Conversation Under The Maple # 6

 

"Potato skins,” said Harvey, coming from the kitchen where he had heated his treats under the broiler. "Red potatoes from Liz with cheese, green onion, and sour cream to dip. And Ollie, there is a bag of potatoes on your counter for you to make the potato salad for next Sunday. The kids agreed to come since I set the date and didn't give them a choice. They'll be driving down from Seattle and Portland."

 

"Great, Harvey," said Ollie, "you guys are so creative with the snacks. Is this a competition?"

 

"For me, it was a slam dunk. I used the inside of the potatoes for hash browns."

 

Everyone dived in. 

 

"Yum, these are perfect, Harvey, thanks," says Sally.

 

After everyone had eaten a stuffed potato skin and settled into their seats with a drink, Twinkie pulled a canvas bag from beneath her seat. "Ollie, I brought you something." She pulled a 6-inch glass orb from the canvas bag. "It's a fishing net float I made last Saturday, primitive by professional standards, but my first piece worth sharing." She held it out to Ollie. "It’s for inviting us into your lovely home. And for being the gracious hostess, you are."

 

"Oh my, Twinkie," says Ollie, gently taking the glass ball. "It's beautiful. Your blues and greens are exquisite," she turned it around in her hand, "and there's a bit of purple, "How'd you do that? You are an artist! I see there's a little loop. I will hang it in my kitchen window. Thank you so much. I am honored." 

 

Ollie swishes her white caftan aside, and with her gold dangling earrings flashing in the sunlight, she sits the glass ball in the center of the table. "Simad," she says, "We sent you off with little help last week."

 

"Truth be told, I ran off because I was embarrassed. I was complaining."

 

"No, Simad, you told us how you felt," Ollie explained. "That's different from complaining. As much as we would like it, life isn't always rosy. Our experiences are what they are. Remember, we're here to support and encourage."

 

"Then figure out what in the hell is wrong with me."

 

"You know what?" says Shal, "Stuckness like you are having means you are onto something big."

 

"You think so?"

 

"Well, the closer you are to the truth, the more the monster resistance will jump on you. It's inescapable. It is always there. It is not your fault. You can't kill it."

 

"Whoa, that's encouraging."

 

"But you can trick it."

 

"Shal, where do you get these things?"

 

"Well, for one, I read Steven Pressfield's Do the Work. One exercise is this: He took it from Patrica Ryan Madson's book Improv Wisdom. Madson was an Impro teacher at Stanford, and one of her exercises was this: Imagine you have a box. What's inside? You open it, and there is a frog, a book, or a clock inside. No matter how many times you open the box, something will always be inside. 

 

"Pressfield wrote, 'I believe with unshakable faith that there will always be something in the box. Ask me about my religion? That's it. That's how I approach my work. My brain will always give me an answer.' Guys," says Shal, "that's my religion, too."

 

Simad was silent thoughtful, one hand stroked his chin. 

 

Ollie said: "Why did you start writing in the first place, Simad?"

 

"I felt it had me by the neck and wouldn't let go. I had to do it."

 

"Did you love doing it?"

 

"Oh yes, I'm in the zone when words are flowing. I'm out of the zone when the words all bump into each other like a train wreck. That's where I am now."

 

"So, says Twinkie, you do it out of love."

 

“I suppose so, yes, I love doing it. It feeds me. Is that being egocentric?"

 

"Who cares, "says Shal. "You must be somewhat egocentric to do any art. It's putting your heart out to be shot at."

 

"Is that troubling you, Simad? You're afraid of being selfish?"

 

"Well, there's an aspect to it."

 

"Give it up, dear one. Do you think Beethoven was worried about his ego?" Ollie says.

 

"Maybe. He was human."

 

"Yeah, but he did it anyway, even deaf. Imagine that. He must have heard all that music in his head, and it was roaring to get out."

 

"But I'm not a Beethoven."

 

"Nope, he's been done, and you don't want to be deaf anyway. I bet you have words roaring to get out." 

 

"I do. It's the deadline that has me tied in knots."

 

"Ah, the ole, I'm not good enough ploy—the pressure. Or maybe you're afraid of being shot at. Get back to the joy of it. That's the reason you want to write. There is always a little something we must pony up to when fulfilling our dream. There is always an aspect to it we don't like. And you have a publisher wanting it. Many people would go into poverty for that."

 

"I'm into poverty already. This is my first novel. My last book was non-fiction. I'm not supporting myself with it."

 

"You're making excuses," says Ollie, "Get back onto the joy of it. Do you have your ending?"

 

"That's part of the problem."

 

"Let your protagonist write her own ending. You don't have to do everything for her."

