Becca – Page 4 – Modern Creative Life

May 24, 2016

Typical Tuesday: How We Live Our Days

Tuesday, seven o’clock. I wake to sunshine flooding the corners of my bedroom, laying stripes of warmth across the bed. What a relief after days of chill rain and gray skies. I’ve slept longer than usual, but I’m not unhappy about it because finally my body feels rested. I extricate myself from the bed, wiggle around two sleeping dogs and a husband just beginning to stir, and stretch my back for a moment before tackling the stairs to the first floor kitchen. While coffee brews, I empty the dishwasher; when it’s done, I carry two cups of steaming coffee upstairs on a small bamboo tray, just as I’ve done everyday for the past four years we’ve lived in this house.

An hour later – with coffee, reading, and journal writing under my belt – I’m ready for the day. During breakfast (vanilla yogurt with sliced banana and coconut granola) I check in on social media, trying to limit my time and avoid getting sucked down the many rabbit holes of posts, links, and comments.

I am only moderately successful.

Finally, tearing myself away from the interesting world of internet life, I get properly dressed and walk the dogs for about 30 minutes. I call it walking, but it’s more of an amble, with ridiculous amounts of time for stopping and sniffing. I’m resigned to this. My dogs are old, and our morning constitutional is the highlight of their day.

This is the way I start every day. It’s not only typical, it’s ritualistic, as necessary for me to complete as a pilot’s checklist in the cockpit before takeoff.

But the hours between 11 and 4 (after the dog walking and before dinner prep) loom large before me. It’s laughable to think that ten years ago a typical day was jam packed with office work, rehearsals, practicing at home, blog writing, book reading and reviewing, plus all the other details involved in homemaking, with scarcely a minute left over to do more than fall into bed exhausted at the end of it all.

During the past decade my daily life has changed drastically, been whittled away by choice and circumstance. Responsibilities have slipped away one by one, almost without my notice. I resigned from the office job I held for 15 years. I have no choral groups to accompany. I don’t sing in the church choir or even attend church at all. When my mother died two months ago my years of eldercare came to an end.

I read, I write, I practice the piano and I play handbells once a week. I walk dogs. I keep house.

Lack of time was a central theme in my writing from 10 years ago. Now, time occasionally weighs heavily on my hands. Do I feel guilty about this? Sometimes. It’s luxurious, my life – plenty of free time and the resources to do whatever I want with it. I’m certainly not bemoaning it – quite the opposite. I want to make sure I’m a good steward of this remarkable gift. So I worry and obsess a little in my morning journal writing about whether I’m doing all that I should be doing. I make mental lists for the day, lofty lists with goals and ambitions.

But most often I don’t complete them. I wander aimlessly around my house a lot. I gaze out the window.I sit on a bench under an umbrella of blossoming pear trees.

For years I was completely preoccupied with the Dailiness of Living. I’d organize my tasks, make to-do lists, formulate and prioritize in day planners and bullet journals. I’d tick off items one by one and move proudly on to the next.

Now, in these hours between 11 and 4, I’m learning to simply BE. It’s a gift – this ability to wake up each morning and pick and choose what I’ll do with the day, like items off the menu in a Chinese restaurant. One day I’ll choose an hour of reading, lunch with a friend, writing time in the afternoon, some work in the garden. Another it might be a bike ride into town, a stop at the library, and some piano practice before dinner.

Tuesday, four o’clock. The dogs wake from their own afternoon napping. We go out, maybe amble around the block again if the weather’s nice. I come inside and put a CD in the player (yes, I still have a CD player) while pulling together the ingredients for dinner. I might sip a glass of wine while it cooks and read my book, or scroll through social media feeds again to find out what everyone’s been up to during their busy day. By 6:00 Jim is home from work. We eat, clean up the kitchen, walk the dogs (again!), and relax with a favorite TV show before I take a hot bath and go to bed with my book. Maybe I’ll get 20 minutes of reading before my eyes close in sleep.

Simple days, with easy responsibilities. When I’m tempted to chide myself for being less productive than I should be, I remember these words from a wise friend: “Be gentle with yourself. Rest. Be. Grieving is work enough.” I’m trusting that what seems like a fallow period is a time of renewal and rejuvenation for whatever comes next.

The great Annie Dillard writes this: “How we live our days is, of course, how we live our lives.” I’m trying to live these days with gratitude and grace, mindful of the nourishment to be found in quiet, everyday moments and activities.

