Happy Tears, "The Gap," and Embracing Rudy
I’m clicker challenged. After my boy Max left for college, I'd phone him when Curtis was out of town. Not because I was lonely. Not because I missed him. Not to see what he was doing or how he was doing.
Max in Prescott, AZ (note the squatter behind him.)
But to ask how to play a movie (“Videos” we called them.)
I share this not to show what a heartless mother I was. But by way of an explanation as to why, from 10:30-midnight last night, I watched a football movie called “Rudy.*"
The only clicker I’ve mastered in our uber tech media system is the TV channel changer “Guide” button.
It was either Rudy, HGTV, Full House, Crime or Reality. Those were my choices. Faced with a pile of ironing and nursing a HGTV hangover, I opted for Rudy. By the final scene I was sniveling, slobbery, soggy mess of happy tears.
As I sniffled and dripped through the final credits, I found myself wishing it were replaying so I could watch it again. Which got me wondering:
“What about it made me so miserably, snottily, soggily happy?”
I’m Rudy. I'm not the 3rd of 14 children; dyslexic, or a 5'6" 165 lb. pip-squeak aspiring to play Notre Dame Football; nor would Sean Astin play me in a movie (I hope). But, when it comes to hopes and dreams, I’m Rudy.
“Everyone striving to do creative work—be that as a writer, artist, actor, et al—is a Rudy.”
Unless—UNTIL—we are recognized for our creative work, we are a Rudy. Every one of us is an underdog. We are the little engines they say “can’t.” We are too this; not enough that. We may be almost, but . . . We are wrong.
“And the biggest-baddest-hardest part of being a Rudy is that even after we are recognized for our creative work, we will still be Rudy.”
Because our appreciation for creative work is what draws us to do it, there is a disparity between our skill level and what we recognize as good—what Ira Glass calls “The Gap” in a vimeo of that title*. And because that drive to go farther, experiment, stretch is inherent to creators, our skill level will always chase our sense of taste, our appreciation. So while it can shrink, the Gap never goes away.
“We begin as Rudy, and unless we quit, we will finish as Rudy.”
That’s why watching Rudy brings on the Happy Tears. Because it is so darn hard, but that doesn't stop him. Rudy set a goal, fought his his way to it, and won.
He could. He did. So maybe we—all of us Rudys—can too!
So what’s a Rudy to do?
Here's Ira Glass's Advice on how to close the gap:
“ Do a lot of Work
Put Yourself on a Deadline
Know it takes a while
Fight your way through the doubts”
— Ira Glass from the vimeo (Link below)
Watch: Ira Glass on “The Gap”
Read: More about Rudy Ruettiger
LIsten: To the Rudy Theme Song.
Thanks for Reading!
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Twenty-Two and Counting . . .
Today, twenty-two years ago, my first day as Mrs. Bennett, was a scorching hot Tulsa Saturday. One of those hens be warned it's egg-frying HOT! Blistering feet HOT! Saturdays that are best spent waist-deep in a wallow.
Today, other than being Friday, I'm gardening same as I was then. Knowing it was going to be hot--what July 25th isn't?--in the garden was where I started today. Then, I started at the car wash because I hadn't let Curtis go through the car wash last night. Johnny B had helped the kids "Just Married" up his precious BMW with tin cans tied to the bumper, whipped cream signs and hearts on all the glass. (Traditionally folks use shaving cream, but Johnny is a restaurant dog.)
"It's bad luck to wash it the wedding day,' I told Curtis.
"it will stink like sour milk tomorrow if we don't," Curtis told me.
We compromised.
US back then, on our Honeymoon bike trip in the San Juan Islands
The morning after our wedding, I was in the garden digging up plants; this morning after our anniversary, I was in the garden planting plants. That was Tulsa; this is Westhampton Beach; that was then, this is now. Same song's wafting through the windows.