 

Simad laughs. "I'm curious to see what she comes up with."

 

"Me too. Hurry and finish so I can read it. I'm tired of your lolly-gagging. Even if you don't know what to write, your fingers should move on that keyboard. Write "crap, crap, crap***" until something emerges." Ollie fills her cup as though for emphasis.

 

"And," says Twinkie, "You still have your hearing."

 

"Yeah, if I didn’t I wouldn't hear all this advice. Or know to love you guys because you want to help me."

 

"And stop worrying about being perfect. That'll kill you. Just get 'er done," said Sally. "When we were on vacation, my kids got their best shopping done in the last 15 minutes. There was something about the urgency of it."

 

"But Sally, Chefs are notorious for being a perfectionist. What do you do if a dish isn't perfect?"

 

"I throw it in the garbage and start over. I do have a deadline—a customer waiting for their food. I don't cook all that much, though. I give the recipes to my cooks, and they do it. I'm not looking for a Michelin star. I'm a cook, not a Chef. I'm more like Julia Childs: a pinch of this, a dob of that, pour in some red wine, eat, enjoy."

 

"How did you get so blasé about your art, Sally?"

 

"I'm not having a heart attack over a plate of spaghetti. Oh, I'm sorry, Harvey."

 

"No problem. Liz couldn't cook worth a darn. She loved to garden, though. You figure."

 

"So, she died doing what she loved. We should all be so lucky." Twinkie says, "I don't mean to be disrespectful, Harvey."

 

"It's good that you are disrespectful about death, for there isn't any. People live on, just not here. It's the person to hold and to love I miss. We had our ups and downs in marriage but were always committed to working it out. She was my best friend and my lover. I looked forward to coming home every day."

 

"We came together to expand our spiritual journey, Harvey. Thanks for sharing that." Ollie says. "Simad, I suggest you write for about 15 minutes outside your manuscript. Write out the crap. Or run around the block. Or clean house. By the way, do you have dishes in the sink?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Wash them as soon as you get home, and your block will disappear."

 

"Is this like paying for warts to make them go away?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I'll do it. In fact, I'm excited. I'll wash the dishes, then dive into my novel. I'll pretend I'm shopping those last 15 minutes before boarding the plane for home.

 

Shal pipes up, "Homer began both the Iliad and the Odyssey with a prayer to the Muse. He knew his best work came from some invisible source he could not control. He could only invoke it."

 

"I will let my characters get what they have been wanting all along.," says Simad. "I believe I was afraid to write "The End,' although writing 'The End' is passe' now."

 

"Yeah, Simad," says Shal, "just finish the damn thing. Be cocky enough to believe you can do it."

 

"I will."

 

"One more thing," said Shal, "Oscar Wilde said. He always passed on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it, he said. "It is never of any use to oneself."

 

"Here, here," said Harvey, chuckling, and hoisting himself out of his chair. "I'll heat up the rest of the potato skins."

 

 

P.S.You can find all the conversations on Substack, plus a little extra in between. 

 

Jewell D's Substack

 

aka

 

https://joycedavis@substack.com

Conversation Under the Maple

“Hi Guys,” says Shal, coming through the gate. “Gosh, I’m excited about today.”

 

“Hi Sal, Hi, Hi’s,” echo around the group. Laffy, the coon hound ambles over to give Shal a greeting. “Hi, fellow,” he says, scratching the dog behind the ear. “I’ve hit on something really fascinating.”

 

“Great, Shal,” says Ollie, “We can move on from sex, lies, and videotapes.”

 

“Did I miss something?” says Harvey, “I thought we were only talking about lies.”

 

“Whoops, I padded it,” says Ollie, “Want an iced tea Shal?” She holds out a frosty glass. 

 

“Indeed, thanks.” He takes the glass and sits on the one vacant chair.” Sally, you fixed Bruschettas?” 

 

“Yeah, I just toasted them. They should be hot.”

 

“Oh Sally, I’ll love you forever.” He picks up a slice of a toasted baguette smeared with olive oil and topped with fresh tomatoes, onion, garlic, and vinegar and takes a big bite.”

 

“Hurry and chew, Shal. I want to hear what you came up with.”

 

“Mumble, Yum. First things first, how do you make something so simple taste so good, Sal?” 

 

“TLC Shal.”

 

“I’m grateful for you, Sally. I’m grateful for this Bruschetta. Where do you get your tomatoes anyway? I’m grateful for all of you.” He washes down his Bruschetta with tea and says, “Here’s what I heard from Dr. Joe Dispenzia:”

 

“Yeah, I know of him,” says Harvey, “my daughter went to him when he was a Chiropractor in San Diego. He’s become quite a scientist with a grand audience.”

