The Currency of Time

As I’ve written about previously here, last fall I moved just a bit outside the city to the quiet of the country. Living with no neighbors and few passersby fits my introverted personality quite nicely. The nearest place resembling the hubbub of city life I left behind is the Cubby’s Mini Mart two miles away. However, I can only take the busy and often boisterous Cubby’s in small doses.


I knew that moving out of the city would force many adjustments, but one unforeseen change has been how I see time. Time is the one thing with which we are all equally blessed/cursed. How each of us choose to use it is what differentiates us from each other. The spending of time is sometimes set, as everyone needs at least some sleep, but outside of the six to nine hours of sleep is where we depart.

Now that I live in the quiet of the country, I spend most mornings outside in my patio chair. I never sat outside much in the city, because of the noise mainly – a daycare on one side and screaming teenagers with hemi trucks on the other. Now that I am isolated, I sit outside more and do pretty much nothing. I watch the birds come and go – this week a family of bluebirds has moved in; I never really noticed birds before. Now I notice downy woodpeckers and nuthatches and barn swallows. I watch for the fox that roams the gravel road early mornings, and the woodchuck that seems to be making a daily meal out of our rotting chicken coop. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? He’d eat approximately a 3×4 hole out of a small building.

I’ve also had to adjust my newspaper reading. In the city, I took the early morning paper, my days beginning with coffee and the news. When I moved to the country, I learned, to my bewilderment, they don’t deliver a morning paper. How would I spend my morning? How would I know what’s going on in the world? After a month or two of no paper, I decided I really didn’t need to read the news the moment I rose from bed, so it freed up a lot of time. So I sat outside and watched the birds some more, thinking.

Now that I live on a gravel road, I have to drive slower. My Volkswagen Jetta wasn’t made for bumpy gravel roads, so now, just like everything else, the pace of my driving has slowed to a crawl. But this doesn’t necessarily take more of my time. In fact, the time I spend in my car now has become a different type of time than when I drove on the busy streets of the city. Sometimes I’ll turn down a dirt road just to see where it will lead, to see what I will see. I’m looking out instead of looking ahead. I hated wasting time driving before; now I look forward to that time.

In the city, there was always something to do, a restaurant to try, music to hear, a festival to visit. I was always doing something. Now I don’t always do something; I often don’t do anything at all. At first I missed the variety of restaurants the most, but mostly I just felt I wasn’t busy enough. Before I was always busy doing something, and now I was a bit lost in my unbusy-ness. What does one do when there’s nothing to do? At first I searched for things to do, but as time passes, I’ve come to like doing less. I suppose you could say I’ve undone myself.


Nighttime has changed as well. Now I leave the confines of the house at sunset, building a fire out by the barn as I sit to watch the sun go down and the stars come out. And the stars come out in the country, big, bright, glowing beads of crystal right above my head, so low it seems I could reach up and pick them from an invisible branch. I never spent my time at night like this in the city. I cleaned house or watched TV or read the paper or magazines or the occasional book, always doing, always looking down and never out, killing time, a mass murderer of time.

Now when I sit under the nighttime stars and watch time pass, I feel I am most productive. Before I had the same amount of time as everyone else, but spent my allotment in ways I wouldn’t dream of now. I realize time doesn’t fly. Birds fly; time passes. Time is a currency that we all spend in different ways for different reasons, and the pace at which we live our lives is a choice. The time to just think, to contemplate, turning over thoughts like mossy rocks, is a kind of time I never had – never took – before. The open space where I now live has brought with it open spaces of time, and now that I have it, plan to guard it as if my life depended on it. Perhaps it does.


What is your relationship with time?

Do you ever hear yourself saying, “I don’t have time to write” (or time to … fill in the blank)?

If you had more time, how would you spend it?


Am I Good Enough? Persuading Your Worst Critic (You!)


When I teach writing classes at the university or workshops for the general public, I always get the same question from students: Am I a good enough writer to, well, be a writer?

I honestly never know how to answer this question. Sometimes I answer the question with a question – “What do you think?” – followed by a long pause as they wait, breathless, for a real answer. Some writing students start out with, quite honestly, little talent for storytelling. But often these students become the best writers. Why? Perseverance. Stick-tuitiv-ness. They read, read, read, take time to hone their craft and never lose the desire to learn. In contrast, the person a class might deem the “best” writer of the group might never write another word in his or her life. Does that still make them the “best” writer? How can you measure talent or aptitude without a regular practice?

“I believe that if it were left to artists to choose their own labels, most would choose none.”
― Ben Shahn

Whether aspiring writers become “real” writers, successful writers, whatever that means, is perhaps less important than just showing up. Showing up means scheduling a regular practice of writing, as Anne Lamont says, “-whether there are dirty dishes in the sink or a dead body.” A regular practice brings not only knowledge and understanding of craft, but also confidence, which for many writers, is much more difficult to gather than skill. You can’t be if you don’t do, and doing will help build confidence in your skills and abilities.