Chet Baker's "Funny, each time I fall in love/it's always you" is the song. "Let's Get Lost" is coming next. I know because this album (that's what we called them back then) followed by Handel's Water Music is the sound track of our courtship. It's the Cafe Ole' weekend morning music. We didn't meet at Cafe Ole' but that's where we found each other.
I ask Curtis if he picked that music on purpose, because he was remembering me waiting on him.
"If someone asked me 10 things that come to mind when I hear this music," he said, "You waiting tables in Cafe Ole' would not be one of them."
"Does it make you crave Ole' Hash or Huevos Rancheros?" I asked.
He shook his head. "It makes me want to make coffee," he answered. Transference?
Ours was a shotgun wedding of sorts. I'd been evicted from my house. I'd found another house to rent and had planned to move it, but Curtis--ever practical--and maybe, already, thinking marriage, decided why move twice--if I'd say yes."
We got married on a Friday at the Justice of Peace office in downtown Tulsa. "Which ceremony do you want" asked the JOP. We had a choice: The 3 minute quickie or 5 minute long "Ruth's Prayer" ceremony. We're only doing this once, we decided, let's make sure it sticks. So we opted for the long ceremony minus the Promises to "Obey" business.
Chelsie, several years older than she was back then. But she looks much the same then, back then, now . . . (this is from a dance recital.)
Lexi and Chelsie were flowers girls (we all had to have Laura Ashley flower girl dresses, of course),
Max was best man;
Barbara and Gene Johnson drove up from Houston to bear witness at our wedding as we had at theirs a few months earlier.
Max & Lexi with Barbara and Gene--back then! IThe photo is clear as a bell, it's our eyesight . . . don't see as well as we did back then. (Maybe it's a good thing?)
John, Joanne and Liz Kester were choir singers; Teri Fermo led the sing with "Going to the Chapel . . ." Everybody sang/everybody signed the certificate/everybody cheered. After, everybody feasted at McGill's Steak House--a celebration complete with flowers and cake courtesy of Barb and John. We have pictures--somewhere--Trinidad, Curtis's Mom's, Houston . . . one of those boxes.
Somewhere inside one of these pods on our driveway maybe. . .
That day, after I ccme in from the garden we finished packing up my household and moving it over to blend with Curtis. We found each other after both of us had moved away from Tulsa and returned having decided to stay.
But life doesn't always heed our decisions. After that came Houston, Indonesia, Trinidad to Westhampton Beach.
George called as I was coming in from the garden. "I'm on my way to your place with 4 guys," he tells me. "We're puling out your frigging big table today."
And so, 22 years later we're moving and unpacking again. Then across town; today across the driveway into our home.
Mixed in with the packing crates were several TV boxes Curtis has been saving. "Why does he have these?" George asked. "He keeps them to to repack the electronics when we move," I explained.
George yelled over to Curtis, "You're not moving again are you?"
Curtis laughed and said, "Hell, no!"
Twenty-two years, a day at a time, a month at a time, a box at a time, an adventure at a time... And Counting!
Whenever I roam through roses
And lately I often do
Funny, it's not a rose I touch
It's always you
Here's the link so you can have a listen: It's Always You, Chet Baker
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Why Paper Books?
“A paper book aids my concentration by offering to do nothing else but lie open in front of me, mute, until I rest my eyes upon it,”
I LOVE MY BOOKS!
“The question Isn’t what will books become in the world of electronic reading. The question is what will become of the readers we’ve been—quiet, thoughtful, patient, abstracted—in a world where interactive can be too temping to ignore.”
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A Pregnant Pause
As the millworkers sing in Carousel “June is bustin’ out all over…” Flowers are budding, birds are chirping, bees buzzing and as a recent grandmother to Ben,
Bennett experienced the wonders of Indepencence day: Parades, fireworks & watermelon!
Great aunt for the second time:
Welcome to the World Felicity Allain Smith, born June 9th, 2014.
