Pieces of the puzzle

[vaneramos]

Today I received some gifts from the cosmos. One of them was insight about my difficult writing process. The other was a trove of memories, unexpectedly recovered.

Part of the reason this writing project hurts is because I feel unprepared. Forcing myself to write anyway brings the project into sharper focus. As I work I remember other things I have written—articles, essays, poems and journal entries—that fit the narrative; I recall memories I have never written down; I get ideas for chapters I have already written; I recall relevant books and articles I have read, and recognize new ideas I need to research. It's like opening a 1,000 piece puzzle, dumping the box and trying to figure out where to begin.



With a puzzle you just start flipping over the pieces and looking for the ones with straight edges or distinctive colours and patterns. Writing this manuscript is like that: I have to keep going, no matter how tedious it seems. At the end of 12 chapters, I will only have a bare framework, like the outside edge of the puzzle put together. I will not be satisfied with the product. But by then I will know what themes I want to develop, how I want the final narrative to flow, what research I still need to do.

Sometimes the words going down on the page seem stupid and vacuous. But I know that if I stop writing, the pieces will stop coming together. That's why I have to keep slogging, one chapter at a time, forcing them out. It puts me into higher awareness, in which I am obsessed with the book instead of the petty worries of everyday life.

Solitude is becoming even more important. Last night Chas asked if I wanted to go to Toronto, but I had to say no. This afternoon Sylvie called to see if I wanted to get together, but I had to work. I need loads of time late in the day when my brain is most functional. Sylvie is an artist; she understands. That's why we're such good friends. At the same time, part of me resents having to lock myself up this way. I see myself becoming more distant, distracted and forgetful than ever, but eccentricity is the price of getting serious about my work. And my social life is becoming a carrot I hold ahead of myself, a reward for finishing difficult tasks.

On Monday I did some writing downtown, then walked down the street to catch the bus home. I noticed chimney swifts wheeling and chattering in the air overhead, between the stone faces of buildings. In my normal state of mind I wouldn't have noticed them; I would have been distracted by people passing on the sidewalk. This writing process has tuned my senses to nature more than ever. I'm looking for ideas.

If I were writing about city people, I would pay attention to them instead.

It is a lonely beautiful head space, like the top of a mountain.



Now let me get to what happened today.



The other day missprune suggested I write a book about my pet cedar waxwing It wasn't a new idea to me, but one which I have (reluctantly) rejected because I can't remember enough about that part of my life. But something happened today in the park that showed me the memories are still alive waiting to be excavated.

After talking to Sylvie, I packed my notebook, pen and copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek into my bag and hobbled down the street. It is years since I did real leg exercises, so yesterday's workout is taking its toll. I wanted to hike down Lilac Lane, but that was too far for my feet today.

Near the end of my street, someone had hauled a park bench down to the river. It was the perfect place for me to settle down and work for a couple hours. That's what I figured I would need. I sat down and wrote for half an hour, pumping out another 500 words for chapter 2 (1 and 12 are done).

I had finished a passage when a robin landed in the shallow water in front of me. He began bathing.

With that, a flood of memories came. Memories which had been lost.

It was time to stop working on chapter 2. I flipped to an empty page.

I remembered the first time Bandit took a bath; we were so surprised and delighted. He would land in a bowl of shallow water. He would dip forward: "I'm a little teapot, short and stout." With a quick movement he would dunk his face and flutter his wings, flicking water over his back, drenching his entire body and anyone else who happened to be standing near. It required his most intense concentration. The little bird could hardly be disturbed from this ritual.

The same was true of sunbathing. Sometimes he liked to land in a bright patch of warm light. He would spread his wings to catch the heat and incline his head slightly, peering upward as if mesmerized by the sun.

He would do it under lamplight, too.

Often I took Bandit upstairs to my bedroom. He would ride my finger partway up, then get impatient and take off, flying ahead of me into the room. He loved to play around while I did homework. He would spend hours picking hairs out of the rug. Eventually, growing tired and lonely, he would come and perch on my shoulder.

I had a high-intensity desk lamp. Bandit liked to land in the pool of light it shed. There he would assume his sunbathing position. With wings gracefully spread and head slightly cocked, he looked like small brown elf practicing tae kwon do. From deep in his little syrinx he would utter soft, almost imperceptible whistles.

The instinct was so strong, sometimes all I had to do was shine a light on him and he would assume the position. It was as if bright light held magical power over him.

I have never observed birds doing this in nature, but apparently they do. In fact they like to spread their wings in a warm dust bath and let ants climb over their feathers, removing parasites.

Today, the robin was almost as imperturbable as Bandit. He stayed in the shallow water for several minutes, dipping and splashing every four or five seconds.

This behaviour must be entirely instinctive. Bandit needed no teacher. A bird's life depends on its feathers staying clean and healthy.