Avoid buying into the desire to measure your progress or talent against another. You are unique, with unique talents as well as challenges. I know successful writers who don’t need to work for a living and others who work full-time while raising three kids. Each is a unique situation which may or may not affect the amount of time and energy one has to write. For many of us, we look to others for the scale of how to measure ourselves when the only scale we should use is our own.

 “The battle you are going through is not fueled by the words or actions of others; it is fueled by the mind that gives it importance.”
― Shannon L. Alder

Are you good enough? I can’t answer that. No instructor can. Or I could have answered, “Yes! You are good enough!” Avoid putting so much weight in my or other’s opinion that you let it affect your actions. I do know if you write with attachment to the outcome – that you’ll be published or famous or the best writer in your class or the world – you’ll miss out on the joy in the act of writing itself.  If you truly love writing, that’s a joy I’d hate for you to miss out on.

Writing with a Beginner’s Mind

Writing with a Beginner’s Mind

One of the basic tenents of mindfulness is beginner’s mind. Beginner’s mind refers to the act of thinking like a beginner as you engage in any activity. Can you think back to when you first started writing (or painting, or gardening, or even showering) and how you were thoughtful about the choice of each word, how excited you felt when you discovered the perfect metaphor, the sense of accomplishment you felt after a long stretch of writing? As writers, many of us have been writing so long that we just cruise on autopilot, but how would your writing be different if you came to it from a different perspective, that of a novice?


For those of us who have been at it a while, we often forget why we chose to take up this often frustrating, isolating, vexing profession/trade. Bringing a beginner’s mind to our writing can serve to open up new channels of creativity that might become blocked by a fixed, stale perspective.

All writers, at some point, must have possessed a love of language. Think back to what made you fall in love with storytelling. I always got a rush when I discovered the perfect conclusion, not because I knew I was done, but I just love great conclusions. I love the art of pacing and rhythm to get there and the moment of release with that final line. After writing a while, I found that I didn’t appreciate those hard-won endings as much I once did. The novelty of creating them had worn off. The mindfulness practice of beginner’s mind offers writers the opportunity to re-discover the joy we once experienced in the act of writing.


Think back to the first time you picked up a pen or pencil or tapped a keyboard. What did it feel like, on an emotional level? Can you recall? Were you excited? Enthusiastic? Terrified?

Now think back to what you felt on a physical level. Did you enjoy the feel of the perfect fine-tipped pen in your hand? Did you hold a spiral notebook, or were you the yellow legal pad type? Maybe you never wrote a word longhand, but have always typed because you liked the feel and sound of tapping keys.

If you began writing by hand and now only type, even your first drafts, try writing by hand and see what happens. Going back to our writing roots is often a great way of unblocking our stuck creativity.

Let me know how it goes!

Mindfulness Meditation and Memory Recall


As a writer of personal essays and memoir, I rely on memory, often a very distant-past memory, to write. Unfortunately, I never kept a journal in my youth. If I knew I would become a writer, I might have taken notes! When I am in the middle of a writing session, I sometimes struggle to recall long-ago events. If a friend or relative mentions a “remember when,” moment, I often find that I had literally forgotten, at least on the surface, all about that event. For a memoirist, I have a terrible memory.

Luckily, I discovered that meditation can aid in the ability to recall memories, and there is research to back this up. Catherine Kerr, a researcher at the Martinos Center for Biomedical Imaging and the Osher Research Center, has discovered that people who practice meditation can adjust their brain waves better than those who do not meditate. Kerr’s research shows that meditators can screen out distractions and increase productivity faster than those who do not meditate. Fewer distractions mean that the brain is able to integrate new information. Kerr’s research shows that memory recall is dramatically improved. “Mindfulness meditation has been reported to enhance numerous mental abilities, including rapid memory recall,” Kerr states.

For those of us who rely heavily on our memory for writing, meditation may be the key to unlocking the past we may have forgotten as we age. Consider this: once a memory, let’s say of a childhood event, has inhabited the brain, there is no place to discard memory, and so it stays stored in the brain on a subconscious level. The memory is there, always has been there, but only needs to be accessed. According to the Exploration of Consciousness Research Institute, we lose the ability to access the memory; the memory itself has never left us.

Researchers at the EOC Institute also believe that meditation can enhance the ability to store and retrieve future memories: “By flexing your memory muscle in meditation, your information storage mechanisms multiply, ensuring that your brain retains the ability to store new memories now, and as you age.”

The more I practice mindfulness meditation, the more distant memories I have accessed, which has helped my writing in a myriad of ways. Try it, and leave a comment on your results. I’d love to hear!


