Dilettante Life – A Writer's Space
Observing Life & Sharing Experiences
I sigh when things are done. No more to do. It’s over.
I sigh when things go wrong. What can I do now? Let me think.
I sigh when I’m happy. So many possibilities. Can it get any better?
I sigh when I’m completely frustrated. Where do I turn?
I sigh with delight. My love brings me to happy tears. Laughter soon follows.
I sigh with the weight of the world. So tired at the end of the day.
I sigh to feel my own breath. To feel that I’m alive.
I sigh.
Have dinner with friends.
Their stories are your story.
Feel the air of contentment
when you listen with your
heart.
Sip from the cup of gratitude
knowing the connection is
real. Get drunk on the
satisfaction that they have
your back. Laugh until the tears
flow.
Toast to the simple day,
knowing that things can be
complicated. Waste not
a moment for life is
sweet.
Hug them like you’ll never
see them again. Honor them
like you will see them often.
Share a meal, and eat every
morsel of their life, their story,
for it is fleeting and
delicious.
Savor each course, and each
conversation, knowing
their words are love…
knowing your relationship
will grow with each day.
Have dinner with friends.
They say write about what you know. I don’t know what I know. I guess I can do laundry, fly an excel sheet, take care of a dog, raise two children, chew gum and walk, give up smoking, take up vaping, kill a bottle of wine, knit a sweater, take out the trash (if I have to), almost balance a check book, recite lines from a movie, walk like a chicken, sing badly, play solitaire, half read a book, edit video, send an email and attempt to “dress for success” (not usually done well). Are any of these things worth writing about?
Instead, I sit at the keyboard trying to dream up an interesting topic. Find one thing that makes you want to keep reading. Are you still with me? Good. I’ll take baby steps to figure out where I’m going with this. Kick around a few ideas. Do you want to see me walk like a chicken? Probably not. Can I interest you in a spreadsheet demo? No. Maybe some dog tricks? I’m at a loss, as I fidget and scratch my back with a pencil, wondering what to put on this blank screen.
Here I sit in the glow of the computer. The 11 o’clock news is on in the background, with the dramatic music to make everything seem urgent. The dog lies at my feet, breathing heavy, ready for bed. My laundry basket sits in a dim corner of the bathroom, overflowing with a hint of yesterday’s odors. I take deep drags from the vape blowing out stress and anxiety, thinking about what needs to be done tomorrow. I know, I’ll make a list, YES a list!
Not like a “bucket list”, but much simpler. You know, take notice of how I do things, and try not to do them anymore. Live in the moment as they say. Do all the usual stuff, but do it differently, better. I will think of it as a “don’t” list.
Here goes:
My eyes are drooping so I have to go to bed now. This life of mine, like most, is made up of small pieces that have made me the person I have become. Sure, I can walk like a chicken and work a spreadsheet, but how can I be a better friend, daughter, Mom? More important questions. Will people think of me as negative if I feel guilty about the ice cream or too busy to talk to a neighbor, or have a bad body image? Maybe they won’t even notice.
I finally know that I have to work my “list” in a positive, thoughtful way to make my journey one of love, generosity and faith.
“Time for bed McDermott. Do you want a treat?”
Writing is solitary work for the most part. An idea strikes – or a deadline – and you withdraw to some quiet place to wrestle it onto the page. You’ve spent an hour or five in the echo chamber of your own mind, often beset by the mean rantings of the inner critic: no one cares, this has been done before and by better people, you’re a fraud/sham/loser, etc. etc. You know the drill. It takes boatloads of courage, self-mastery, and determination to complete a project, much less share it with the world.
At the same time, it’s exhilarating, it’s brilliant, and yes, it’s fun. You’ve invented a world. You’ve pulled a rabbit out of a hat. You’ve danced with the Muse and you’re high on inspiration. It’s a thrill! But just like those terrible self-attacking low points, these joyful, mighty, soaring times are experienced alone.
And that is why we need the company and friendship of other writers.
There is not ONE writer who has not experienced these peaks and valleys. They have faced their inner tigers and lived to tell the tale (quite literally!). They know what it is like to rev themselves up to get started, to inject energy and purpose into the boggy middle, and to stay the course with stamina and guts to cross the finish line. Their stories, their encouragement, their understanding, all of this is food and drink to you, just as yours is to them.
Some people complain that writers compete and can’t be trusted. This has not been my experience at all. For one thing, no one is writing the same thing, so there really is nothing to compete about. Even if we’re both poets, our visions, our approaches, and our goals are different; we may be walking the same general road, but we’re not walking it in the same way. But even more than that, I have come to believe that most people love to share a good thing – and writing is a very good thing. It’s a source of joy and self-discovery, of connection and meaning, and most of us want to see even more of that in the world.
This morning, I was very fortunate to speak with two writers face to face. We chatted about what’s important to us, what challenges us, and how and why we keep going. It was nourishing and inspiring. (Thank you, Jo and Kayla!). I came away from the conversation happy and eager to get cracking on my new book.
I want to live in a world of creative kindness, excitement, and inspiration and I know you do, too. It’s a blessing to belong, to speak the same language, to cheer and be cheered on. And so I say: Writers, let’s be friends.
Poem by Portia Nelson from the book “Life is Messy” by Matthew Kelly
I I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost...I am helpless. It isn't my fault. It takes me forever to find a way out. II I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I am in the same place but, it isn't my fault. It still takes a long time to get out. III I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in...it's a habit. My eyes are open I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately. IV I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it. V I walk down another street.