The robin kept one eye on me sitting on the park bench nearby. The feathers of his crown were wet and dishevelled, his eye bright and watchful. Two children cycled by, but he kept at his chore. Finally, two women came jogging along the path and their sharp "Trudge, trudge!" alerted him. Clean enough for one day, he fluttered up to a branch, shedding droplets, flashing two white tail spots.



A moment later, after he flew away, I heard a single cedar waxwing whistle in the woods across the river. I finished writing, picked up my notebook and walked home, tears barely contained behind my eyes.

In Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard says, "I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam." That is how we learn to see things, by opening our lives to the possibility of seeing.

To that I would add that I cannot receive inspiration unless I put myself in its path, sitting by the river with a notebook open in my lap and a fountain pen in hand.

Today the robin gave me a gift of memories recovered. They have been obscured by too much unhappiness. Writing means having the courage to face it all from a place of strength so I can retrieve what is beautiful. That is part of the puzzle, too.

So is LJ, this new community of talented writers and sexy devils, encouraging me.

Comments

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

No, he was never caged. The summer that we found him, we had a sunporch under construction. It was complete by the time he learned to fly. Instead of ripping out the former screen doors across the front of the living room, my parents decided to leave them in place so we could close the porch and protect the bird from our cats. It was full of houseplants and he seemed happy there most of the time. The joke was, he was the bird with a $15,000 cage. However he was extremely gregarious and didn't like being left alone. We ate all our meals in his room. We let him fly around the house when the cats were outside.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

BTW, I don't know that reference. I'll have to look it up sometime. The cedar waxwing is an American species, but has a close Eurasian relative, the Bohemian waxwing, which we sometimes see here in the winter.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Oh dear, another P.S.

Did you see the other picture of bandit in my previous post? It is much better. You will also find links to some longer articles I wrote about him several years ago, in case you want to read more. I doubt that, after my verbosity today.

[bitterlawngnome.livejournal.com]

The way you feel about your bird, I feel about plants - they were my pets, and, if you will, friends when I was young. Being around plants I know is like being with friends, and discovering new ones is like finding new friends. They have favourite habits, and moods (believe it or not!), just much slower than animals & birds.

Or maybe I'm just crazy :)

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

I suppose I get emotional about animals because I have always had them around. And as a writer, I find it easier to appeal to people with animal stories than plant stories.

But honestly I am more of a plant person than an animal person. For me, since I don't have a garden now, the bond is with native plants I find on my rambles here in Guelph or around the cottage. I was thrilled to identify a new shrub (for me), leatherwood, growing in the woods along the river here several years ago, and when I found winterberry near my cottage property. Maybe I don't form the same emotional attachment as you do.

My deepest bonds are with the elements themselves, of which the soil is part. Being a water person, my deepest bond is with the river and lake. These are the body of the great earth herself, and the plants are her fairest children. To me the elements are not conscious, supernatural beings, but physical entities. I personify them because I like symbols.

Plants on the other hand are living organisms. I like the way you perceive them.

[ruralrob.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you brought up the cedar waxwing story again, because I meant to comment when you last wrote about "Bandit" but I soemhow got sidetracked.

That was such an interesting story, particularly as I'm very fond of these birds. We don't see them all that much here except in winter when large flocks of them stay for a few days and gorge on the fruit of that ornamental cherry or crab apple Ive been talking about lately. Quite a convergence of circumstances - my tree in full bloom and featured here on LJ and your mention of the cedar waxwing.....

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

They sure love those fruit trees in winter. Bandit was spoiled, though, and lived mostly on green grapes.

[lotuspoet.livejournal.com]

First of all your pictures are exquisite. Second of all your writing really draws me in and makes me want to keep reading. That's the sign of a great writer to me. I too love animals and love to watch birds. My BF asked me if I think birds go flying sometimes just for the fun of it and not to hunt or do thier normal bird-y things. I said I think they probably do because all other species have thier form of play. (ex. cheetas, lions, elephants, bears, wolves etc.) So why not birds? You story proved to me that birds are much more intellegent than most humans give them credit for.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

He certainly had personality!

I'm glad you enjoyed reading this so much. I really appreciate the encouragement right now.

[avad.livejournal.com]

Beautiful story! and thank you for posting the pic of the bench...it lets me enter the day so well! Have you read Dillard's The Writing Life? I am a visual artist but of course much of the feeling applies. But for you, I would think tenfold!:)

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

My friend who is known in this journal as Duncan/Chas loaned me The Writing Life years ago and I enjoyed it, but wasn't completely ready for it. The author who finally got me going with a writing practice was Julia Cameron, but Natalie Goldberg got me excited about it. I have my own copy of Dillard's book now; prolly time for me to reread it.