her, Belle’s coarse black and white hide would tower over my lanky, teenage frame. Another piercing whistle, “Belle!” and the gentle mountain began to move toward us.
“Is this enough?” I hold up the pitchfork.
“Double that.”
I increase the load of hay on the pitchfork and swing it up onto my shoulder, calloused hands confidently gripping the sun-aged wooden handle as the load rotated. Belle spied the hay and her deliberate pace quickened. She was all about routine and hay signified her evening routine was about to begin.
“Throw the hay in the bunk and get out of her way.”
I tossed the hay and jumped up on the rail of the massive wooden feed bunk Dad, Gary and I labored over last year. Eager to get at the hay, Belle pushed her head into the stanchion and I pulled the bar against her broad, muscular neck, deftly dropping the block into place.
“She’s locked in Dad.”
Standing up on the bunk, I can look over Belle’s back and see Dad coming out of the barn with a small bucket of rolled oats (Belle’s favorite) in one hand, and the shiny, stainless steel milk bucket in the other.
“What are you doing up there? Last time I checked, all the plumbing is back here.” As I jumped down I realized school was now in session.
“Ok, watch what I am doing with my hand.” We are standing near the backside of Belle, just out of range of the whip-like tail as it cracks at another biting fly, high up on Belle’s back.
“Make a circle with your thumb and forefinger and keep the others pointed out.” Kinda like the universal sign for ‘OK’ which is ironic, because that is not how I felt at the moment.
“You’re going to squeeze the milk from the top of the teat down to the bottom.” Sounds easy, but I’m not so sure. All my confidence has drained into my tennis shoes.
“Start with your circle, squeeze, and then slowly close the rest of your fingers, one at a time.” He demonstrates.
“Like this?” I try to mimic the fluid movement of his fingers. “No, watch my hand again.” He patiently demonstrates the motion again and again. “Be sure to squeeze from the top to the bottom and alternate your hands”
Oooohhh, like doing scales on the piano, only my fingers are squeezing instead of pressing. I try again.
“Like this?”
Dad smiled, “There you go, just like that.” His son might be a prodigy after all. “That’s the right motion, keep practicing. I’ll go ‘round and we can milk her together.”
Just like that?! I look down at the massive udder, swollen with twelve hours worth of milk production. Don’t we need formal introductions first?
As I squat down, Dad is already sending rhythmic streams of the translucent liquid into the bucket. The milk makes a sharp sound as it strikes the bottom of the bucket.
Psheeet, psheet, psheeet, psheet, psheeet, psheet.
One hand is squeezing just a fraction longer than the other.
“Well? You gonna make me do all the work?”
“No.”
“Do just like you practiced.” Dad’s voice is muffled by the massive bovine separating us. “Go ahead, you can do it. Just watch her, if she starts to raise her leg, push your wrist against the knuckle just above her hoof. You don’t want her to kick.”
“Why will she kick?”
“She’s kinda antsy tonight; the flies are biting pretty hard.”
“I don’t think I can stop her.”
“You’ll be surprised; it doesn’t take a lot of force to stop a cow from kicking. You just have to catch it as she is raising her hoof.”
I stare at the black and pink bratwurst-like teat. This seems weird. Are you sure this is legal?
Dad’s cadence hasn’t changed, but as the milk starts to fill the bucket the sound changes.
Pshooot, pshoot, pshooot, pshoot, pshooot, pshoot.
“You can do it. Just grab ahold and squeeze like you practiced. You’ll see. It’s much easier than you think.” Gentle encouragement, no relenting. I am going to have to do this. I grabbed the teat and squeezed. A couple drops of milk found their freedom in the bucket.
“Oh!”
“What?”
I was not expecting the almost hot, supple texture of the teat.
“Nuthin.” Embarrassed, I try again and this time my feeble efforts produce a dribbling flow of milk.
“There you go! You got it. Just squeeze a little harder. You aren’t going to hurt her.”
As my confidence grows, the tiny streams get stronger and more rhythmic. Our conversation fades as we focus on our task. A thick layer of foam is developing on top of the milk, muting the sound of the streams.
Fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop.
The familiar sounds of the Ranch gently creep into my consciousness. A fly buzzes. The gentle swish of Belle’s tail over my head.
Fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop.
Belle’s molars slowly grinding the sweet alfalfa hay. Suzie yipping excitedly. She must have cornered a gopher. A rooster crows somewhere off in the distance. We continue milking in the comfortable silence of two souls at peace with the world.
Dad finishes first, stands, stretches and pours the oats for Belle. “When you’re done, take the milk up to your mom. I’ll close up down here.”
Dusk is closing in on me as I strip the last few drops from Belle’s now-depleted udder. I stand, and as I lift the sloshing bucket I hear, “Good job son.”
I grin from ear to ear and walk just a little bit taller.
Belle’s head pops up from her grazing, a small tuft of grass hanging limply from her mouth. Her ears were cocked towards Dad; she was assessing the situation with her limpid eyes.
