Clearing Out: A Meditation on Method

I am magnetic. Those who know me well will understand the truth of this statement and how it works on so very many levels. For instance, just as my Marketing Padawan has a newfound penchant for attracting rogue staplers into his cubicle, so do I draw various and sundry articles into my house. By which I mean, principally, paper. Stacks and stacks of paper.

The epicenter of this storm is the home office, which wouldn’t matter except that it doubles as the dining room table. At some point during the course of my current project, for reasons that remain unknown to me, I became unable to work in the second-floor room designated for the purpose of writing, and so I relocated to the downstairs. My work, and my piles, moved with me. New ones sprang up.

There are writers who take to these newfangled “software programs” that outline and measure and monitor and chart. No. I am a writer who needs to see what’s in my head from time to time, see something tangible in space, and that means notes; and notes mean print-outs, scraps, notebooks, envelopes, receipts, ticket stubs, and any other reasonably flat surfaces across which I can drag a rollerball pen. For a time I would work on the backs of large desk-calendar sheets I’d bring home from the office once the month had passed. These have their piles, too.

In addition, living with a house rabbit for 10 years teaches you certain lessons about clutter, nonattachment, and the ultimate futility of maintaining the hygienic standards of polite society. (To this day I cannot allow myself to place scripts, books, magazines, or other potentially valuable chewables on the lowest shelves of a bookcase; Mr. J worked his way through, among other things, Latin, organic chemistry, the Riverside Shakespeare, and pathological diseases, as well as the Star Wars Soundtrack Anthology box set. You learn.)

Jenifer claims that I have a fondness for piles and, moreover (my mother’s protests notwithstanding), that I was raised this way. I deny this, of course (that I like piles, not that I produce them industriously), but I do admit to an offhand comment I made about a ramshackle building we passed on a recent country walk. This may have strengthened her position.

You see, I am drawn to the weird places in between residences; the run-down sheds, barns, springhouses, and other auxiliary buildings whose purpose or ownership has long been forgotten; the mysterious and quite possibly toxic industrial sites; the overgrown service stations; in short, the forlorn brickyards of the soul.

And yet, lest you get entirely the wrong idea about me, I also have a penchant for a very particular and exacting kind of order, the kind that insists upon storing a complete set of original (1978–1985) Star Wars action figures in paper-towel-lined cigar boxes. (I am sure you can imagine the horror, the horror when Jenifer took it upon herself to shake the box until the lid burst open and the action figures tumbled forth and the blasters and lightsabers and gimer sticks scattered to the Four Winds and . . . it was horrible.)

Which brings us to my Terrible Purpose of late: cleaning up the house. This news won’t come as a surprise to most, as it is a reasonable thing to do with a Baby on the way. And while the effort won’t quite match the scale of the Great Purge of ’06, it can nonetheless be quite a task for someone with a Bento box for a brain.

Cleaning up folks can understand, get behind. You need to make room for The Baby. And this means nursery and crib and all the other Baby Accoutrement one could ever hope for.

However.

There will be no crib, no nursery, no stroller, no plastic toys, precious few (cloth) diapers (the better to practice elimination communication), and instead only the finest in organic, Fair Trade, shade-grown, carbon-negative, biodynamic objets d’art animated only by wind, sun, and imagination. You can imagine how even the most innocent of conversations quickly becomes a tricky rhetorical situation. It’s easy enough to answer the How’s the New Job Going line of questioning, but the Are You Getting Ready for Baby version is an altogether different challenge question. I daren’t make mention of the aforementioned desirable qualities, or answer inquiries directly and honestly, unless I wish to subject myself to social outlawry. Occasionally, of course, I am caught in a moment of weakness, at which point the conversant exhibits a dramatic facial spasm, tries to stifle it, fails, smiles, sputters, and then peruses with Terminator-like precision the palette of available reactions, which are usually limited to eyerolling, backpedaling, and general flabbergastering. At least that’s been the process so far.

Thus, when it comes to clearing out my stuff, my papers, I am taking an old Icelandic perspective, that character does not determine fate, that traversing the poles of Order and Chaos has less to do with individual ability than with simply What Is. You could say that getting rid of my papers is not for the acquisition of stuff but to better invite the further disorder with which the Baby will bless us. Some sacrifices are required, after all.

But you didn’t it hear it from me. I’m just going through my papers, my endless reams of papers, and that’s not likely to change, I fear, until the day Gullinkambi calls.

Paths of Devotion

Don't hide your heart but reveal it,
So that mine might be revealed,
And I might accept what I am capable of.
— Rumi

Last week my friend Vitaly greeted me with a sudden handshake. He had returned from Russia for the funeral of his father, who had died on Christmas. I had given Vitaly a simple card on which I copied lines of Rumi's on grief.

It was clear that Vitaly was reeling from the experience. On the way to Moscow, he said, he had to be strong. Now, on the other side of the world and his father’s life, he was sick and physically exhausted, and only now was the enormity of his grief flooding in.

In my sterile cubicle, Vitaly shared that he had never lost someone so close. We didn’t say much, but I knew what he was feeling. We both had lost sick and elderly grandparents, aunts, uncles, but until recently neither of us had come so close to death.

Vitaly described how he spent New Year’s with his eighty-eight-year-old grandmother, drinking champagne and watching fireworks explode over Moscow. I wondered what rituals he may have participated in and what outlets might be available to him now that he was back. The geography of his experience, the sudden flight alone into the realm of his past, struck me as the story we all share in this time.

