by Cate Winter
I am not a patient person by nature.
I’m just not.
I’ve always been an impulsive, action-oriented creature who tends to leap before really paying attention to what the consequences may be, for good or ill. If I’ve found myself in a situation I didn’t like, I’ve changed it. Didn’t like where I was living? I moved. Had a bad hair day? Chopped off half of it and dyed it red or pink or whatever else led to a startling change pretty much instantly. Maybe it’s the bane of the Aquarius, but I’ve always felt far more comfortable with change and forward momentum than stillness (or what I’ve generally considered to be “stagnation”).
This tends to lead to an unholy amount of frustration when circumstances beyond my control mean that things I want to happen, or create, come into being much more slowly than I’d like them to. Case in point: I’ve been a writer for almost 20 years now, and have had no problem whatsoever pounding out articles, short stories, and even occasional bits of poetry. Now that I’m making an attempt to sit down and write a book, however, I find myself in unfamiliar, and less-than-comfortable territory. I mean, why isn’t this story pouring out of me almost fully formed the way my journalistic articles always have? Why isn’t my plot consistent? Why aren’t the characters developing on their own? WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG?
(breathe, breathe, breathe)
Recently, a new friend told me that it’s all well and good that I’ve mastered the art of leaping into action when needed, but that I’m utter rubbish at stillness and patience… and that it’s those two that I need to cultivate most of all. He was right, of course, which made me grind my molars into a fine paste, but I listened to him. He told me that I needed to start a zazen practice, which I had to look up, but involves sitting in stillness, as per Zen Buddhist tradition.
Now, I’m a person who can’t even sit and watch a movie without simultaneously knitting or mending clothes or darning socks or doing something else that I consider “productive”, so the thought of just sitting there was more than a little daunting to me. After all, I have things to do: isn’t sitting a massive waste of my time? My friend smiled at that, and said that the fact that I asked that question illustrates my need to do so. So I did.
Although most sources of Zen meditation recommend just counting one’s breaths, that technique didn’t work very well for me. Being a rather visual creature, I chose to go a different route, and discovered a technique that suits me a bit better: I envision myself sitting at the bottom of a lake. Every time a thought crosses my mind, I picture it being encapsulated in a bubble, and then that bubble rises slowly away from me, further and further, until it's out of sight. Some of those thoughts return, and that's okay: I just pop them into bubbles again without any frustration or negative judgment, and they float up, up, and away.
I’ve done this a few times now, though I’ve only managed to do so for about ten minutes at a stretch, but I am rather surprised (and more than a little delighted) by how much more peaceful I felt after doing so. I’d been stressed to the ninth circle of hell about work and finances and a bunch of other shite relating to this corporeal realm of ours, but all of that took a back burner to the fact that I felt really good. Calm, even. I didn’t know I was capable of this type of calm, but I like it.
I’d be lying if I said that this is something I’m good at already. This whole meditation thing is very, very new to me, and I still have a hell of a long way to go before I attain any measure of Zen-like serenity. What I can tell you is that I feel much less tension in my neck and forehead than I usually do, and that hideous noise my shoulder’s been making has pretty much disappeared. The insomnia that has plagued me for years is dying down significantly, and greater awareness and appreciation for the living world around me is inspiring me to write more.
Today, for example, I was trying to work on an article for a client, but just couldn’t concentrate. It was raining outside, and I figured to hell with it, I was going to go and meditate on the front porch for a while anyway: if I got drenched, I got drenched, and wouldn’t need to wash my hair tonight. I wrapped a poncho around myself and plunked my arse onto the porch, ensuring that there wasn’t much in the way of exposed skin for the cat-sized mosquitoes out here to feast upon, and started my bubble meditation.
It didn’t work immediately, so naturally my immediate impulse was to say “fuck it” and go do something else, but I know I have to stick with this, so I did it again.
And when I got frustrated and irritable, I began again.
And eventually something must have shifted because I felt something unlock in my chest, allowing me to breathe a bit more gently. Rain continued to fall, but although I could feel that I was getting drenched to the skin, it didn’t bother me. Quite the opposite, actually: I was able to experience the feeling of wet clothing against my skin with the impassiveness of an observer instead of making any judgment about how it made me feel, whether “good” or “bad”.
I found myself engrossed in the spaces between raindrops, rather than the pattering of the droplets against my skin. It was in those spaces that my own thoughts and emotions ceased to torment me: I could just Be, without feeling the need to do anything other than sit, and breathe. In a world where we are constantly inundated with an onslaught of horrific stories and images, finding brief moments of tranquility like this is …well, necessary to keep any small vestige of sanity intact. Although it may be argued whether I do, in fact, have any measure of sanity left, at the very least I’m grateful to have found a method to grasp a few heartbeats’ worth of tranquility here and there: it’s in these tranquil moments that I actually have clarity and focus. Problems I’d been having with my characters untie themselves. Plot points smooth out, words I’d been grasping at just fall into place.