 

“He’s into healing and genes, and physiology and all that. Did you know that genes are like Christmas tree lights in that they turn off and on? It rather negates the old idea of mixing a blue-eyed gene with a brown-eyed gene, and viola’ you get a brown-eyed person—dominant and recessive, brown wins.”

 

“Maybe some don’t turn off and on.”

 

“But some do, and here’s the rub: they are affected by stress.”

 

“No wonder people are running hot or cold. Their genes don’t know whether to be on or off.” 

 

“And how we think affects them. When we’re stressed, worrying, and thinking the same dismal thoughts day after day, our body is operating in survival mode. Cortisol, the stress hormone, pours into the brain.”

 

“We have flight or flight for survival, a built-in system,” says Harvey, “Get the heck out of there, or fight it.”

 

“That works well in the short term. Even herds of antelope settle down after a lion kills one of their herd. They calmly graze until a lion gets hungry and antsy again. Then all hell breaks loose. But people can’t settle down. Most live under constant dread of something: financial worries, relationship worries, world conditions, political conditions, health conditions, and if that isn’t bad enough, we worry about dying. Even us. Last week, we were stewing over what to believe and how people manipulated us. We just don’t let up.”

 

“And then there is that chattering brain,” says Ollie, “You drop something, and your mind says you're clumsy. You say a wrong word, and somebody corrects you, and then you add to it by berating yourself for being stupid. It’s constant.”

 

“Yeah, like we’re never supposed to muck up,” says Simad,” Do it right all the time.”

 

“You guys, see how easy it is to get into the ‘Ain’t it awful game?”

 

“Shal, we did that, didn’t we? I fell right into it.” Says Simad. “As a writer, I deal with rejection all the time. How are we supposed to manage in a competitive world?”

 

“Give yourself some wins, Simad. Celebrate those milestones. You know when you have written a good chapter. Acknowledge yourself, then write another. You know you can do it. You are getting better. So what if it doesn’t appeal to everybody. It never will. That’s the name of the game. It’s only a game, Simad. Stop comparing yourself to others.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Sorry Simad.”

 

“Tough love,” says Ollie, “sometimes hard to take, yet often meant in the kindest way.”

 

“I feel better already,” says Simad. “I know I’m being too hard on myself. I need to be reminded to lighten up. Thanks, Shal.”

 

“Yeah, we have this minute time on earth. Let’s live it gloriously. Even if you believe in reincarnation, don’t wait for another lifetime to get it right. Or wait for heaven where you will be happy.”

 

Here, hear. How shall we do it?”

 

“Back to Doctor Joe, he says to take time every day to have an elevated emotion. Do it three times a day. It is like dropping a pebble into the water, and another and another, keep those rings going. 

 

“Energy affects matter. The more energy, the more matter can be affected. Without positive energy, we are shoving matter with matter, and you know how stubborn that rock of matter can be. Fire it up with grateful thoughts. Doc Joe found 10 minutes of gratitude daily is better than a flu shot. And it only took three days for his subjects to become measurably better. He says you can heal yourself that way.

 

“Stop thinking the same thoughts you thought yesterday,” Twinkie ruminates. “Why do we have such talkative brains anyway?”

 

“It’s narrating our lives,” says Ollie. The reason to meditate is to stop the mind chatter. It gives our poor little thinking brain a breather.” 

 

Shal asks, “Would anyone like to join me and spend at least 10 minutes a day in gratefulness or meditation for the next week?”

 

“Sure, I’ll do it, Shal,” says Twinkie.”

 

“Me too,” says Ollie.” 

 

There followed unanimous agreement. Six people would meditate for 10 minutes three times a day, or 30 minutes total, until next Tuesday. 

 

“I’m coming back 40 pounds lighter next week,” says Harvey.

 

“Isn’t it strange how committing to 30 minutes seems immense? Thirty minutes. I spend more time washing dishes than 30 minutes. I’m more important than dirty dishes. ‘

 

“Leave’em until next week, Ollie. I’ll wash them for you.”

 

“You’re a doll, Shal,” says Ollie, pushing herself out of her chair and rushing into the house.

 

Soon, music booms through the speakers on the porch, with Joni Michael singing Both Sides Now. 

 

Startled to hear Michael’s voice, Twinkie gives a “Whoop! This song has gained new popularity recently. Come on, Harv.” She stands and offers her hand to pull Harvey to his feet. They all stand, join hands, and sway as Michael sings her 55-year-old song that is as pertinent that day as the day she penned it. Harvey has tears flowing down his face, remembering clouds from both sides. Now he knows that those clouds of Michael’s song rain and snow on everyone, not just him. And he can choose his sides.