I fancy myself a wine enthusiast, a drinker, a partaker if you will. Yes, I drink to an uncertain excess if the truth be told, but just shy of drunkenness. I hate to be drunk and avoid it at most costs, but it happens on occasion regretfully. I come from a family of non-drinkers, so I’m the unnamed black sheep. I usually sit with my family drinking wine, while they have their tea. Eyebrows are raised, silence ensues as I pour my first glass. My wine bottle gets cracked open at cocktail hour like clockwork. Six o’clock on Thursday and Friday, if I’m not working that night, and 4 or 5 o’clock on the weekend days. I have my standards. I try not to drink during the week, but Thursday is close enough to the weekend to count.
“Are you a wino” my mother asks with an accusatory tone, as I stand in her kitchen. My only response is simple and quiet, “Perhaps I am mother. Perhaps I am.” What can I say?!? “Yes mother, I drink to make you miserable” is what she may want to hear, but it’s not true. I drink because I enjoy it. I like the taste, the smell, the feeling. I think she envisions me as the loveable “wino” character Otis in the Andy Griffith Show; disheveled, falling down, slurring words – a person to be embarrassed of. I think it’s the idea that her daughter could be “a drunk” that really disturbs her. I am nothing of the sort.
Most of my friends end their day with a wine or two. I have no judgement. However, I found a few years ago, that drinking wine during the week effected my ability to concentrate and focus the next day. So, I changed it up and only drinking on weekends, with the exception of special occasions, holidays and vacations. Sipping wine while I knit, watch TV or chat with a friend is a great pleasure. I am relaxed and happy to share my time and my life.
I write this after having a bottle of wine, no effects of a wine stupor. I am not drunk. Why is there such a stigma around enjoying wine or alcohol? Why must I justify my actions to those who do not like alcohol or those who don’t drink it? Explaining why I drink wine reeks of insecurity and self-doubt. I can’t do that. Is it not possible to partake without being seen as having a “problem?” I think so. But, for many, the perception is that one drink is too much. Is one cookie too much, is one bowl of ice cream too much? Where are these invisible standards that we must adhere to? Who makes up the rules?
People know what works for them, so let’s live and let live. Perhaps we should.
Cheers.
Jo McLaughlin
Jo is a media professional working in Massachusetts. She is the founder of Dilettante life, and the co-host of the podcast Dipstitch (dipstitch.net, available on Spotify and Apple podcasts). She enjoys writing for Dilettante Life observing life and sharing experiences.
I went home to a place I’ve never been. Mountains confronted the sea, with only small cottages dividing the two. Roads were narrow with sheep crossing, slowing the pace of a racing mind. Passing a sign that said, “Amazing Grace Country”
didn’t do the landscape justice. The dewey air and the dramatic clouds loomed over you, up and over a mountain gap, winding and forbidden. The village below a world away, covered in drizzle and filtered light. Quiet and content.
From afar, white dotted meadows speak another language. The bleeting is absorbed into your subconscious like music you can’t get out of your head. Tractors bounce through the country roads looking like they have no place to go. The terrain is rocky and rough, smelling like an earthen musk with hints of heartache. She lost so many to America.
All of my grandparents wanted to leave the lovely fields. Poverty was a shadow
that walked next to them every waking hour. A better life seemed possible, seemed
real. I walked the damp fields, feeling happy that I was able to marry stories
of childhood with this place. A true connection was born, not imagined. My
mind and body finally followed my ancestors, who had been waiting for me to
come home.
Ireland.
I have a List.
It’s not an extensive to-do, just a large purple post-it with that sits next to my computer. Sometimes it’s pretty full. I would feel like a superstar if I could get it all done. I have a pencil next to it to scratch off things that have been conquered. Important things have stars next to them, some items have question marks, and some are faded scratches that I can’t make out. Unfortunately, today only 3 things have been scratched off.
There are things that linger for weeks, at least it seems. They perpetually get copied from one List over to a new List for another day. The one thing that’s always on there is “back up computer”. I don’t know about you, but this always gets pushed to another day. How hard is it to back up a computer? In my nightmares, it never gets done, and my computer crashes. I think I might do that today, not sure.
I’m trying to be productive, be that model employee who’s on top of things. Well, I do make some progress, but it screams at me, “research authors”, “clean studio”, and “upload programs”. These things I might not get to today. They’re important enough to get on the List, but there’s no star next to them.
As I work, new emails flash in front of my eyes. “Oh, a sale at Wayfair, oh new yarns at WEBS, oh Amazon recommends something.” Just a quick look at the emails. I happily order a few new things for myself, which are not on the List, and go back to the financial report. Emails are a killer life and List distraction.
I wonder, am I really a List person? As I look around me, my List is covered with files and mail. I’ll have to unbury it to get started again. The mess is familiar, and almost comforting, but highly unproductive. Should I abandon the List for the quiet chaos I’m so familiar with? No, I’ve been there. Using a List has brought some important change in my life. I have become more focused, more organized and more productive. I think I’ll move the mail and files now.
I need my List to be the person I want to be.
The days are getting longer by
seconds, but the air remains Cold.
Wool has become my best friend.
Exhaled clouds surround my head,
and trap my thoughts in mid air
drifting high above the Cold ground.
Do I curse the winter? Or do I gently
wrap myself up in layers of hope and
longing? Waiting for early sunshine
and chirping birds.
Enjoy the sight of glittering snowy hills.
Delight in the fresh cold air kissing your
face. Be your own sunshine.
The Cold is only here for a moment.
Bath in all that the season offers, for it
is fleeting. Many Cold days will lead to
more warm days, then quickly back.
Your time is limited, let the Cold sink
in, let it be a player, let it breathe life
into your heart.
Make the Cold your “Bitch”.
