Five Years a Writer

The other day while driving around doing errands, I found myself yelling at the radio. The next guest was going to regale us lucky listeners with stories of his year-long travel to 52 countries around the world “and what he learned by stepping out of his comfort zone.” While I did listen to the segment (and enjoyed it) I first yelled at the radio: Stop telling me to get out of my comfort zone! I am quite happy in mine! There’s nothing wrong with my comfort zone! I’ve worked hard to reach this place! Since that moment of radio rage, I have wondered about my response to the suggestion that getting out of one’s comfort zone is a good thing. Was I protesting too much? Being defensive without sound reason? Hurling metaphorical sour grapes at the radio, the show’s host and the show’s guest? In the cold light of this morning, I don’t think so. One dictionary describes ‘comfort zone’ as “a place or situation where one feels safe or at ease and without stress”. Another says it is “a situation ...

Water feature with tomatoes in background My world is more “good enough” than it is airbrushed Instagram. While I love scrolling through endless photos and reels of perfect gardens , beautifully presented food , and well behaved canoe-riding cats , I live in unremarkable ordinariness, with just-in-time cooked meals and a cat who thinks nothing of waking me during the night for food that she then rejects in silent indignation. C'est la vie in my world.  I learned about ‘good enough’ from my father, whose middle name could have been ‘bodge up’. I can still hear him suggesting to my mother that whatever home repair he had just completed was surely good enough, followed by my mother’s long suffering sigh of acceptance — either of Dad’s quality of work or her need to do it better, do it right, herself.  Good enough is an art unto itself, interpreted by each practitioner in their own way. In my world, good enough is neither bodge up nor perfection; it is a finished and functional...

I had planned to write about my mother's death, but I ended up writing about my life. This is the mystery of the writing process. Or, maybe, it's no mystery at all. My mother dying brought me sharply into my own living -- living without her in this world.  The piece titled  "Where is the end?"  (below) is what I wrote for, and then performed at, the FROM PAGE TO STAGE event on May 8th, which I described in last week's post .  Should you wish to listen to the piece rather than read it,  I have recorded it  here . * Where is the end?   I was born into freedom —   an advantage I did not understand   until I met others who were born into not-freedom. For me, this freedom was   boundless nurture,   endless opportunity and   ever present love   My freedom came in the form of two parents, a mother and a father, who wanted me and loved me as a child should be: unconditionally   The sky the limit The ground secure The home saf...