I’m trying not to be furious with myself for not having discovered the benefits of meditation a few decades ago, but everything happens when it’s meant to, right? I still have a long way to go before I’ll be able to sit in stillness for more than a few minutes without the intrusive thoughts barraging me from all sides, but I suppose that’s why it’s called a meditative “practice”.
Well, I have pieces to write, and I feel like there’s a fire under my ass, telling me that I need to hurry up and get this done already. In response, I think I’ll head back outside and meditate a bit more.
is a writer, art director, and herbalist-in-training based in the deepest, most impenetrable wilds of Canada: Quebec. She has been known to subsist on coffee and soup for days at a time, and limits her stabbing to knitting.
(Photo credit Reza Shayestehpour)
(c) by ZZ Claybourne
The tape played.
“I’ve seen you feed. Several times. You trust me that much? Catching and sniffing at the air that quick way you do. You that secure or is the plan to come for me? Nine nights I’ve seen you. When I hid behind a tree I imagined you saw me through the bark. I knew all I had to do was peer around the side and you’d be there, distant, standing in sharp silhouette. Glowing eyes looking dead at me. You’re a witch. You made me do this. All day I think about you, what you look like, what your name is, where you shop. All the things like how your hair looks after you’ve been caught in the rain. Do you get caught in the rain? And then at night I search the woods, hoping to see a shadow or your quick form shooting between the trees, so soundless, so quiet…God, you’re quiet! First time I saw you is the only time I’ve heard you make a sound. Terrified as I was with that rifle in hand, paralyzed behind those berry bushes, you saw me and deliberately finished your feed, made that sound again, and left like a leopard. God, what the hell was that? It sounded like dying. Every night this month I’ve been out no matter what the weather. In the rain. In the fog. Do you understand? I’m only doing this because you let me. Nine times I’ve watched you and followed wherever you led. Or tried to. I’m only doing this because I know you can’t ignore it like you do me in the woods. I’ve got copies of this in safe places. And there’s an attack dog here, and I sleep with my gun. I’ve covered my ass. Believe it. I disappear and people will know.”
She stopped the tape at that point, not even halfway finished, and ejected it. Long fingers closed around it, crushed the plastic rectangle, and dropped the pieces into the trash. Rain blurred the window. She stood, stretched just for the sensation, and walked to the open door of the cabin where she leaned against the frame and watched the rain shatter on her porch. Just beyond it the ground dotted into islands of mud. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. For ages she’d enjoyed the scent of forest rain.
She decided to take the player back to him in a little while, wrapped tight in plastic since he’d so thoughtfully provided machine along with the tape. In a few hours the grey sky would go dark.
She imagined him asleep with rifle and dog patrolling his dreams to keep nightmares away. Nice voice, she thought. Dramatic flair. Verbose, as they usually were. Could’ve made a decent actor.
She went to her small, stove-less kitchen. Preliminaries. She opened the cupboard for her Jar of Life, a large teal jar made by a lovestruck missionary in nineteenth century Chokwe (who then followed her to Franceville until she finally had to leave the country altogether). The jar contained packets of milky, gelatinous goo. She punctured one with a tooth and squeezed its contents oozed onto her tongue, the grimace instantaneous, the taste horrid, but it dulled the pains of transformation.
Then she bit into a lemon. It obliterated the stink of a taste. For something to unscrew her face, that would be the rum she kept in the bottom cupboard.
She watched him cry.
His name was Paul. He knelt on the ground, hands holding the black barrel pointed upward as if to shoot the moon. He shook. He bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling. The gutted carcass of his dog looked at him, its head impossibly twisted. Paul whimpered at it.
“I’m sorry. Why’d you do it?” he put to Lilith, knowing she was out there somewhere. “He was just a fuckin’ dog. Why’d you kill the damn dog? Fucking bitch!” The dog always barked. But when it stopped barking, stopped on a dime, silence roared. Silence yanked him from his dreams. He woke with goosebumps. All night he dreamed of the cassette, of why he wasn’t out tonight…and he knew it was her the same way he knew that the beast was female: she had made a connection with him (he was sure of it), had planted her eyes in too many of his fantasies and thoughts. His hands were clammy on the gun stock as he crept out in underwear and slippers. He noticed the plastic-wrapped cassette player immediately, placed as it was just out of reach of the door’s arc, water beads on the wrapping. She had been on his porch. She was intelligent.
And then the dog at the side of the house, neck broken and partially eaten. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Vomit spilled from his fingers, some of it spotting the dog’s carcass before he could turn. He whirled, taking his hand away, and vomited till his chest ached and the dry heaves cracked. When they passed, he flecked bits of food off his hand, then wiped the hand on the hip of his briefs. His eyes watered so badly he couldn’t see.
