Mourning Dove

There's a little dove that built a nest in the parking ramp where I work. Every day I drove by her and she cocked her head at me, looking sidelong for signs of danger. Her nest was tucked under a little metal wire and it looked as cozy as a concrete haven six stories above downtown could be.

When I'd walk to the elevator I pass a little closer to get a look. I knew she must be sitting on eggs, given that she was there every day when I came to work and when I left.

Yesterday, two eggs, one perfectly constructed nest. No mama bird. I thought, well, maybe she's gotta go get food, but I felt that uneasy roil in my stomach. Left work: two eggs, perfectly constructed nest, no mama.

Today, more of the same. I wonder what happened to mama bird. Is she hurt? Dead? Did she abandon the nest? Did some dumb human touch those eggs and drive mama away with their human smell?

I know the world probably doesn't need another mourning dove. But I do wonder what drove mama from the nest. I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes for those two perfectly round, white eggs.


Wow. So that's the longest break I've ever taken, I think and it's not like I made a Jay-Z-like comeback. Things continue to be chaotic. There are a lot of changes coming down the pike (all good, and no, not a baby) and both the willi and the kat are just barely keeping our heads above water. I promise more will be revealed soon.

The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone when we're uncool.

I have never been cool.

I am not sleek, subtle, cool-as-a-cucumber cool, mysterious, secretive. None of that.

No, no, I am more like the golden retriever running in circles, slobbering all over you with my melodramatic chatty-chat and panic this and quasi-crisis that. I am not the person in the corner at the party, quietly sipping on a drink and looking bemused—the person people wonder about—because I pretty much can't hold myself back from putting it all out there.

I've never really wanted to be that cool person, either.

Whenever I've attempted any semblance of being cool, I've fallen flat on my face. Whenever I become too conscious of my writing process, I feel like it shows. When I just go about my life, I find that I have kind friends, supportive family, and my knight in shining armor. When I just write for writing's sake, write to share, write to breathe, I find I do my best writing.

Philip Glass said in his fascinating documentary on PBS that he doesn't really "think up" music. Rather, it's this rhythmic current that runs underneath everything, below in the subconscious, and he's tuned his ear to dip into the water and express it.

That's the first time that another person has articulated my process. I never had the words to explain it before. I almost fell off the couch. How could I have the same process, the same feeling about creation as a FLIPPING MUSICAL GENIUS? I'm not comparing my talent level to his, but suddenly I felt like a had a kindred spirit. Have you seen Philip Glass? He's not cool, either.

When I write, I have hot and cold spots like the springs in the lake my parents' cabin sits on. Sometimes life presents me with rich material. Sometimes it doesn't. The art is to take the everyday and elevate it; after all, that everyday is what people understand.

I won't ever be cool. I am my own stumbling block. I need to get out of my way, be me, and just write. And by that process, maybe something cool will happen.

Stories

I caught up with a source today--someone I spent a lot of time with before my layoff. Together with her cooperation, I wrote the most important story I've ever written.

Tonight we just had tea and I dropped off some of her photos and some extra copies of the magazine she appeared in. We talked about politics, her community, what's sh'es been doing, what I've been doing. It was lovely.

And as I left, I had the same thought I've had over time, but I felt it more strongly tonight: I want to write good stories. REALLY GOOD stories. Stories about different cultures, about different lives, stories that change the way people see life. Even if it's a miniscule shift. I'm not expecting a Nobel Prize overnight. But I need to write stories people care about. I need to write stories I care about. I need to write stories that shape the world, whatever the size.

I need to find a way to do it.

The Storyteller

"You can search far and wide for the great stories, but in the end, the best ones come to you."

--The Hakawati, Rabih Alameddine, page 99

Stories: I am a bundle of raw nerves. Tensed. Ready. I'm waiting.

Where's All My Mad Rappers At?

As with any blogger, I thrive on the comments I receive. It informs what I write about to some degree. And I see my blogging as a community—yes, it's an outlet and I get a lot of personal reflection time with it. But I also love the friends I have made here and love to have conversations with them.

So tell me! Me and Dre are asking, Where's all my mad rappers at? (Excluding you, WeeMo, my most faithful commenter.) I have noticed a gigantic drop-off in conversation. Are there things you'd rather read about? I know usually these questions are met with crickets, but I'm asking anyway.

I'm hoping NaBloPoMo reinvigorates my writing to some extent, too. And I still have some ideas in the hopper. It isn't so much that I'm interested in getting ideas as I am in improving my blog.

XOXO