Supine Meditation

Or upright meditation, or something. Anyway, something shook loose this morning. I am at that point in the Sarah Tolerance (working title as of this morning: Sleeping Partner) where I know where it ends up, and I have 13 chapters plus a few scenes, and what I have to do now, which doesn't feel particularly like writing, is stare at the screen of my computer. Write a note. Ponder the note. Shake my head (ow! sinuses! don't do that again!). Delete note. Restore note, delete half of it, refinish note more satisfactorily. Lather, rinse, repeat. This is the dreary part of writing no one enthuses about.

Except that when a penny drops and I go "oh" and for a moment a vista of plot and complication opens before me, it's a heady, gorgeous, connected-to-the-universe sort of feeling. Then, of course, I realize that that's not the only problem that has to be solved, and I go back to the staring and pondering and sweating and stuff.

This morning I had one of those moments of "oh", which gave me the courage to continue to sit here staring at the screen, doing something that doesn't look like much of anything.

Thinking About House Rules

Periodically I think this should be said. I really love this space, my little cyber-livingroom, and I love it when discussions arise out of what ever I happen to have blathered about. And because I love this space, I want it to be safe for everyone who wanders in out of the rain to have a cup of hot chocolate and join in.

I am a middle-aged, middle-class white female with good intentions and (I hope) no more than the usual amount of unexamined privilege and blindness. I work to identify the privilege that I don't recognize in myself, but I'm going to screw up. When I do, if you see it, please point it out. Because while I'm a life-long lazibones screw-up with a family-inculcated anxiety about being wrong and being yelled at*, I do want to do better.

Because I have that anxiety about being yelled at, I sometimes haven't said something that I felt strongly, because I was afraid that I wouldn't say it right, either that I'd do my feeling/opinion a disservice by misspeaking or mischaracterizing, or that some unexamined-privilege-bit would pop up to hurt or enrage someone. I'm pretty casual about what I'm writing here; I rarely polish something to a fine sheen before I hit "Post to Madrobins." So here in my own space I've been self-censoring, and that's probably not optimal for me. I'm trying to do better. And as host, on those occasions when scuffles break out in the back of the room I will try to get in there and mediate if I can.

So the house rules are: civil discourse. When someone says something stupid, don't say that they're stupid. No name calling. If someone is clueless, enlighten them if you want--but don't let anyone tell you it's your responsibility to teach them about their cluelessness or their privilege. Your feelings are valid. The other guy's may well be too, no matter how outrageous they seem to you. There are no points being scored in my cyber-livingroom, just people with feelings, history, a place in their communities which may or may not be welcoming or comfortable for them.

Please don't apologize by saying "I'm sorry if you were hurt." You're smart enough to know why.

And remember, whatever side of whatever debate you're on--if you get the other guy in a corner it's more likely he'll have to tear his way out through your liver, leaving unpleasant blood stains on the carpet and all parties feeling aggrieved.

Okay. I got that off my cyber-chest. Here's a fresh pot of hot chocolate. As you were. Avocado made some chocolate chip cookies, too.




*I am not playing the "my family was dysfunctional so you can't yell at me" card here. But after 56 years of getting to know myself, I know this much: some people thrive on conflict like red meat. I don't. I get anxious and cowardly, and when I'm anxious and cowardly I am capable of making things even worse.