I’m not sure what breed Belle was, but she had to be the largest of all the cows that paraded across the Ranch over the years. Whenever I walked near her, Belle’s coarse black and white hide would tower over my lanky, teenage frame. Another piercing whistle, “Belle!” and the gentle mountain began to move toward us.
“Is this enough?” I hold up the pitchfork.
“Double that.”
I increase the load of hay on the pitchfork and swing it up onto my shoulder, calloused hands confidently gripping the sun-aged wooden handle as the load rotated. Belle spied the hay and her deliberate pace quickened. She was all about routine and hay signified her evening routine was about to begin.
“Throw the hay in the bunk and get out of her way.”
I tossed the hay and jumped up on the rail of the massive wooden feed bunk Dad, Gary and I labored over last year. Eager to get at the hay, Belle pushed her head into the stanchion and I pulled the bar against her broad, muscular neck, deftly dropping the block into place.
“She’s locked in Dad.”
Standing up on the bunk, I can look over Belle’s back and see Dad coming out of the barn with a small bucket of rolled oats (Belle’s favorite) in one hand, and the shiny, stainless steel milk bucket in the other.
“What are you doing up there? Last time I checked, all the plumbing is back here.” As I jumped down I realized school was now in session.
“Ok, watch what I am doing with my hand.” We are standing near the backside of Belle, just out of range of the whip-like tail as it cracks at another biting fly, high up on Belle’s back.
“Make a circle with your thumb and forefinger and keep the others pointed out.” Kinda like the universal sign for ‘OK’ which is ironic, because that is not how I felt at the moment.
“You’re going to squeeze the milk from the top of the teat down to the bottom.” Sounds easy, but I’m not so sure. All my confidence has drained into my tennis shoes.
“Start with your circle, squeeze, and then slowly close the rest of your fingers, one at a time.” He demonstrates.
“Like this?” I try to mimic the fluid movement of his fingers. “No, watch my hand again.” He patiently demonstrates the motion again and again. “Be sure to squeeze from the top to the bottom and alternate your hands”
Oooohhh, like doing scales on the piano, only my fingers are squeezing instead of pressing. I try again.
“Like this?”
Dad smiled, “There you go, just like that.” His son might be a prodigy after all. “That’s the right motion, keep practicing. I’ll go ‘round and we can milk her together.”
Just like that?! I look down at the massive udder, swollen with twelve hours worth of milk production. Don’t we need formal introductions first?
As I squat down, Dad is already sending rhythmic streams of the translucent liquid into the bucket. The milk makes a sharp sound as it strikes the bottom of the bucket.
Psheeet, psheet, psheeet, psheet, psheeet, psheet.
One hand is squeezing just a fraction longer than the other.
“Well? You gonna make me do all the work?”
“No.”
“Do just like you practiced.” Dad’s voice is muffled by the massive bovine separating us. “Go ahead, you can do it. Just watch her, if she starts to raise her leg, push your wrist against the knuckle just above her hoof. You don’t want her to kick.”
“Why will she kick?”
“She’s kinda antsy tonight; the flies are biting pretty hard.”
“I don’t think I can stop her.”
“You’ll be surprised; it doesn’t take a lot of force to stop a cow from kicking. You just have to catch it as she is raising her hoof.”
I stare at the black and pink bratwurst-like teat. This seems weird. Are you sure this is legal?
Dad’s cadence hasn’t changed, but as the milk starts to fill the bucket the sound changes.
Pshooot, pshoot, pshooot, pshoot, pshooot, pshoot.
“You can do it. Just grab ahold and squeeze like you practiced. You’ll see. It’s much easier than you think.” Gentle encouragement, no relenting. I am going to have to do this. I grabbed the teat and squeezed. A couple drops of milk found their freedom in the bucket.
“Oh!”
“What?”
I was not expecting the almost hot, supple texture of the teat.
“Nuthin.” Embarrassed, I try again and this time my feeble efforts produce a dribbling flow of milk.
“There you go! You got it. Just squeeze a little harder. You aren’t going to hurt her.”
As my confidence grows, the tiny streams get stronger and more rhythmic. Our conversation fades as we focus on our task. A thick layer of foam is developing on top of the milk, muting the sound of the streams.
Fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop.
The familiar sounds of the Ranch gently creep into my consciousness. A fly buzzes. The gentle swish of Belle’s tail over my head.
Fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop, fhwoop, fhwooop.
Belle’s molars slowly grinding the sweet alfalfa hay. Suzie yipping excitedly. She must have cornered a gopher. A rooster crows somewhere off in the distance. We continue milking in the comfortable silence of two souls at peace with the world.
Dad finishes first, stands, stretches and pours the oats for Belle. “When you’re done, take the milk up to your mom. I’ll close up down here.”
Dusk is closing in on me as I strip the last few drops from Belle’s now-depleted udder. I stand, and as I lift the sloshing bucket I hear, “Good job son.”
I grin from ear to ear and walk just a little bit taller.
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