About the Author: Becca Rowan

Becca Rowan lives in Northville, Michigan with her husband and their two dogs. She is the author of Life in General, a book of personal and inspirational essays about the ways women navigate the passage into midlife. She is also a musician, and performs as a pianist and as a member of Classical Bells, a professional handbell ensemble. If she’s not writing or playing music you’ll likely find her out walking with the dogs or curled up on the couch reading with a cup of coffee (or glass of wine) close at hand. She loves to connect with readers at her blog, or on Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads.

May 15, 2016

An Invitation for You: Save the Date

Dear Friend,

Here’s what I’m dreaming about: A month or a week or even one day completely devoted to myself, a time for reflecting, creating, simply BEING.

Do you dream of that too?

So why don’t we do it? Why don’t we make ourselves a priority for a change? Why not put ourselves on the calendar?

I can imagine what you’re thinking. “I can’t take the time off work.” “Who would take the kids to school and soccer and dance and gymnastics?” “I’m right in the middle of a major project at work.” “My partner wouldn’t support that.”

I completely understand. I can come up with a hundred compelling reasons why I shouldn’t do it either. Still, that nagging whisper persists. I find myself dreaming about it when I’m cooking dinner, sitting in a meeting, or weeding the garden. I fantasize about getting away from the noise of everyday living and finding a way to be quiet for a while, free from all the distractions that become convenient ways ignore the call of my own heart.

Have you ever read the book called A Year By the Sea? In it, author Joan Anderson writes about taking an entire year for herself and moving to a remote cottage on Cape Cod. She was longing to be alone, to listen to the “myriad unheard longings, ideas, and plans” she had been ignoring. I feel those same longings stirring in my heart these days, but most often they get set aside for other things I make a priority.

But a entire year? That really is impossible for me. Even a week or a weekend could be a stretch.

But maybe, just maybe, I could manage ONE DAY.

What if I were to grab that calendar I’m so attached to, find one day within the next 30 days and write ME in big, bold letters right in the middle of that square? What if circled it, draw a heart and flowers around it, made it pretty and eye-catching, because that’s what this day is all about?

My goal for this special day will revolve around this question: What do I need more of in my daily living? Do I want to wander in the woods and soak up the sights and sounds of nature? Maybe my heart’s desire is as a block of quiet hours to plan a big writing project? It could be that I simply need uninterrupted time to think and relax, sit in a rocking chair and read a good book or listen to my favorite music.

Maybe I want all of the above.

Whatever I decide, I’ll need to gather my materials: good paper and pens, essential oils and candles, books, books, and more books, favorite foods and beverages, a playlist of inspiring music, my walking shoes, my camera. I want to turn off my phone (including the internet!) and limit every distraction.

When that day arrives, I’ll enter into it with a spirit of dedication and love. I’ll treat myself with all the tender loving care I bestow on others. I’ll take note of every thought and feeling during this day, of the things I accomplish and decide.

I’ll make plenty of space for my dreams to surface and shine.

Joseph Campbell wrote: “When one leaves certain social situations, moves into temporary loneliness, and then finds a few jewels, everything changes.” As much as I love my family and friends, as much as I value my daily life and routine, I feel a real need to carve out some space around them and move into some “temporary loneliness”. I know there are jewels to be found.

They just might transform my existence.

How about you, friend? Are you with me? Should we make some space for ourselves?

I can’t wait to hear what you think….

Love,

~Becca

If you’ve taken some time to make space for your creative self, consider sharing your experience with Modern Creative Life in an essay or poem. We’re accepting submissions for Issue 2: Nourishment.

About the Author: Becca Rowan

Becca Rowan is the author of Life in General, a book of personal and inspirational essays about the ways women navigate the passage into midlife. She is also a musician, and performs as a pianist and as a member of Classical Bells, a professional handbell ensemble. If she’s not writing or playing music you’ll likely find her out walking with the dogs or curled up on the couch reading with a cup of coffee (or glass of wine) close at hand. She loves to connect with readers at her blog, or on Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads.

May 1, 2016

Sunday Salon: At Play In A Creative Garden

Sitting here at my desk each morning I gaze out the second story window and watch the progress of spring. In the few weeks since my mother died, the once bare branches of trees lining our street have begun to sprout lacy green and white blossoms. The ornamental cherry tree is dressed in dark red leaves, and if I look closely I see the first hints of magenta blossoms that will soon explode into glorious full flower. To my right is the tulip magnolia with its elegant rose colored blossoms, swaying in the chill breeze.

