A favorite blogger of mine (ethanrenoe.com) has recently posted a few pieces dealing with the idea of ‘zooming out’. In other words, instead of being hyper-focused only on the joy or difficulty in front of us we should try focusing more on the bigger picture. Zoom out. This idea struck me, and in many instances I agree. However, I find myself oddly in need of doing the opposite. In my life, and by extension in my writing, I think I need to practice ‘zooming in’ more. I am a busy person: mother, teacher, writer, homeowner, and a host of other responsibilities. Most of the time, my big picture is chaos. Organized chaos perhaps, but chaos nonetheless…and I am not one of those people who thrives on chaos. So, I find my only escape is to leave—usually headed to the nearest Starbucks (which brings us back to my much-referenced coffee shop habit). But perhaps there is another remedy: Zoom in. Be mindful. Focus on the very minute things—sights, sounds, smells, even the rhythm of your own breathing.
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When we think about imagery, isn’t it so easy to think visual? It is natural. When someone is trying to describe a person to us, what is the first thing we ask to help conjure up a picture…yes, you know the answer…we say “what does she look like?” How often do we say “what does she sound like?” Never, right? But why? The visual is powerful, I grant that, but not as visceral or tied to memory as sound or smell or touch. I experienced something of an object lesson in the importance of respecting the auditory today. I was sitting in a favorite coffee shop (sidenote: I should probably be embarrassed at how much time I spend in coffee shops, but I confess I am not. I love them. I love the calm and chaos combined. I love the feeling of being free of responsibility—nothing to clean, no laundry to do. I can do whatever task is at hand, without regret. Sadly, most of the time the task is grading papers…but somehow even that arduous work is made better by doing it in a coffee shop), minding my own business, when it happened. I was side-swiped by Harry Connick. Not actually—which would have been amazing—but by a song. I was transported back 25 years to my best friend’s basement bedroom. We were standing on the bed putting plastic glow stars onto the ceiling and listening to Harry Connick. Hearing that song actually changed me, for a brief moment, into the girl I had been. I felt how she felt, just for a minute or two, and it washed over me in a way that visual memory doesn’t. When the song was over I was left slightly saddened. The memory had been so vivid, that when it had passed I missed my friend deeply. And it is funny, because I recently saw a picture of us together, and though it made me think of him, and wonder how he was doing, it wasn’t a gut-punch like the song had been. Any of you consummate literati out there may recognize that I am borrowing my title from a famous poem by an unlikely but amazing poet, Phillis Wheatley. Her ode to Imagination gives this process incredible weight, saying it is “the leader of the mental train.” In fact, she crowns Imagination as an “imperial queen,” saying that none can imagine her force and power, and that she, bird-like, has the power to wing heavenward “soaring through the air to find the bright abode/Th’ empyreal palace of the thundering God.” That is pretty high praise for Imagination…suggesting it is the most important mental process and that it has the ability to bring us to God’s doorstep. But do we, in this age of instant everything and Siri telling us what we don’t know, give Imagination this power? Or have we become numb to it? I suppose in some sense this post is in response to, or perhaps more accurately in extension of, my dad’s recent post, entitled “Plastic Flowers,” on the importance of imagination and reading. Writing a book isn’t easy. You have so many ideas and you have to allow some to flourish and grow and some to die, or at least maybe be postponed until another project. Just satisfying your own artistic expectations can seem like a monumental task. I know writers that pour out their hearts for chapter after chapter, and then tear up the work because some intangible element doesn’t feel right. I get it. I totally get it. |
Wendy Picard GorhamWendy lives and works in the midst of words everyday--English teacher by profession, and writer by passion! Archives
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