Practice Makes Perfect?

Perfect? Not so much. But it does makes things better; easier; stronger; more enjoyable. 

Writing, I've discovered, is all about practice. The more I do it, the more my words and sentences coalesce into something that makes sense (at least to me). 

Practice for writing requires a great deal of reading - I seem to choose hobbies that involve things I love to do. 

Writing letters to friends and family is practice. My journals give me space to practice. This blog allows me to practice.

I also recognize the value of practice in other areas of my life.

I recently started an on-line watercolour class. I'd like to say I'm making progress ... a recent seascape effort looks pretty good (when I remove my glasses and stand across the room). I will admit to a little discouragement and negative talk: Art isn't my thing! I'm frustrating myself by working at something I'm not good at! But then I remember practice! Practice in this is crucial if you want to understand the nuances of colour, shapes, shadow, brushes and light. 

My at-home fitness practice is making me stronger and able to handle the arduous gardening tasks I take on. I am getting stronger by practicing regularly.

I remember Dr. Christiane Northrup (in one of her wonderful books about menopause and aging) suggesting that we stand in yoga's Tree pose on each leg with our eyes closed for however many seconds we can manage. As we get older, our balance begins to diminish and becomes problematic. This simple exercise, practiced regularly, can help mitigate this loss of balance.

What we have to realize, though, is that, while practice will improve whatever we do, we likely won't become proficient at everything.

Some researchers dispute Malcolm Gladwell's belief (from his book 'Outliers') that the basis of success is 10,000 hours of practice. These researchers believe that all of us can't be Rembrandts or Olympic atheletes. Even after that much practice, some individuals will remain mediocre. 

I do believe strongly in the merits of practice but I think these researchers are on to something.

After what feels like 20,000 hours of housework in my lifetime, I continue to be mediocre at best.

A Tilt of the Head

Whether we do it deliberately or instinctively, our bodies communicate so much without a word escaping our mouths. Arms crossed in different manners can send many messages, depending on the stance we adopt when doing it. Our eyes mirror our souls (or so it is said). We can generally tell when someone we meet on the path of life is in a hurry or willing to linger a bit just by the direction they face as we speak.

My morning routine today, brought thoughts about all of the ways we give unspoken messages simply through the tilt of our head.

An ever-so-slight tilt forward might say to someone "Tell me more. I'm interested."

A sudden, sharp tilt back can express surprise or even shock.

A younger me, with a coquettish smile on my lips, once tilted my head slightly to the side hoping to be flirtatious. 

These thoughts came to me, as I said, during my morning routine.  I tilted my head back for my eye drops; to the side for ear drops and, quickly, to the front when my low blood pressure made me dizzy. 

Thank goodness the vanity mirror doesn't misconstrue my intentions as interest, surprise or flirtation!

Oh, life has changed.

The Secret Garden

I love to garden. The ever-changing nature of it is my muse, allowing my creative brain to express itself in a manner that rewards us for months. Gardening also challenges my physical self; a good thing after an idle winter.

New surprises arrive every day in Spring. Each day's walk around the yard is a revelation of new leaves and blooms in the perennial beds. The empty beds for seasonal plants require hard work every day to bring to life winter's plans and dreams. Spring requires faith that what you put into the ground (seed or transplant) will produce weeks ahead.

Summer is a time for minimal maintenance; culling a few weeds, dead-heading flowers. Mostly summer is a time of sitting back to appreciate and enjoy the early vegetables that are available every day for our table. A healthy garlic crop picked in July is a delight to the senses. August, though, is the height of summer to a gardener. Lush tomatoes and cucumbers are added to the varieties of lettuce, chard, carrots, beets and green beans to create colourful meals with minimum effort.

September brings a modicum of sadness; pulling out plants that have finished producing reminds me that, other than what I have captured in the freezer, the grocery store will be my food source for the months ahead. Did I remember to thank each plant for its bounty as it came out of the ground? 

But this ending is joined by the elegant blooming of Fall flowering plants. They take longer to bloom than spring blossoms; sometimes the smallest bud can take weeks before blooming into a glorious flower. The wait is worth it, as I look around our yard.

I've divided our yard into different gardens to indulge each thing I love. 

The house came with some well-established perennial beds of iris, hostas, seedums and lilies. This foundation allows me to fill in with new and different perennial plants, creating blooms from spring through fall.

I've created a large vegetable plot which provides hours of pleasant planning through the winter months.

An English garden indulges my love of roses, asters, mock orange, peonies ... The only requirement to get a spot in this garden is beauty.

The unknown garden of our yard, I call The Secret Garden (the picture): secret because even I didn't have a vision for this space. 

