Put Your Head Down and Keep Pedaling

I make my living as a writer for a marketing company and a news blog in Portland, Oregon.  Yesterday, I raised my hand to hit the send button on an assignment with the marketing company.  "Ding."  I heard my gmail notifier tell me that I had an incoming email.

"We haven't heard from you in awhile, and have decided to assign the project to someone else.  Good luck in your future writing."  Mind you, I had sent them work on Friday and had three more articles ready for them as soon as my finger touched the button.  What?  My anger took over as I started barking unreasonable commands at my dual-processor computer.  It froze.  I fumed.  

I had worked all weekend and felt all sacrificial.  Did they expect that?  We had a few terse emails.  I got fired and rehired in the space of ten minutes. At lunchtime I walked home to get a bite to eat.  My landlord met me at the yard for a bit of confrontation.  If he had known what I had just gone through, I think he would have held off for awhile.

Walking back to my office I thought back to my recent experience as a canvasser for Penguin Windows.  I hated every single second of that job but needed them at the time.  I had a little script I gave at each door.  "You know, the whole world is a stage". Shakespeare said it not me.  I performed several times a day to a hostile crowd on my little three by four concrete platform.  

One day I had this pleasant conversation with a housewife about the beauty of windows.  I asked a couple questions about their panes.  The husband came around the corner and just went off on me all protective like.  You would have thought that I had made a pass at his wife.  He finished by saying rather rudely, ":You can leave any time."

As I walked away I started thinking and feeling all sorts of things.  I said it out loud.  "Stop."  I had to force myself to let it completely go.  I went on canvassing.  I set an appointment at the next house. "Take that you, you, pane in the glass."  Later that day I processed the experience.

I remembered that experience today.  For the marketing company I write about chickens.  Yeah, that's right, chickens.  It takes a good writer to make chickens exciting.  They pay me poorly to write good quality copy about chickens.  I do a good job for them.  

I need them right now.  "Stop."  I had to just put my head down and keep pedaling.  I produced two more breed articles today which they liked.  As a writer I try to think and feel deeply.  I take time to observe, to make connections, to record.  Those thoughts and emotions come in handy even when writing about chickens.  However, even as a writer sometime you have to place those things on the shelf and just get the chicken s.....article out to your editor.

Okay, so now I've processed it.  I have another couple articles to write for tomorrow and need to get on my other job as a beat reporter.  So put the head down writer.  Keep riding and writing.

My Office...Eat your heart out Mr. Gates

Speaking of Sacrifice

I watched in slow motion as two or three riders ran over the one writhing on the ground. Later I went by the team tent as they scrubbed gravel and dirt out of blood-red, road rash the size of my outstretched hand. You know how sometimes you get that twinge of virtual pain? I could just feel the prickly, itchy, tight pain of road rash coming in the days ahead. Recently, I read that racing bicyclists have a one-in-four chance in every race of ending up in that tent. What propels people to make such large sacrifice for such a small prize?

All of life requires sacrifice. I watched the world wake the other morning. Two ladies drug themselves to the bus stop to wait their transport to work. They sucked deeply on cigarettes. Two other ladies marched to Frolics to dance nude. They had the morning shift. I have to dance nude for some pervert, and I have to get up at 5:30 a.m. for the privilege? A toothless guy came up to me. Which way is town? We stood in the middle of Portland. I myself waited outside a day-labor place to support my writing addiction. I feel ashamed to write that last sentence. We all offer our bodies in sacrifice: some to survive, some to escape, and some to reach a better place.

If I must sacrifice, and I must, then I choose that last reason—to reach a better place. I live in a scary place right now, and I have but one hope in one person to whom I pray and trust that He honors sacrifice for the right reasons. Please hurry I might add.

Good writing always comes full circle. I watched a criterium of pro racers. Criteriums go in a circle. Everyone rides the same amount of time. The rider who goes the farthest distance in that hour wins. Bumping, swerving, sweating, intense racing where some fell behind and others crashed. Lead changes occurred on every lap. The fit and lucky streaked to a stand-on-the-pedal sprint for the final decision. I saw what defeat looked like in that tent. I felt the pain. However, I didn't, couldn't feel the victory feeling of the guy who hit the finish line first. Only he knew what it felt like to fulfill a dream after such risk and sacrifice.

Everyone at the finish line wandered off to find a beer leaving him to bask in his own glory. Possibly no one will ever know or understand the feeling I get when accomplishing a seemingly impossible writing goal. And maybe that's how it should be. They didn't sacrifice for it the way I did. They didn't stand outside Labor Ready. They didn't wonder how it would all work out. They didn't share in my sacrifice. Why should they share in my victory?