The unfolding of spring signals nature’s insistence on what’s next, this brave and beautiful advancement into a new cycle of life that never falters but marches headlong into a new way of being. This spring, as every spring, it sweeps me into its embrace whether I’m ready or not. It pokes and prods me to uncover my own blossoming hopes and dreams, to step boldly and bravely into a new season of living.

Nature requires warm nights and gentle rains to
rejuvenate. I require nourishment as well, especially this spring as my heart copes with the empty space my mother’s death left behind. I feed my soul with art. I take solace in playing music with my friends in Classical Bells, for there I can think of nothing else but making the black dots on the page come alive through rhythm and harmony. I listen and react and move together with 14 other musicians as we weave notes together into song. I find comfort in reading and writing, losing myself in the stories of others, writing in my journal and shaping my own stories into some kind of cohesive whole. If I had doubts about my true nature, they were dispelled in the last 40 days: music and writing have worked magic in healing my grief.

Because I consider myself a writer and musician, words and music are the staples of my artistic diet. But I’m learning this spring to season the meal with a sprinkle of other creative pursuits. I carry my phone with me and play with photographs, aiming the viewfinder anywhere that catches my eye. I buy colored drawing pencils and blank sketch books and scribble without hesitation on their thick blank pages. I lug home mixing bowls and cake pans from my mother’s kitchen and try my hand at her favorite recipes, determined to replicate the taste and textures she created in the room that served as a sort of “studio” for her.

This creative play pushes aside those darkly ruminative thoughts that run through my brain on an endless loop. Instead, my time and effort is focused on making something, and this effort engages my spirit as well. So I allow these new buds to form and blossom as they will, without great concern for the end product, but simply playing with them, letting my creative nature take it’s course and being open to the possibility of what’s next as I nourish my spirit in this new creative garden.

About the Author: Becca Rowan

April 17, 2016

Sunday Salon: A Love Affair With Keyboards

My love affair with keyboards began in 1959. I was three years old when my dad brought home an old Remington manual typewriter that had been discarded from his office, and put it on a desk in our attic. Sitting atop a mound of pillows for height, I tapped away for hours – at first putting only gobbledygook on the page, but then beginning to craft words that led to sentences that led to stories. The writer in me was born at that keyboard.

But that same year, another keyboard entered my life, one that would turn out to be just as important in my creative future. A tinny little toy piano, with only 24 keys, every one of them I’m sure was painful to the ears of the adults in my family, but equally glorious sounding to mine. When my short stubby fingers weren’t busy on the smooth black keys of the Remington, they were pounding the “ivories” on that miniature upright.

As important as writing is to my creative well-being, music is the outlet for my emotions. I have always turned to the piano when I’m excited or in a celebratory mood, when I need a physical and mental challenge, when I want to lose myself in beautiful melodies and harmonies.

When I was a teenager, I spent many hours relieving typical teen girl angst by playing everything from Chopin Nocturnes to Simon and Garfunkle. Even now, when I’m troubled or sad, playing the piano is the ultimate healer.

Never have I been more aware of this than in the past month. On March 24, my mother died. Her loss has left such a deep void in my life it sometimes threatens to swallow me whole. A few days after her death, my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson Connor came to attend her funeral and spend a week with us. Connor, who has just started preschool, has recently fallen in love with his weekly music class. Called Music Together, it is a curriculum designed to foster children’s love of music as it brings together elements of song, story, and physical activities. Connor brought with him the CD of songs, and a music book complete with piano parts. He couldn’t wait for us to have “Music Time” together. We headed off to the piano, where he snuggled beside me on the bench, and we played and sang through all 25 songs in the book. This process became a daily ritual, sometimes even multiple times during the day. Whenever I asked Connor what he’d like to do for fun, “Music Time!” was always his enthusiastic answer.

In the ensuing hard days following my mother’s death, this little boy seemed to ken the way music could ease and soothe an aching heart. Some of the songs provoked laughter, while others brought tears. “Are you thinking about Mamoo ?” Connor asked once, when I couldn’t hide tears running down my cheek . The music touched places in both our hearts, lifted our spirits, and helped us forget our loss for a little while.

The act of making music engages the mind and the senses in a magical way. “Melody is an almost unconscious expression of the senses,” wrote composer Edward McDowell in his 1912 essay. “It translates feeling into sound. It is the natural outlet for sensation.”

Since my grandson went back home, my days seem long and lonely. I find myself wandering aimlessly through the house, lethargic, unable to focus. But then I remember the power of “music time” and wander over the piano. Through the fast-running scale passages of a Mozart Sonata, the precision of a Bach fugue, the gentle flow and intricate harmony of Debussy, I access the mystical union of sensation and intellect required to make music happen. My despair is lifted, and I walk away feeling easier in my soul.

