In the few quiet moments this week, I find myself …
I was going to continue that sentence, but the pen in my hand simply hovered over the page, stopped by I don’t know what… And unlike me, I heeded the pause. Finally, I decided—a period after ‘myself’ was the best end to that sentence.
IN THE QUIET MOMENTS, I FIND MYSELF.
That was the message I needed to write—to me, for me. (And maybe for you too?)
I like to think I’m a generous person, and I also need to remember that I have more to give when I feel grounded, solid, and strong—in myself. That in this quiet moment those words unspooled on the page feels like a huge gift. And I am grateful for it. I hope I remember to carry it with me every single day.
So, I give thanks, for so much that is good in my life, and in the world. And I hold hope, because I choose to hope, rather than to despair, at least in this moment—for more good, for more love, for more peace—in myself, and in the world.
In whatever way you want, or need, to answer—WHERE/HOW DO YOU FIND YOURSELF?
[For my non-geological readers—gneiss is pronounced nice]
In March of 2019, during my term as the Richard H. Jahns Lecturer, I had the honor of speaking at the Seattle Science Center for their Science in the City series. The Q&A following my talk wound up with a girl of about 12 years asking, “What rock would you describe yourself as?”
Most of my Jahns presentations were given at Geology Departments at colleges and universities where students asked about technical aspects of the work or the logistics of jobs in our profession. To say I was not prepared for the girl’s question that evening would be an understatement. But what geologist wouldn’t love a question like that? I took a moment, took a breath, then said, “Gneiss.” After pausing to enjoy the ripple of laughter from the audience, I elaborated.
Although I do hope that at least a few people consider me nice, that wasn’t why I chose it. A metamorphic rock, gneiss is formed when another rock is recrystallized due to intense heat and pressure. Metamorphosis is a process of transformation. I like to think that I, and my life, have been transformed by the heat and pressure withstood over my lifetime. It’s a metaphor, of course, for no human could survive the conditions that recrystallize stone, but there are times I wonder how we survive the conditions that confront us day to day, year to year. Yet, so often we do.
And like gneisses—varied in composition and color, often beautiful, with minerals aligned in bands, sometimes straight and sometimes contorted—our lives may be metamorphosed into complex structures, layered in light and dark, sparkling in certain light. I also like to think that the components of my life—my home, my sailboat, my work, my volunteer activities, what I eat, how I dress, the car I drive, how I spend my time and money, in sum, my values—like the minerals that form gneiss, have been arranged and rearranged as stresses have acted on me.
We don’t always get to choose what precipitates our metamorphoses, but like rocks transformed at depth whose minerals gleam when unearthed, we too can shine, having recrystallized into who we are now, knowing that we can only be that for the heat and pressure we have endured. Our stories, geological or human, shape us.
Today, a dear friend told me of a metamorphic event that is occurring in her life. Already strong and beautiful, I know she will persevere. And I trust she will emerge, transformed, in some way different than she began, but no less exquisite, and maybe more so.
It is a gneiss life, indeed.
But maybe you would choose a different rock, for a different reason, and so I ask:
I’m not sure why the simplest joys in my life, some very present and others in memory, are what I am reflecting on today, perhaps because there is so much that is complex and troubling to read and think about in the wider world right now. I often write of balancing thoughts and feelings—like connecting with gratitude for my personal and professional life, while acknowledging deep concern, even terror, for what is churning worldwide. And though these joys may be simple ones, some are, or were, not at all easy to come by. Feeling able to savor them is, indeed, a gift.
So here’s a partial list of simple joys I woke feeling the urge to scribble down this morning:
The love of the best dogs (well, they were MY best dogs)
Gazing upon the Sandia Mountains each morning the moment I open my eyes
All the time I get to spend in nature
Waking up healthy, if a bit more creaky than in my younger years, and still being able to touch my toes
Having a sturdy brace that allows me to continue backpacking despite a torn-up left knee
Birds (especially those that grace me with their presence, and songs, here in the desert and on the boat)
Swirling in self-doubt for a day, instead of a month or a year (thanks to insightful therapists)
Family who are friends and friends who are (chosen) family
Love, period
On this complicated day, what are some of your simple joys?
For this writer, the last leg of the long journey to getting my first novel into readers’ hands has begun. NO MORE EMPTY SPACES will be published by She Writes Press on April 9, 2024. Pretty exciting!
What’s also exciting is that it’s available NOW for pre-order wherever fine books are sold. As a staunch supporter of local independent booksellers, I encourage you to pre-order yours from your favorite indie bookstore.
Here’s a link to NO MORE EMPTY SPACES at Bookworks, my favorite indie bookstore (it’s been my favorite for decades, and I liked it so much that I went from a bookseller there to a partner in 2023). If you don’t happen to live in Albuquerque, no worries, they can ship it anywhere in the U.S.
If you prefer, you can also order it through Bookshop, an online shopping platform that supports local independent bookstores across the U.S. Don’t forget to “Choose a Bookstore” when you order.
About NO MORE EMPTY SPACES:
New Jersey, 1973, and Will Ross discovers that his three children are not being cared for by his ex-wife, whose escalating alcoholism has rendered her unable to parent. He’s just landed an exciting new job in Turkey; he’ll work as a geologist on the troubled construction of a dam in the remote, rugged, and beautiful Anatolian mountain region. Determined to get to Turkey, yet also protect his children, Will takes the kids along for what they think is their customary two-week stint of shared custody. He doesn’t share that he has no plans to send them home.
So begins this novel—part-adventure, part-geological tale, part-travelogue, part-family saga—a gripping, heart-rending story about the forces we can control, and those we can’t.
It was 2:52 a.m. and I was lying awake, orchestrating the next three days and seven hours (roughly the time between then and when we would pull into the ferry line). I was planning, hour by hour, the time I had to finish getting my sailboat, Kagán, put to bed for her winter slumber. Since it’s dewy in the mornings, I would clean the fridge and do laundry until the cockpit enclosure dried the next day, at which point we would take it down. The day after, pack suitcases until the boat dried out, then put the cover on. The minute-by-minute organizing felt like quite the contrast to going with the flow, as we did so much of this sailing season.
This life in two places is a balancing act. It gets pretty tippy at the transitions from one place to the other. Like now. And it all seems to go better with a good plan.
It was also a balancing act, that night—let go and sleep, snuggled and warm in Kagán’s v-berth or switch the light on, pull a sweatshirt over my head, and grab a pen and notebook in order to not lose the words that had started forming these very sentences (knowing they would elude me in the morning, if I didn’t)?
Plan or play? Consistency or spontaneity? I am so fortunate, and grateful, that these are the balancing acts I get to live these days.
Speaking of consistency, since August, I have been posting my ramblings on the 10th and 25th of the month. Two months is not a long run, I know, but being consistent starts somewhere. The plan is to continue, and I feel determined.
As I also discovered in the wee hours that morning, when the words come spontaneously, I should capture them, even if it would be easier to turn over and tug the covers up to my chin. By 3:20 a.m. that late summer night, I decided I had scribbled enough. It was time to turn the light out and let Kagán’s gentle motion rock me back to sleep.
When I woke the next day, plan in hand, I let myself savor a steaming cup of green tea before clicking my (metaphorical) stopwatch on with its countdown to the ferry. After all, there are pluses and minuses to both planning and playing, consistency and spontaneity. I’d like to maximize the plus side of my ongoing balancing act.
Geologists study the earth and the processes that shape it. Writers study the human heart and the processes that shape it. The GeologistWriter builds a bridge between the two. Come across it with me!
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