And recently revealed gran-to-be:
Lexi & Ryan are expecting, their baby’s due the end of the year.
I have babies on the brain, literally and literate-ly.
They—Farmers in the know— say trees always produce best after a “hard” year (“hard” being either an especially cold winter or hot, dry summer). Which might be the reason for the largess . . . although I’m not questioning or complaining. Rather, I’m simply, joyfully, reveling…and pondering gestation:
Elephant gestation takes 547.9 – 669.6730 days (the longest period for mammals).
Salamanders—tiny as they are—about the same. And, considering it, size-for-size, mother discomfort, bulkiness, effort-wise, probably the same elephantian experience too.
Velvet worm—actually NOT a worm and NOT velvet—takes up to 456.553 days,
From conception to birth cat's gestation takes 58-65 days. (No wonder they're such hussies!)
Manatees 396 days on average.
Donkeys, "Jennys" 330-440 (with lots of variables), camels take 410ish.
Giraffes between 400-460, rhinos about the same, seals and sea lions: 330-350 days.
Whales and dolphins: 517.426 (on average with some sperm whales taking 578), humans: 268 days give or take . . .
As for novels??????
Cause for my literary revelry stems from a cluster of new books by writer friends. With one exception, all by classmates of mine from VCFA. As I have been there through all of these books since inception, in some cases offering a shoulder, always watching admiringly, I’ve declared myself “auntie” to them and as such entitled to muse:
Here are some of the Unreliable Narrators at VCFA last summer. B.R: Trinity, Cindy, Sarah, Barb, Cynthia; F.R: Tam, Kelly, Erin. I fully expect all to be published authors!
I’ll begin with the exceptional Russell J. Sanders, who I first met back in/around 2000 when he was a newly retired High School English/Theater teacher and wanna be author at Blue Willow Bookshop in Houston. Russell recently celebrated the birth of his second novel, which is garnering excellent reviews, Special Effects (Dreamspinner Press, 2014): More about Russell:
How long did Special Effects take from idea to sale?
About 2191.45 days . . .
Gestation: about 2191.45 days (with, as Russell noted “ some stops and starts”
Erin Moulton’s third novel came out this June. This being her third, one might think the whole “birthing a novel” thing would have lost its novelty for her. Maybe that’s why Erin “made things interesting” this year, but combining the birth of her newest novel, Chasing the Milky Way, with the birth of her first human baby, Tucker! Oh, yeah, and if that wasn’t excitement enough, timing it all to coincide with the date her new manuscript for her work in progress was due. More about Erin:
Gestation: It's a bit of a blurrrrrr
Jennifer Wolf Kam's path has been by award-hopping to publication! A 3-time finalist for the Katherine Paterson Prize for Young Adult and Children’s Writing, Jen first won publication of her ghost story, White House, in Hunger Mountain. Spectacularly, publication of her debut novel came as a result of writing 2 of 5 finalist in the NAESP 2013 Children’s Book Contest. More about Jen!
Gestation: 5 years: 1826.21 days
Sarah Tomp, author of my often lauded, put-it-back-in-print fav, The Red, White and Blue Goodbye, had a relatively easy time of it with her debut moonshine novel, My Best Everything, which “walks the line between toxic and intoxicating” The gestation time was only 1 1/2 years=547.9632996 days! More about Sarah:
Gestation: about 1 ½ years: 547.863298611 days
Tamera Ellis Smith, who’s writing credits include a first-person essay in BREAK THESE RULES: 35 YA Writers on Speaking Up, Standing Out, and Being Yourself, welcomes her debut novel Another Kind of Hurricane, August 2015. (Publication is scheduled to coincide with the 10th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.) Here's More about Tam!
So, Tam, how long did it take to write Another Kind of Hurricane?: Almost 9 years . . . 3287.18 days, with “A lot of starts and stops along the way. Sometimes big stops.”