“Music was my refuge,” Maya Angelou wrote. “I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.”

Here at my keyboard, I curl my back to loneliness and am comforted by melody, rhythm, and all the spaces between the notes where harmony and peace reside. It’s why my love affair with this keyboard will last my whole life long.

About Sunday Salon:

The Sunday Salon is a monthly column that explores the intersection of art and real life, looking at ways the creative arts inform, enhance, and invigorate our emotions, our intellect, and our experience of daily living.

About the Author: Becca Rowan

March 8, 2016

First Letter: March 8 , 2016

Dear Friend,

I am excited about our project of letter writing, of sharing our thoughts about this creative process that is so much a part of our lives. With our letters, we join a long history of other writers and artists who have used personal correspondence as a way to inspire and support one another.

I’m writing this letter early in the morning, in that fresh and open space right after waking up before the demands of daily living hijack my thoughts. This is what I want to tell you today.

Recently I had coffee with a friend – not a writing friend, but one who has always had kind things to say about my work. We talked of our lives, our families, our past experiences, some plans for the future. As we were finishing the last sips of coffee and wrapping winter scarves around our necks, she asked me this:

“What are you writing about now?”

I sighed heavily before I answered. “I’m not really writing at all,” I admitted. “I can’t seem to get anything on paper these days.”

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, before saying: “Well then, what do you think you might write about if you were writing?”

Such a good question.

If I were writing, I told her, I would write about how suddenly my world has become consumed with caring, of thinking about ways to physically and emotionally support the people in my life who are struggling with their health and well being. If I were writing, I might describe the ways my life has narrowed in the past 10 years, how much less I have and how much less I do, and how I am so very fine with all that. If I were writing, I would write about the ways technology has become a pervasive and disruptive presence in the world, how the noise from it hurts my ears, steals my attention, and fractures my time. If I were writing, I would relate my fears for this nation of ours, this America with its bold dreams and promises, and how this election year has revealed a dark underbelly to the place I’ve always been proud to call home.

But I am not writing. I am wondering – what do YOU do when suddenly the words don’t come? Do you feel as I do now – washed up, useless, spent?

Here’s the truth I know about myself: When the world is too much with me, it’s hard to find a way into the words, even if the words are the very thing that can save me.

I read something today, and found it helpful and insightful. It’s from a small book called Art & Fear, by David Bayles and Ted Orland. Maybe this idea will speak to you as well.

“The hardest part of art-making is living your life in such a way that your work gets done, over and over – and that means finding a host of practices that are just plain useful. The details of art-making we recognize tend to be hard-won practical working habits and recurrent bits of form we can repeatedly hang work on.”

Like Frederic Chopin and J.S. Bach, composers who wrote piece after piece in certain formulaic patterns – Chopin with his Mazurka’s and Waltzes, Bach with his Preludes and Fugues in each of the 24 keys – there are artists who know the value of having a familiar and successful place to start.

So maybe this is what I need. Instead of looking for a new thing to inspire or motivate me, instead I should be looking back at those “recurrent bits of form” that provided reliable gateways in the past.

Maybe “what’s next?” is really “what used to be” – the writing I made part of my daily routine in the past, but have abandoned lately in the midst of many upheavals in regular life: writing morning pages, religiously every day; writing blog posts, once or twice a week at least; putting good sentences in my ears with inspirational books. These are my Mazurka’s, my Preludes and Fugues. They bring me to the page, prime the creative pump, and start the well of words flowing.

And who knows? It may turn out that these very letters I’m writing to you will be something new to “hang work on” in the future.

“Over time, the life of a productive artist becomes filled with useful conventions and practical methods so that a string of finished pieces continues to appear at the surface. And in truly happy moments those artistic gestures move beyond simple procedure, and acquire an inherent aesthetic all their own. They are your artistic hearth and home…”

I like the idea of an “artistic hearth and home,” work I can return to time and again and where I feel comfortable and safe. I think we need those kinds of havens for work and for life, in order to muster the courage to go forward and try those things that feel risky and dangerous.

“The discovery of useful forms is precious,” write Bayles and Orland, “and once found they should never be abandoned for trivial reasons.” So here’s what I want to ask you, dear friend. What are your practical habits, your Mazurka’s and Preludes, your artistic hearth and home? Are you returning to them regularly, and letting them nourish you on your creative journey? I hope so.

Until next time,
Becca