This fenced in area was just full of leaves when we first moved in. Early experiments in the soil proved it to be full of tree roots and shade. I began with a few types of ground cover and then transplanted hostas and shrubs to create interest. Free patio stones created a path and our own field stone provided steps around the garden. Our grandchildren painted pictures on the fence and on rocks, adding their own creativity. I bought an old red iron gate to keep the secret garden secret.

And so, when winter is upon us and life takes place indoors, I will remember this year's efforts and rewards through my memory and pictures taken, meals eaten with the garlic and frozen tomato sauce. Until I can order seeds again in February, when my thoughts and plans return to the gardens!

Potter, Lewis, Milne and White

No, today's post is not about a law firm but, rather, those wonderful early 20th century writers who changed all of our lives just by giving human voices to creatures. The simplicity of their characters and the messages and values they conveyed through those voices continue to keep readers engaged generations later.

Did you know that Winnie The Pooh was wise? This slightly ditzy, endearing teddy bear is hailed on the 21st century internet as a purveyor of life's wisdom:

"Sometimes the smallest things take the most room in your heart."

 “You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

“I am short, fat, and proud of that.”

In fact, each of these writers created attention-holding stories embedded with life's lessons as relevant for today's children as for those of their time.

And yet, the lives they lived as children were far simpler than those of children today. Some were supervised primarily by nannies with only occasional appearances from parents. They spent much of their time outdoors, randomly exploring, and indoors reading and involved in imaginative play. Their days were filled with the wonder of discovery and make-believe. In essence, they were left to just be. The natural curiosity of childhood took over from there.

It turns out that being, rather than doing feeds imagination.

We are lucky that Beatrix, C.S., A.A. and E.B. used the exploration and imagination of their childhoods to create the stories we love so much. They drew on the inventive play they had once experienced to re-create magic and whimsy in their stories.

I would think their imaginations, fueled in childhood, also helped them to triumph over the many challenges, tragedies and disappointments they faced as adults. 

But how is it that children today, surrounded as they are by screens and mod con's (modern conveniences), organized activities and scheduled play dates, still discover the joy in these stories written by authors born in the 19th century?

Erica Bauermeister in House Lessons (a delightful little book about renovating a heritage home) has a reasonable explanation for this:

"A suggestion of beauty needs time to unravel and imagination to wander in. Our lives may have less time for such ramblings, but I still believe the desire for them remains."

Much has been written about these authors and I enjoy discovering each new book, movie and documentary I discover. One of my favourites about Beatrix Potter's life is available on YouTube: 

Beatrix Potter with Patricia Routledge

 If you are a fan, I encourage you to look it up. Meanwhile, I will be busy looking for a magical wardrobe to climb into.

The Everyday-ness of Life

One can't write these days without reflecting on how our lives have all changed and why.

COVID-19 has restricted our freedom and yet it also gives. To me, it has given time and a desire to write again. 

During the early months of enforced confinement, I tried to understand what I was feeling and writing became an outlet for those feelings.

My life changed to one of 'being' rather than 'doing'. I began paying more attention to my immediate world. The bird feeder outside my writing window captured my attention for more hours than I'd care to admit to. One of my first COVID essays follows.

The bird feeder outside my window is aquiver with activity. Sunny yellow Finches may be tiny but they hold their own against the bullying Blue Jays. But I forgive their bullying as they rush to protect something from squirrels in the hedge across the yard; their nest no doubt.

Nest building is happening everywhere. Small branches are carried in beaks until they can be woven into the flotsam already gathered. Even the doves, whose mousy appearance draws no attention, are busy nesting. I've become fond of their chubby bodies. Hope someone will say the same about me when this virus ends.

I am grateful to see and hear the Robins, knowing their welcome calls allow me to put away the CD of nature sounds that I resort to during winter months.

The Chickadees come and go, never staying long. They remind me of the Hare from Alice in Wonderland; somewhere else to be but just enough time for a quick snack before going.

Beneath it all, the squirrels and chipmunks forage for the scraps dropped. I get a little smarter each year and finally have birdfeeders they can't breach. That doesn't stop them from trying. But their attempts to climb up to the feeders are also frustrated after I've rubbed the poles with oil. Watching their tiny bodies slowly slide down the poles like mini firefighters, I can't help but giggle.

The giggle feels like a release. Watching this interplay amongst the species emphasizes that we, humans, are not playing amongst ourselves. We are not quite two months into an enforced isolation brought about by an out of control virus. 

The world hasn't come to a screeching halt but our movements are much restricted. Groceries, drugs and liquor ... our needs have been distilled down to just these. In truth, I've discovered I don't need for other things.