Speaking of Sacrifice.  I gotta get back to work.

Faith--An Uncomfortable Silence

Walking by Faith

I have little faith in carrot seeds.  Tiny and thin they just disappear into the soil which by comparison seems like boulders.  You cover them over, sprinkle on a little water, and hope that the water neither uncovers or permanently buries them.  And then you wait.

You walk into the office or you hit the send button.  There goes another job application into HR or Cyberspace if you please.  It feels the same in either case.  You filled the fields and submitted it to the powers that govern job granting.  And then you wait.

You did your research.  You have the basic facts, and now you face the paper or screen.  Somehow your mind has to shape all these bits of seemingly unrelated information into pleasing prose.  You take a breath.  And then you wait.

I call this moment of uncomfortable silence--faith.  You believed a thing just outside the realm of the believable, doable, or obtainable.  You acted on that belief with the commitment of money, time, or energy.   All the ingredients for faith pudding now sit in the bowl.  Now you wait because everyone knows the proof is in the pudding.  There it sits all liquid and all quiet staring up up at you.

Boom!!!  It instantly congeals.  Looking back, I wonder why I always have this silent faith-stretching  moment no matter how many times I see a thing done.  The carrots sprouted.  A job came.  The old mind once again pulled together some prose.  The pudding solidified.

 I just possibly have a weak faith circuit.  Tel me, I can take it.  Do you suffer regular doubts about pudding?  You do?  Possibly the guy or gal who designed this life system knew that foregone conclusions get just a bit boring.  If I knew for certain the outcome of every single event, would life have any mystery, wonder or beauty in it?

The things beyond my grasp, control, or ability make life worthwhile and, yes, uncomfortable.

So why the picture of the foot?   Walking by faith, get it?  Actually,  I just thought it might get you to read the post.  Now that's faith!!!  Love you Reader.

What Kind of Chicken Outfit is This?

My body sits in Portland, Oregon, but my mind walks the beach in Lincoln City. Waves of wispy clouds from our Pacific (peaceful) Ocean silently filter into my tumultuous city. Last night a guy fell to gunshot wounds about five blocks from where I write. Two others suffered similar wounds that same night in other parts of the city. The Bible asks, “Why do the nations rage so?” I think it a good question. Where does all this rage come from?

Judy Collins sang, “I've looked at clouds from both sides now.” Me too, Judy. I have seen the wispy- white peaceful kind and the dark, angry thunderheads. This day I have much to accomplish and feel the anxiety and, yes, even rage welling up in my spirit. Maybe we all live under a cloud; however, we choose the kind of cloud in our sky and over our lives. Let's see, which do I prefer? Duh.

I tuned into a New Age station with a repetitive piano refrain echoing in my earphones. Good writing takes time, faith, and patience. I have to wait for the right words. I admit that I sometimes get angry during the waiting phase of writing especially if I have dark, deadline clouds hovering over me. However, I have learned that the words come quicker and better when I have my head in the white, wispy kind of clouds. It feels like a waste of time for me to leave the assignment right now, but I know that it pays off in the end.

Today, while I wait for Ms. Muse, I observe things to nourish my writing soul. American students have gone home for the school year replaced by Japanese girls in Levis and red Converse All Stars.  Always in groups they study long hours around laptops and course books with occasional breaks to talk on their cellphones. Very accomplished young women belied by their petite, reserved, and shy appearance, they inhabit study rooms throughout the library keeping pace with my long hours writing.

Another group of little people invade the campus. A class of third-grade school kids from a local school take a tour. All energy and distraction they appear to hear nothing while absorbing everything. I look down from the library window at our future. Concordia has an impressive attitude toward community, e.g. They allow me to use their library as if enrolled here. I can check out books, use their Internet, and access their staff. I feel thankful to have such a spacious, gracious office so nearby, and have tried to repay them with some press in the local rag.

The past couple weeks I have watched a $7.5 million dollar athletic complex take shape outside my office window at Concordia. The university has already formed partnerships with the community for use of the field and facilities. Their education students volunteer in local community schools. Concordia's student athletes work with kids on skills both athletic and life. Like I said, “Impressive.”

These days I write about chickens. My brother said, “What kind of chicken outfit do you work for?” Okay, it hardly qualifies for the great American novel, but I find beauty there. Today, I study the Appenzeller Spitzhauben chicken from Switzerland.  I wrote,  “Silver spangled Appenzeller Spitzhauben look like the snow covered alps from which they come. They have brilliant white feathers tipped with black fringe like snow with exposed black rocks.” My editor likes my writing, and that works for me. In a world of visual stimulation that little appreciates writers, it feels good to have someone capable of identifying decent writing and acknowledging it. I write for readers and those who appreciate the power and beauty of these symbols we call words.

used by permission wikia

I felt a invasive funk these past few days hard to identify and even harder to eradicate. It felt good to connect up with the beauty swirling around me. I hope it helps you, Dear Reader.