To read full article mentioned above, visit “Meditations’ Effects on the Emotion Shown to Persist”


Reflections on the Benefits of Mindfulness for Teachers and Students: A Dialogue

Originally posted on AEPL's Blog:

Greetings, blog readers! This week’s Sunday Meditation is a bit different. Instead of being single-authored, Sheila Kennedy and I teamed up to offer a running dialogue about the ways we believe students and instructors benefit from learning mindfulness practices within our courses. We hope we can offer some gems of insight for any readers interested in integrating mindfulness practices in their courses, readers who may be wondering: why take the leap? Does our dialogue move you to mindful action? For readers who have already integrated mindfulness into their courses, we hope you’ll chime in and let us know your experiences in the comments below.

Today’s structure is just one of the many formats welcome on this blog. If you have an idea and would like to contribute to our Sunday Meditation series, posted on the last Sunday of every month, please contact Christy Wenger at




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Why do you Write?

Have you ever actually stopped to think about why you write? I hadn’t, until I recently read “Liberating the Tortured Writer,” from Mindful Magazine. The writer recounted his tortured writer years of rejection, poverty and uncertainty as he struggled to become a writer. He had amassed a lot of negative mental habits, including

  • A desperate need for some kind of approval: basing one’s self esteem on the opinions of others.
  • Over identification with my work—mistaking my work for my actual life.
  • A constant striving for a future moment that would be better than this one.
  • An image of what I should or shouldn’t be achieving at any one time of my life.
  • A clinging to suffering, an addiction to the highs and lows of it, including endless speculation on whether I was “good enough.”      (Ben Craib)

This list (and we could all probably add to it) sounded too familiar. Why do we so often find the word “tortured” side by side with “writer”? Ask most writers of they have ever experienced anything from this list, and it would be the exception if they had not. So why do we torture ourselves so?

In my own writing, I have often wondered what drives me to write, if I am really doing it for myself or seeking some kind of approval I’m not consciously aware of (mommy issues?). I’ve also had trouble separating my writing from my life. Think about it: what would you be if you didn’t write? Are you what you do? I’m not sure I can even answer that.

I have to admit, as a writer, I do find myself striving for a future moment that might be better than this one, like dreams of the major book tour or a book-to-major-motion picture deal. I suppose that’s grasping, a very un-mindful way of being. As writers, we inherently are attached to outcomes – publication, admiration, respect – another very unmindful way of being.

The writer of the article eventually learned through mindfulness practice not to attach to the hope of success or fear of failure, but to simply live in the present and let the rest go. For myself, it’s a daily struggle, but on the days I’m feeling more tortured than grateful, I know it’s time to take a step back and re-evaluate why I’m writing. If I ever cannot answer, “I write for the joy of writing,” then maybe I’ll know it’s time to take a break to rediscover my motivations.


I’d like to hear from you.

  • Why do you write?

  • Who would you be if you didn’t write?

  • What would you do with your time if you didn’t write?

Front Porch Writing



My front porch

My husband just built this beautiful front porch. We tore down the old rickety porch – more of a front deck really – and built this from the ground up. The view from the white rocker is gravel road and rolling cornfields – the perfect writing spot, a friend said. Yes.

I hadn’t even thought about the front porch as a writing spot. Since we moved to the country last fall, I’ve been so focused – overwhelmed might be a better description – on the  inside of the neglected 1905 farmhouse that I hadn’t given much thought to what the outside could offer. We writers need a writing “space” and that is different for every writer. I have always had the notion I needed what Virginia Woolf called a “room of her own” with four walls, a door, and all the writing amenities Office Depot could offer: computer, printer, file cabinets, bookcases, message boards, shelves of paper and notebooks and pens – so many pens!

The renovations have taken much longer than I anticipated. My “room of my own” has been a half-hazard mess, up the steepest flight of stairs imaginable, into the coldest (in the winter) to, in mid-July, the now  hottest room in the house. I hated it. Avoided it. My writing, along with my spirit, waned. How could I write without a room! I moaned to my husband.

One project finished, then another, then finally he began the front porch this spring. I wasn’t interested. I had become used to living without using the front door. What did I need it now for? I watched out the front window as he set the  posts, then frame. Tongue and groove boards joined together to make a floor, then white spindle railings and, finally, the hand rail. I had a porch.

I brought back an old white rocker from the Ozark home of my childhood, and knew immediately it was going on the front porch. Once home, I set the rocker down, walked off the porch and to the road in front of our home. I needed a wider angle view of the porch, a different vantage point. I needed to look at the porch in a different way.


Then my friend, when seeing the white rocker looking out from the covered porch, said, “The perfect place to write!” Of course. Why couldn’t I see that? It didn’t have a computer or printer or bookcases or file cabinets or any of the amenities I thought I needed. It didn’t even have a flower pot yet. Just a simple front porch with an old white rocker. Simple as that.

Writing Prompt:

Do you have a favorite place to write? What makes it special?
Do you think you need a “perfect” place to write? Where do you think you’ll find it?