Writers, When Awake, See Beneath the Surface

My girlfriend and I live on a small piece of property in Central California, a few miles from the sea. Though only minutes from the freeway, our neighborhood is semi-rural, with many neighbors owning several acres of land. Our little bit of sod is about 1/3 of an acre, essentially surrounded by open fields. Over the winter and into the spring, the field grasses grow high, drying to reedy, golden weeds, sometimes five feet tall.

And then, on an appointed day, a couple of the locals get on their riding mowers, and do an all-day mow, criss-crossing the territory in loud, patterned swaths of removal. That happened this weekend, and how we see is different: it’s like wearing welding glasses and having them fall off. Look, a cat, fixed but quivering, paws flexed in front of the gopher hole! A covey of quail, their topknots bobbing, busy harvesting seeds. And how did we not know that under the waving weeds, a clump of calla lilies stand shining?

Writer’s Slump
Writers are observers, but even observers fall into unseeing slumps. The buzzing of the hours, lunch followed by dinner, thoughts hovering on subjects well worn by prior thinking. You don’t actually see your work, your girlfriend, your very self. There’s a surface, and then there’s what’s underneath. What’s underneath is often new, bright and fresh—but that freshness is actually there all along. If you only tilt your head rather than hold it straight, not hold it expecting today’s fields to be the same as yesterday’s.

I’ve been feeling trapped in my mind of late, touchy, pessimistic, my thinking circular and petty. I’ve felt jealous of other people’s success, doubting my own path, my mind small and cramped. But the walkway to my Airstream office is lined with bright poppies, supple stems swaying in the wind. Gabbling goldfinches merrily dunk themselves in the deckside water garden. The flowers are impossibly bright.

Spring. Time again to see like a writer, see underneath the surface, to mow down the weeds of the small mind. Breathe.

PS When you’re all wrapped up in your small, sour self like I’ve been, it’s good to read something like Leo Babauta’s latest, 38 Lessons I Learned in 38 Years.