Last but not least for this crop: Teresa Harris, author of the spunky picture book, Summer Jackson: Grown-Up, won two prizes (one for humor) for this novel-in-progress while we were still at VCFA.
Teresa's WIP, acquired by Clarion, is forthcoming (I could not find a pub date on the web.) So by my calculations, gestation time: 5.6 years=2045.36 days. However, if you count post-sale as gestation,* the interview announcing the sale was Feb of 2012 and Teresa’s book hasn’t been published yet, gestation's is ongoing. So make that 2921.94 and counting . . . More about Teresa
Why the disparity?
I like to think of it in shark terms. Sharks are K-selected reproducers, (as are, cats aside, the other animals noted above.) Rather than producing a large number of poorly developed offspring, “they produce a small number of well-developed young.” In this way offering their offspring the best possible chances of surviving. Additionally, in these animals, birth can be delayed depending on a variety of external pressures.
That’s why I’m thinking shark. Maybe it isn’t’ about how badly we want to publish . . . what brilliant writers we are . . . the fantastic story premise we’ve dreamed up . . . Or about everyone, anyone, our expectations. Maybe there are other forces beyond our control determining how long it takes.
““You can feel it in your heart/
You can see it in the ground/
You can see it in the trees/
You can smell it in the breeze/
Look around! Look around! Look around!””
* The question of whether a book is “gestating” in that time between being sold and publication is up for debate. Might this time be the equivalent of Novel neo-natal?--It certainly adds to the w-a-i-t-i-n-g t-i-m-e. . . tick-tock
Care to give a little listen?? JUNE IS BUSTIN' OUT ALL OVER on Utube
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Turned the Page
We wonder why we try to write, sometimes. Especially when the phrases aren't coming easily, the book contracts aren't forthcoming, or it's just one of those straight uphill days. If we're lucky something happens to make us realize why the struggle is worth it.
That something, this time, is what's happened to my mother.
My mom's been waiting to die for years. Not only waiting, wanting to die. It's no secret, you can ask anyone who knows her, even her. Why this time last year, with so much most anyone else would consider every reason to live--her grandaughter's upcoming wedding, a new great-grandson, two grandchildren's graduations and money enough to do whatever she wanted, and reasonably good health--mom said exactly that, not once, but several times. "I want to die." "I wish I were dead." She said it loudly and seriously enough that the staff at the assisted living reported it and therapy was ordered.
Mom doesn't get out much. Not that she can't. Or doesn't have opportunities. But she chooses not to. Days go by and she never leaves her apartment. Not even for meals. (Even though going to the dining room is a requirement in her Independent-Assisted Living facility). Mom's tried some of the activities. She's gone on some field trips, took art classes for a while, even played bingo for a spell (because her then boyfriend "Charlie" liked to play). But then, she started having bladder issues and despite what they say in the Depends commercials, her will to participate flew. And took with it, her will to live.
Then, someone got the brilliant idea to start a Book Club. The staff coerced--insisted-- mom attend.. Now, this isn't what you'd think of as the usual book club. Usually, book club members read the books on their own and then coming together for discussion. In this book club, members listen to a book. Why? Because most of the folks in the club can't see to read anymore. So, an hour at a time, once a week, they listen as one person reads a chapter or two, with occasional pauses to discuss parts that aren't clear or might be particularly interesting. They continue on this way until the book is finished. Unless the chapters are super short, at a chapter a week, it takes months to finish a book.
At first, specifically because working through a book was slow going, Mom wasn't keen on the book club. In fact, if Dana, the director, hadn't told Mom she had to participate in "something" or she would have to move out as this was not a nursing home--and even then, if they hadn't served snacks (cookies, cakes and coffee)--Mom probably would have quit. But then fate intervened by way of a novel entitled A Journal for Jordan.