He plopped his butt to the squishy grass; made no move to clear his sight. Time without feeling passed, minutes without thought or meaning, before he braced his hands near the tip of the rifle and got to his knees. Eventually he stood. Thirty minutes after that he wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a grimy streak. He jabbed his shovel into the ground beside a mound of muddy dirt and left the fresh graveyard, stepping robotically: onto the porch; over the cassette player; closing the door.
All while she watched. And she knew that he knew—although in his mind the thought was forcefully blocked—that she was there, in the woods, moving with him, so smooth and quick and silent, watching his reactions. “Nine times…” The thought drew a lip above her canines. A fool turned familiarity into threats. Had he become so comfortable with what he thought was her, what she had let him witness nine times, that he was entitled to her?
She growled and left.
Thoughts of him were clear the following morning. He’d be in a confused state. Anger, fear, confusion, sorrow—a dangerous mixture. He would think of retaliation because he was a fool, then of flight because deep down she knew he wasn’t suicidal enough to have made copies of the tape, thus actually endangering her so that she’d have no choice but to kill him.
He’d have to run. He needed a weapon. He’d get frantic. He’d dig up his evidence as soon as he fell out of bed, then be out of there and in his jeep for somebody—scientist, zookeeper, vet, anybody moderately intelligent enough to see that something was unusual in this death. They’d protect him.
As Paul threw clothes on, Lilith yawned her way to her open door and rubbed her eyes.
Humidity greeted her. She loved it. She raised her arms full above her and stretched her body toward the world before getting dressed. Jeaned (as he ran outside for the shovel, asking the dog to forgive him), bloused and shoed, she walked to her porch, locked the door, and made her way through the woods until she came to the little roundabout path that pretended to snake randomly through the trees. She paced herself to make the eight miles in ten minutes.
Paul drove the shovel into the wet ground with the heel of his boot again, continuously muttering to himself that none of this was his fault, pausing only when the sticky sweat clinging to his forehead slid too close to his eyes.
While she was there.
He hadn’t noticed her. She stepped on a twig for him. He snapped erect.
He wouldn’t run.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Dear God in heaven, he couldn’t run. He could want to run all he wanted. His brain supplied any number of escapes…but actually attempting any of them was out of the question.
Death approached him like a hiker seeking directions.
He thought of the shovel.
Her eyes fixed on him. They pierced skull and brain and exited the back of his mind. He stayed motionless as she came directly before him. A seizure of proximity lust added to the firestorm. It made him realize that this was just a woman, a woman wearing a plaid shirt and faded jeans, staring at him, a woman with brown eyes and bangs of dark hair over her forehead; right here, right now, nothing more than a woman. One who looked up at him. He was taller and bigger.
His grip tightened on the shovel.
Quietly, she glanced him up and down, even circled to inspect all the angles, stepping on no more twigs. When she faced him again he noticed something different. Her right eyebrow was raised.
She waited for him to speak.
He swallowed hard. Sweat itched his back. He wanted so badly to swing that shovel then run like hell.
It took him a moment to realize that the garbled words he haltingly heard were his own.
“Please. No. No. I’m sorry. I swear, I didn’t mean anything.”
She made him replace the soil. There was no one around for miles. She walked away. He followed.
When they reached the cabin his legs gave out.
She hoisted him up easily, then opened her door, standing aside to allow by. He stopped.
“Fighting rubber sharks is easy,” she said.
“Schlock movie stuntman. Big out-of-court settlement. Blackballed out of the biz. No more glitz. Live in the woods and be a man.”
“You think I’ve never seen a movie? This isn’t an enchanted forest. I step well out of its bounds. I recognized you.”
He’d never gotten a full ten seconds of screen time.
Lilith entered the cabin. He followed. She didn’t close the door.
“I didn’t—I didn’t…I didn’t mean anything with that tape. Swear to God. I lied anyway! I never made a copy, wouldn’t send it to anybody. Never tell anybody!”
“And you planted the dead dog hoping it’d grow back? This is real life, boy. You enjoy insulting me. That’s too bad. Tell you right now, you won’t survive the night.”
His legs gave out again. He dropped to his knees, sweaty fear assaulting her senses. If he lost control of his bowels on her floor…
“Get up! Sit.” He’d barely missed knocking into her rustic table and chair beside him. Her blue bottle sat atop it. “You enjoy the sound of your own voice too much.”
“What are you going—”
“Don’t ask questions, damn you!”
His dam broke. He had no way to hide it or his mortification, he just looked into her eyes like a frightened, whipped puppy.
A low growl filled the room and chilled skin and blood. The warm urine felt like ice. He held his breath.
The growl stopped. Annoyed that he merely sat there looking at her with that ridiculously pained face, she snapped, “You see that door? It’s hardly ever closed and not once has an animal come in here. Get back there and clean yourself off.” Back there: a yellow door in a far corner of the cabin.