Negative Creativity

I shared this picture with friends and family along with other colorful positive shots. Everyone asked me about this one. They call it negative art. My camera has a setting to make a picture just like the old negatives of film days. I took this picture through long grass looking out on the flooding Columbia River. On my walk today it came to mind. This negative represents life. I mean more than a metaphor. I mean that it's really this way. The most amazing truths usually exist about 180 degrees opposite of my present position. I have lived the positive image all my life only to find truth in its opposite.

For example, one would think that writer's block comes when a writer has nothing to say. Let me suggest just the opposite. I define writer's block as verbal constipation. I really have too much to say, too much on my mind, or too many emotions bottled up inside. I found myself monitoring Facebook with long breaks of staring out the window. “Warning...Warning...Warning.... “ I heard a tilt alarm going off somewhere far back in my mind. I jumped and headed outside in spite of the threatening clouds. I walked about a half block. Scores of ideas came rushing to mind. “Darn it!”

I ran back to the library for my journal and camera. “Duh, Rollie, when will you ever get it? “ I muttered out loud. A coed looked at me in her periphery. They always wonder about the ones that talk to themselves. All morning I felt out of sync. I got one assignment out but struggled with the next. I had a deadline in my mind. I bore down. Get it done. Work! I pressured. My muse walked out of the library. Did I see a tear in her eye? I failed to find her even using the all the powers of Facebook.

I fled the library. I took a picture of a detention pond. Detention ponds collect rain water, filter it, and feed it into the water table rather than direct it into the sewer system which overflows with raw sewage into the river. A professor looked at me funny. How many people do you see taking pictures of detention ponds? I understand.

I really try to act “normal.” However, these days experiencing life on the level that I think God wants me to experience it makes me do “abnormal” things. I lie on the ground to take pictures. I walk into businesses and ask them what they do. I knock on the door of a Hare Krishna house. I interview some angry college students practicing for a demonstration in a park. I talk to a guy holding a sign for money along the highway.

Today, I found myself in an alley a few blocks from the library. Try to find an alley in a new development. Portland still has alleys. I found a magical one. I half expected to find a portal into another world. You know, maybe I did. I know that I came out the other side changed. Walking down the alley, I thought of a student from a creative writing class that I conducted with junior high students. It took me me entire quarter to get them to write. When they finally got it, I cried. It happened on the last day of the class. I kid you not. On the very last day of class they just started writing.

This student, a young angry girl, had a favorite phrase. “This is stupid!” They had an assignment to write a book report from another class. I had the assignment to get them to actually put words on paper. They sat there for weeks. After about five weeks, I really started to sweat. The young lady glared at me. Yes, I know. “This is stupid.” She had read the story of Helen Keller, a blind and mute person with incredible spirit and intelligence.

I grabbed my coat and threw it over the girl's head. “Hey, what are you doing?” She asked. The other students looked at me wide eyed.

“What do you feel?” I asked.

“I feel stupid.” She started to take it off.

“No, leave it on.” I commanded

“Tell me more.”

“I want to take this stupid coat off.”

We went on several more minutes. I made her stop talking. Finally, she ripped the coat off in anger.

“You just experienced what Helen Keller experienced every single day of her life. Now write about it.”

And write she did. She wrote, and wrote, and wrote. She had writer's block caused by emotional constipation. I gave her an emotional laxative. Her writing and the one by my own son made me cry on that last day.

Even now I berate myself. I should be writing that other article. No, I should be writing this one. I should write the inspired one. I should write the one found in the magic alley. I should write the one I felt while walking hand in hand with my muse down an enchanted alley. In this post I know that I have mixed more metaphors than a cement mixer on a highway project. I hope you can pull something out of it.

"Why do you act this way?"  I can hear my dad ask.  It's not about rebellion or drawing attention to myself.  For me, it's about living a full life.  I find incredible meaning by looking deep into the eyes of a flower or taking an interest in the business of a guy working in his shop.  I find meaning by observing life with all five senses.  I find meaning by sharing those observations with you my faithful readers.  Every once in awhile someone says to me.  Keep writing, Rollie.  Thank you.  To keep writing, I have to walk a few alleys.

We all walk a journey. God only asks me to smell the flowers, to enjoy Him, and to help some others along the way. He finances the trip and takes care of all the travel plans. 

A couple other shots because a word is worth a thousand pictures.  No, I said it that way on purpose.  I love you reader.