Other than that it was an "Oprah Book", I have absolutely no clue idea what A Journal for Jordan is about. Or whether it's particualrly well written, or interesting, or not... All I know is that the young aide, the "designated reader" for the Book Club was having "a difficult time" reading some of the passages. "She kept mispronouncing words," Mom said.
What you may not know is: my mother is a retired teacher, a reading specialist, and an excellent reader. (Something the aide found out soon enough.) After being corrected a few too many times, the aide--perhaps in a slightly irritated voice--asked Mom, "Do you want to read the book?"
To her surprise, Mom said, "yes!"
Ever since, every week, Mom's been the designated "Reader" in the Book Club. Attendance in the Book Club is on the rise. (The other day "a man" join it!) Mom's become something of a celebrity in the Assisted Living, and best, there are plans afoot to increase club meetings to two-a-week.
The satisfaction Mom gets from reading to the other residents who can't read, and the praise they heap on her for her "lovely voice" and "excellent expressiveness" and "cheerful clothing" is what made the difference. It literally changed Mom's life! Not only doesn't Mom want to die anymore, she's got the club booklist . . . and her Book Club wardrobe planned out for quite some time to come.
Books can transform--save lives!
Cat Pause
I have loads to do and time to do it. But instead of getting to it, I’m circling like a cat.
Cat-like behavior makes sense, seeing as how I’m a Leo.
Maybe it is a Leo thing?
So I checked my horoscope:
Today’s reading said my “Creative Powers were the center of my world today” and told me to “Let loose and indulge my inner spirit!"
If this flibberty-gibbet, kangaroo bouncing from task to pile to job and back was my inner spirit trying to break free, then it must have been seriously bunged up. Is that why I’m circling?
“Knowledge is power!” I justified, and Googled it.
Apparently, I’m not the only one curious about this why do cat’s circle thing.
There were loads of postings posing the same question. The consensus seems to be that cats circling before they can settle is a throw back to wilder times:
“Wild cats not only tread down wild grass to find themselves a more comfortable spot to sleep; they must also carefully conceal themselves from predators in the wild.”
Armed with this new power. I took myself to task.
“Mind over matter!”
“You have the power!”
Do real lions, wild lions, Born Free type-lions circle?
I Googled that too. That search lead straight to The Lion King: Circle of Life
“Focus!”
Now hyper-aware of how I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t make myself do what I wanted to do, frenetic-fied the circling.
Was it that, in my cat’s mind:
- Towering Boxes=Tall Grass
- Saw Whirring, Hammering, Workers Gabbering=Predator noises
- Dust, Detritus, Mounded Mess=Wild
Que the Wee-Um-Um-A-Ways . . . Is that’s why I’m circling?
Circlers aren’t all cats, either. Some dogs do it too.
If you have a cure, please share it.
PLEASE?????
But don’t bother suggesting ear plugs, locking myself in the bathroom, going to the library, coffee shop, or snarfing tortilla chips in an effort to induce carb coma, because I’ve tried it!
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Mistakes-Retake-Delete-Discovery: Gifts in Unexpected Places
So, about my blog posting for today: I wrote it, pictures and all, then by mistake, I deleted it.
Or the Dog might have eaten it. I found this dog in Google. Maybe it spotted my blog post and ate it...could be why it looks like this?
But the idea for my blog post was still fresh and exciting, so I rewrote it, pushed save. Then decided to be clever and add another photo, but instead of clicking "save" I must have clicked "delete" somehow--although I can't think how I would have???? Anyway, it was gone again.
But this time, instead of trying to redo it, I tried to find it. One way the online advice said to recover a lost blog post is do do a Google Search. So I did. Following instructions, I typed in my name and what I could recall of the blog title: "Cinderella" something????
And made an amazing DISCOVERY:
The Google Search pulled up another Kelly Bennett's Blog--this one is a photographer. Curious: I began clicking through. And this Kelly Bennett, with her photos and her encouraging, inspiring words to a cheerleader girl in those photos, and a bandana pirate baby, and upbeat post about jello delighted me.
