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A writer’s life is spent entering secret passages and opening doors. If the passages are too dark or dim, I might take the time to turn around and go back to look for a light. And if re-tracing my steps feels like it is too long ago, I might simply feel my way with my senses in the darkness. After all, I might trip over a flashlight and kick it into life or develop human sonar or spy a flicker of light down one of the corridors or develop a seventh sense. Anything could happen in these secret passages. After all, I am the author.
If doors are locked tight, I may start to hunt for a key. Or not. If looking for a key feels too time-consuming or futile, I might resort to one of those battering rams that you see in movies that involve crooks and the FBI. Boom. Open sesame. It’s up to me. I am the author.
[pas·sage (ˈpasij/) noun: the act or process of moving through, under, over, or past something on the way from one place to another.]
There are just so many remarkable words in this sparse definition. Act. Process. Moving through, under, over, or past something. On the way from one place to another. Sometimes I forget or take for granted or don’t pay attention to the ponderous weight that each word in our lexicon — any language’s lexicon — bears. These varied words that writers place on the page bear a nuanced message that goes far beyond the symbols and morphology that transcribes experience into imagination.
Writing. Socrates believed that writing was detrimental to the mind — that by writing something down, we have essentially dulled the mind’s ability to remember what is important. Being a writer, I look at the written word differently. Writing allows me to see my soul reflected back to me in a way that other experiences and relationships can’t. It is a solitary journey perfect for the exploration of secret passages. And my muse seems to like the secret passages the best.
Again . . . Albert Einstein leads us by the hand and takes us to what it is about our own selves that makes us who we are. What a remarkable person he was.
I knew an old timer who thought of life as a poker game. His theory was that we are dealt only so many cards in life . . . that we have to discard the old for the new if we hope to improve the hand that we are currently holding. He believed that life was all just a gambling game of chance, predicated on our willingness to release something for something else. In other words: if you don’t like the cards you are holding, you might just as well go ahead and discard. The new cards that are dealt back to you might make for a better hand. And if that isn’t the case? Well, you discard again until you like the hand you are holding. I should probably add that this older fellow led a very uncomplicated life.
That’s the best part of taking a chance. Any chance. There is that little thrill that courses through our humanness right in that very second before we know that we have been dealt a bad hand or a good hand. Research has shown that this “thrill” is actually what compulsive gamblers are addicted to. It isn’t Winning that they are hooked on, otherwise they would walk away from the table when they have a nice high stack of chips sitting in front of them . . . it’s actually that feeling of not knowing whether they have won or lost that brings them back to the table.
This truly struck a chord of sublime resonance with me. I felt completely busted — in a good way. It made me realize that rather than ignore or abolish these stuck spots in my life, maybe it was time to use them, like throwing down kitty litter behind a spinning tire in the snow, to gain some new traction: in other words, re-write my Repetitive (and oftentimes boring) Statements into Rev-Up Statements.
Next, I re-wrote my rants with a positive spin that was designed to get me up and going again. No more Stuck Spots! Putting the positive spin on things required ACTION on my part. I had to visualize and implement alternatives to just spinning into a deeper and messier rut. The great news is that I felt empowered by my own personal recognition of This isn’t good anymore. I want different. I caught myself and verbally stopped myself from launching into Rant Mode. It felt great! And I am guessing that my friends and family think that it is pretty nice, too! There is nothing like a broken record to put someone to sleep. It generates white noise that blocks a lively conversation exchange from taking place. Friends and family, I am trying to exercise new awareness!
The great part? This process works! I have been catching myself as I spin myself deeper into some repetitive statement . . . and I have been stopping myself right there.
Numbers.
There is simply so much cool stuff going on there. Quantity vs. quality. Count vs. noncount. We think of a life — a count noun — and we count the number of lives on the planet. But when we think of our our own life? We think “in terms of wholes that can’t be cut up into pieces.” It’s one whole life. It’s my life! And like grass, rice, and money . . . we don’t actually cut our own life up into pieces . . . even when we think in terms of annual events such as birthdays and anniversaries. It’s all one big whole that we truly prefer not to relegate to the Noun Category of Count. We want to make it count in the ways that are important . . . not in some grammatical or statistical way.
My advice to self: Just live and give it your best in the moment. You’ve got this. While I appreciate the concepts of mindfulness and how important it is to be aware and to be positive, there is more. There is life as a noncount noun. It’s okay to count the little things as long as I remember the bigger picture. And sometimes it is so hard to keep sight of this enormous, huge, ginormous Universe of which I am but a tiny speck.
You’re at a party and you really don’t know anyone there. You came because someone from your professional networking group invited you. He tells you that it will be a great way to meet new people. You are doing your best to “mingle” and make polite conversation. On the inside you feel awkward and out of place and are wondering when you can make a move for the nearest exit.
The Unseen Words Project 