Modernity has buried the old ways of initiation and provides no sure path to mastery. Those who in previous ages would have become elders are now locked away in institutions full of close supervision and technical know-how. Our youth can work all sorts of entertaining technologies but take longer and longer to become true adults, if they do at all, with few qualified to guide them along the way. We’ve forgotten the natural world and its animals, who are in many respects our superiors. We are immigrants in a cold, unyielding land.

Last year was marked by further travels in the outer and inner worlds. Like Vitaly, I had flown to the other side of the earth, into another time and place. Last May, while Vitaly visited his father for what would be the last time, I walked leaf-strewn streets in New Zealand. I returned for our rabbit’s last summer; and for the last two weeks of his life, Jenifer and I watched over him day and night, gave him the medicine he hated taking, held him upright so he could eat, drink, and relieve himself. October J was both child and elder, both dependent and wise beyond measure. He showed us the truth of Amma’s words, that nothing is a burden when there is devotion.

Today, a little later than usual, I put on my coat and made for the corner door. Vitaly had his on, too. “You going for a smoke?” I smiled. “Yeah.”

We slipped out the door and into the first snowfall of the year. We crossed the parking lot, and I headed for the bordering trees. “Where are you taking me?” Vitaly asked. “To my secret place,” I joked. We went up a short embankment and under a canopy of pines to the Quaker meeting house just beyond.

I said that it was old and Vitaly said that nothing in America is old. He was right, of course, and as we took shelter on the front porch, my common retreat, he noted the meeting house’s year of establishment: 1871, one hundred years before his birth. Vitaly smoked and I looked across the street to the silent Quaker graveyard, to the snow-grey atmosphere haunting the surrounding woods. We said little, watched the falling snowflakes, and remembered sunnier days. It was a good start.

October J Decided

Then a great beauty was revealed in him, so that all who after came there looked on him with wonder; for they saw that the grace of his youth, and the valour of his manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of his age were blended together. And long there he lay, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world. — J.R.R. Tolkien

October J Rabbit has passed. Yesterday, at five o'clock in the evening, he died in Jenifer's arms. He had waited for me to return from work. He waited for me, and when I joined him and Jenifer on the sofa, I knew that his time was drawing near.

Jenifer offered October some water, some honey, but he wanted neither. Then, with great force, he pushed down with his front legs, and Jenifer placed her hands beneath his paws to give him better leverage. All his long life he had rarely uttered more than contented murmurs and clucks, or the low grunts of sexual desire. Now, at the end, determined sounds of effort escaped as he pushed down and reared his head up, leaning into Jenifer's chest. He pushed and pushed again, rising skyward, until with his last breath his spirit escaped the body. His hind feet were pressed neatly together, his little hands folded as if in prayer, and his gentle face lifted to God. He died with honey in his mouth. It was a beautiful death. Perfect. A miracle.

We first found October, or he found us, in the pet store Jenifer was working in. The date was September 5, 1997. He gave us 10 beautiful years to the day. He was always fully present and effortlessly himself. Everyone who knew him saw his big personality, was forced to reconsider their notions of what a rabbit could be. He was naturally a prey animal, and yet he approached others and the world without fear. If a dog or cat was out of line, Mister J would not hesitate to thump and let them know who was boss. If he were a Gatorade flavor, he would be Fierce Melon. He was regal and imperious (he got that from his mom), curious and generous. He was our sweet, rabbit-shaped boy.

October J, we love you. We will be with you always, to the end of all days.

Each form you see has its unseen twin image.
If the form is transient, its essence is eternal.
If you have known beauty in a face
Or wisdom in a word,
Let this nourish your heart:
What passes is not real.
— Rumi

Weathering the Storm

What a month it's been. I don't mean to overstate the case, but things happened, events were experienced, and people were involved. Here's a rundown for those keeping score:

1. We got a new car. Last month, Jenifer's 1998 Taurus gave out at around 176,000 miles. Pretty good. But that left us with my 1996 Cavalier. A couple weeks ago it decided to stop running while Jenifer was driving, and we decided it was time to move on. At 179,402 miles it owed us nothing, and so, after considerable but quick deliberation, we picked up a shiny new Toyota Prius. In one fell swoop, we are now officially a One Car Family, reducing our carbon footprint, and one step closer to our dream of becoming wind barons on the Faroe Islands.

2. We were Tayafied. Our friend and force of nature Taya dropped by Philadelphia for a couple weeks between projects. She stayed with us for a bit before heading back to New Zealand to work on the upcoming Asian western Laundry Warrior. Taya threw into sharp relief my own orderly patterns, the reigning stillness and stability of our house. (Hey, I'm a writer.) Jenifer and I are quiet people. We have a quiet car. Even our pet doesn't bark, but murmurs. Taya's the kind of girl you expect to find success as a sword-swallower or fire-eater, and indeed, when questioned, she admitted to having considered running off with the circus. And we love her for it.

3. Progress on the Viking script continued. New story, new treatment. It rocks.

4. October J Rabbit decided hopping is for sissies. About a week ago he simply stopped hopping. He’d been having a little difficulty with his hind legs, but the vet didn’t know the cause. I’m slowly learning not to say too much about his condition at the office, because invariably the conversation then goes like this:

Q : How old is he? A: Ten. Q: How long do rabbits live? A: The usual range given is five to ten years.

At which point my fellow conversationalist wrenches his/her face into the Grimace. Thing is, October J is completely happy, present, and spirited (read: willful), and so we aren’t overly worried. And now that he’s toodling around in the Prius with his yoga-teaching mama to his twice-a-week acupuncture sessions, he’s even fancier than before. We like that.

5. I got this fortune from a cookie: “Soon you will encounter a whole new world of opportunity.”

Back to a New World

We're back. More to come.