In hopes it will delight you, too. Because that's how these Gifts from Unexpected Places come, I've attached the link below:
Hope it inspires/feeds you what you need today. And, I hope you'll come back and view my blog again, soon. Who knows, by that time I may have found that missing slipper-er blog post. Or something better!
Here's the link if the hyperlink is on the blink: http://www.kellybennettphotography.com/blog/?cat=15
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Finding MY Way Back
Two things happened last week that smacked me down and left me wallowing in a murky pit of miserable. . .
Trinidad Mud Volcano kind of murky
- Flew back to Trinidad after a California Easter and a stop-over in New York with my family.
- Opened a letter from Candlewick Press saying my heart-project DAD AND POP was going out of print.
Then, email brought news of a third, tragic event that dwarfed any issues I might have: A friend’s husband died suddenly—no warning at all. One day he was here, all be it, feeling peckish; the next gone.
Knowledge of my friend’s loss made me recount my largess But, instead of snapping me out of it in that what-the-heck-are-you-moping-about-for-be-grateful-and-get-on-with-it way, the realization of how tenuous it was, how in an instant—any instant—I could lose all I hold dear, sank me.
A TED TALK saved me.
Completely unmotivated to even try to “Get over it, and get on with it,” as my friend Beverly always says, by doing something productive (say unpacking, cooking, or going for a walk), I’d pulled on my fuddiest wallowing clothes, plopped down in front of the computer, and gone Facebook surfing—which depressed me even more as every post seemed entirely too jolly, successful, oozing with cheer—so had moved onto email. As I subscribe to TED TALKS, new lecture notices are delivered to my email. I don’t always listen to each talk, but I think about it. Having reached the end of the new mail, I had a choice to make: sift through junk mail & spam or listen.
I've heard other TED TALKS by Elizabeth Gilbert and found them engaging
The TED TALK was by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love and recently The Signature of All Things. (As it happens, I’d recently finished the latter, which was pleasantly, surprisingly, nothing like the former—probably the reason I clicked “play” rather than “delete”.)
Gilbert’s talk was titled "Success, Failure, and the Drive to Keep Creating."
In the midst of her talk, Gilbert threw out the fully inflated life preserver I needed.
She described how extreme success and extreme failure feel the same to our sub-conscious. Although polar opposites, in terms of the havoc they wreck on us physiologically—both elicit extreme emotional responses—success and failure feel the same to our sub-conscious. They both have the ability to unbalance us, much the way one lemon too many on either side tips the scales.
Via my interpretation of Gilbert (Listen yourself for more) When we are dangling helplessly, from one end or the other of our balance poles there are two choices:
#1 Quit and just hang there until we fall
or
#2 Head down, eyes open, set a course for HOME and start walking/working our way back.
Simple really, right?
Sure. If you’ve got the ruby slippers, know how to use them, and where you want them to take you. . .
But, before we can fight our way back HOME, we must discover/uncover/recognize:
What is HOME?
For Dorothy, it took a tornado; for me a TED TALK.
“Your home is whatever in this world you love more than you love yourself.”
That’s why I was so miserable. My Home, that to which I as Gilbert defines it “Can dedicate [my] energies with such singular devotion that the ultimate results become inconsequential" is comprised of two things: my family and my work. In the past week, I’ve registered both success and failure. And my friend’s loss was a threat reminder of how easy it is to lose one’s HOME.
All I wanna do is find my way back. . . Way Back into Love from Music & Lyrics
One wrong wind is all it take. . .
For me finding my way back HOME, meant scheduling time with my family. And, even though I didn't have the energy for it--getting back to writing.
Dang in Elizabeth-baby wasn’t right! It didn’t take long before I began feeling more centered. I knew it for sure when, part way into this blog, a song popped into my head. I'm not in tune--yet--but at least I’m singing again.
Where’s your HOME? Could you find your way back?
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