His thoughts looped while he walked: there was no moon; it was not night; she was just a girl, twenty-five, twenty-eight at the most; he was bigger than her; front door was open; no moon, no night, just a--
The loop broke the instant the bathroom door shut. It was a small bathroom, not much bigger than an outhouse with a tub. Out of sight he cried freely but made certain to choke off the noise. He turned the taps full on. The tub filled quickly. She hadn’t said how long to take. He stripped and submerged till his knees stuck high above the low rim and his hair floated. After a few moments in the hot water he calmed enough to lean back and close his eyes, to try to think.
Then he looked down at himself and saw the idiot rod pointing. Lust and fear. He viewed the erection as though it were something alien. It was oblivious to the situation; it was a fool. He forced a deep breath and allowed the water to soothe him; to provide him with the fantasy that she wasn’t going to kill him. Who kills after permitting a bath? Five full minutes he high-wired that tenuous thread, then she knocked on the door. She didn’t say anything, just that single rap. He scooped water and rubbed grime off his face. Dried quickly. Nothing to wear but the towel. Large red towel. He gathered his clothes and boots.
“Wanna clean this up now?”
“Where’s your—Do you have a mop?”
She pointed it out. He dropped the clothes by the table and quickly dabbed the spot. He worked at angles where his front wouldn’t be seen for more than a glimpse. When finished he sat. He kept his hands against his lap.
“Paul. What did you think I would do, Paul?”
“What do you know about me, Paul? I’ll bet you’re more ignorant than I credit.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
She dismissed it with a wave. “It’s early. How old are you?”
“Don’t know much about sex then. You think that little erection occupies me?”
She looked directly at it. He pressed harder.
“Let the damn thing go.” She felt his heart jump from where she sat.
“You can’t just murder me,” he blurted. “Jesus, you’ll be found when they look for me.”
She unbuttoned her blouse.
He trailed the soft V of flesh. Her shirttails cleared the jeans.
She wished there was a moon visible, or the stars.
“You’re not special, are you, Paul?”
“I’m just a guy.”
“How many just guys like you? Just regular guys. How many?”
She caught a dart-like whiff of fear from him.
He studied her for reaction, hoping to see something. A smile. A softening. If she smiled that would be good. He might live.
“The roads we take, Paul. You were dead when you decided I was prey.” Here there be wolves. She went to her cupboard.
When she came back with the packet and a lemon he stammered, “What’s that?”
She swallowed the one then bit the other, her eyes on him the whole time. “We travel the road, we pay the toll.”
To his clogged ears it sounded like she said “troll.”
That night, when her talons dug into his back—not viciously but to pick him up, take him out of her home, and out of her life, back to be buried with his dog, the moon and stars were out. The rains had gone. She searched the interior of his cabin. Nothing of interest beyond weapons and accumulated stuff.
She left his door wide open so animals could enter.
Then Lilith went home.
You're not a tribble. You're not a porn actor. You're not John Henry. How do you keep doing it, that thing you do, when there's no immediate reward? Let's say you're a writer. Most creative people will tell you they only want money so they can have the time and mental freedom to keep creating. Using myself as example, I need lots of quietude and mental solitude to zone into anything worth putting on paper. I don't get either. Welcome to the club, eh? We do what we do with what we've got, and Lord knows we ain't got a lot. So how do you keep at it? That's not rhetorical. "What's the point?" will jump you as if you owe it money and, in a way, it thinks you do. If you're approaching your creativity as being your livelihood then, yeah, you wanna get paid. Let's caps lock it to avoid any semblance of being meek about this particular aspect of our creative endeavors: YOU WANT TO GET PAID. And if the nays keep outweighing the yays, motivation can tank.
So take a moment to write a letter to yourself in the form of a blog, a tweet, an update, or a private journal entry, that's what you do. You tie that thread in your brain to the ALL, and you write, draw, compose, sculpt, rehearse like the sun itself is coming up, because you are good at it. Period.
You're good at what you do. There's a nugget of fun in accepting that, a nugget of ego--natch--and a nowhere-near-impotent hit of defiance. You remind yourself that if your prime motivator had been to make money, you'd have done so. So there's gotta be more to what's going on, right? Not just buy me, review me, buy me again--something else happening, yes? You wanna call it your Calling, go right ahead. Mission, duty, destiny--hell, Luke Skywalker the hell out of it.
You will need to pep talk yourself, don't think you won't. That's how you root out ennui and woe, 'cause what you're missing ain't money or fame, it's connection. Your imagination is not a commodity, it's a lifeline.
Best remember that.
The only thing that motivates you is you reaching inside, outward, through and past You. This didn't take long at all. Get out there, ya lunk, and do the do.
Life, the universe, and everything creative
Towel Photo credit: EvelynGiggles via Foter.com / CC BY