But the limit to stuff is not what has taken the colour from my life. It is the small social interactions that I now crave; dropping by a friend's for tea; random conversations with strangers in the grocery lineup (have you noticed that no one chats now?); friends over for dinner; hugs. Without these encounters, my life feels like a shadow of its former self.

The life I'm living today is not dramatically different and yet it's worlds away from just weeks ago. I still do the same things around the house I always did but my days feel flat compared to the 3D experience they once were. I feel as though I'm losing tiny bits of myself with each passing week.

So, until we reach the conclusion of this Orwellian novel we've become characters in, here I sit; watching the birds and creatures sociably going about their business. I hope the day will arrive soon when I'll be able to do the same.

We're now six months into this new world order and I believe (hope) we're all getting the hang of it. In addition to writing, I'm reading like never before. The book 'Becoming Mrs. Lewis' gave me a quote that simplified life during COVID:

"Why did the everyday-ness of my life sometimes feel constricting when the everyday-ness was everything?"

Until we can physically hug again, I will try to be content with embracing the every day.

Family Stories

So, how did Olive's story come about? you ask.

When I moved to Newcastle Ontario in 2006, I joined the Newcastle Village & District Historic Society. Their first newsletter (delivered to my home in person - joys of a small community) featured an article about the death of Olive Wilmot in 1903 at her home in Newcastle. I was intrigued.

But normal life took precedence; I had a business plan to implement; a store to open and run and years of single-minded purpose.

It was only after closing the store that I suddenly faced endless empty days ahead of me.

A membership to Ancestry.com; online research and personal visits with Olive's great-niece kept me occupied for months which turned into years.

When I began the eight year journey of Olive Wilmot's story, I had no intention of publishing a book. I simply wanted to discover as much as I could about her life and, for her family and mine, present an alternate view to the gossip told about her in her home village of Newcastle Ontario. As I said in the summary of the story; her life turned out to be far more interesting than the gossip about her death that  I had heard. 

I wrote and re-wrote more times than I can count, eventually coming to a linear tale of her life as I had come to know and imagine it. A personal goal was achieved. 

It was a neighbour who, after reading the draft, said it was a compelling story and suggested I hire a ghost writer to turn it into a novel. 

A ghost writer? Really? After eight years of living Olive's story, surely I was more than capable of writing it as a novel. Had They but Known Her was born. 

With great hesitation, I decided to self-publish the novel and send it out to the universe. The response I've received, and continue to receive, is rewarding and carries me along as I work on my next project.

In the immortal words of Nike, I encourage everyone who has ever thought they'd like to write a book, "Just Do It". 

Look to your own family for ideas. Olive's fell into my lap (literally) but I've learned from readers that most have an interesting character or situation within their own family. Some I've been told about are almost unbelievable and yet true. Others are the history of a family's journeys and growth. All are worth reading.

I sincerely regret not capturing my own grandmother's story. She was born in 1889; had seen most of the changes of the 20th century and yet still cooked on a wood stove and had an outhouse (by her own choice) when she died in 1972. Although her life was standard for her time, her story would be unimaginable to the young women of today. 

Even if you just document it for your own family, as I originally intended, do it. 

Middle Age = Middle Sight

Yesterday morning, as I exercised on the floor, our dog, Molly, lost her ball under a dresser near me. I could clearly see the ball no more than 3" under the dresser. Molly, however, couldn't.

Molly is an extremely healthy eleven year old Airedale (yes, the same pup I introduced in an earlier post). Our Vet said to consider her a Cougar with plaque on her teeth. But despite her good health, I can see aging creeping up on her.

I could tell she knew the ball had gone under the dresser; she nosed around it for a while. But, at no time, did she get down on all fours to actually look under. I pointed and said "It's there" but she just pranced around the room checking other corners to see if it might just appear.

After a few minutes of this, she finally laid down in front of the dresser, reached a paw in and pulled the ball out triumphantly!

Now, I'm not one to go on about the antics of our pets but this one reminded me of my husband looking for something in the fridge. If the object of his desire is not at the front of the shelf at eye level, it doesn't exist. He wouldn't consider bending down (or moving things around) to search.

This is not a comment against his gender since I am just as guilty of losing things in the fridge (funny how we rarely notice our own lapses though).

I believe, rather, that this is an age thing. The older we get, the less we're willing to bend down or stand on tippy toes in search of things. Eye level rocks when you pass 60!

I see an upside down fridge coming this year! 

For poor Molly, I see more balls around the house to replace those that she can no longer see. 

Oops - now I see a tripping hazard waiting to happen.