I discovered this quote in the introduction of The Forest for the Trees by Betsy Lerner.  Lerner continues by say, “Now I understand that writers are a breed apart, their gifts and their whips inextricably linked. The writer’s psychology is by nature one of extreme duality.” I breathed a sigh of relief. My soul danced for joy. Ms. Lerner’s words were so well timed in my life that their presence can only be described as a divine gift.

When I was an undergraduate, I was studying English with a minor in Spanish. I loved literature, so when the Spanish Department sponsored an Argentinean author to come teach Latin American Magic Realism, of course I was going to take his class! Oddly enough, to me at least, this writer was also a mathematician. “He has this formula for writing and he just follows it,” my Spanish instructor told me. A formula for writing? Like an algebraic expression? Could literature be written by just plugging in the right components in the right order? I envied this idea.

Check out The Forest for the Trees by Betsy Lerner

For the next decade, I would search for this formula: creative writing classes, books, social media communities filled with other writers.  I discovered there were a lot of formulas. Some were very rigid, like an architect’s blue print, and some where more general like an old family recipe. I tried them all, like a self-conscious girl searching for a prom dress.  Each one seemed to accentuate some horrible defect in myself, and I would toss it in the corner discouraged in my abilities as a writer and filled with self-loathing. Really what hope is there when you are a self-identified writer who cannot write?

Lerner opens chapter 1, “The Ambivalent Writer,” with a number of questions:

“Do you have a new idea almost every day for a writing project? Do you either start them all and don’t see them through to fruition or think about starting but never actually get going? Are you a short-story writer one day and a novelist the next? A memoirist on Monday and a screenwriter by the weekend? Do you begin sentences in your head while walking to work or picking up the dry cleaning, sentences so crisp and suggestive that they make perfect story or novel openers, only you never manage to write them down? Do you blab about your project to loved ones, coworkers, or strangers before the idea is fully formed, let alone partially executed? Have you ever accidentally left your notes, diary, or disk behind on a train or plane and bemoaned the loss of what certainly had been your best work? Have you ever been diagnosed with any combination of bipolar disorder, alcoholism, or skin disease such as eczema or psoriasis? . . .If you can relate to any of the above, you certainly have the obsessive qualities—along with the self-aggrandizement and concurrent feelings of worthlessness—that are part of the writer’s basic makeup.” (13, The Forest for the Trees)

I breathed a sigh of relief. I am not broken. I do not need to be fixed. I am perfectly designed to do what I love doing. I am a writer.

I have just started Lerner’s book, but I already know it is going to be one of the most important books I will ever read, not simply because it is an editor’s compassionate advice to writer’s, giving us an inside glimpse into the world we both long for and are afraid of, but because The Forest for the Trees is a mirror, like all great books are. The author, seeking to reveal the truth about themselves and the world as they know it, provides the perfect reflective surface for you to see yourself and who you really are. I guess, in one line, that is my formula. Thank you, Betsy Lerner.

A few years later, I was a college student, with a limited income, and looking for a new place to live. I am not really sure why I decided to venture into the ‘forbidden zone,’ but I did. It was the hot mess my advisors had described.  Unkempt yards, broken down fences, some houses were not even inhabitable. But as I went from house to house, one caught my eye.

It was a shabby little white house, with a little worn front porch. I peeked in through the window and saw the arch that separated the living room and dining room, and I fell in love. This was the house. I did not care what the rest of the neighborhood looked like. This little house felt like home. It had no central heat or air; actually, it had no heat or air at all. This was not a deal breaker. I stuck an air conditioner in the dining room window and a gas stove in the sealed fire place. Despite these measures, the summer days were occasionally a little too hot, and the winter nights, a little too cold, but it was home.

I rented the little two bedroom house, with no kitchen appliances, for $250 a month. It had a fabulous circular floor plan, with doors leading from one room to another all the way around the hearth that ran through the center like an umbilical cord. The walls were all white, so I painted Celtic knots around the hearth and around the arch. I crowned the bedroom walls with Egyptian lotus flowers. I hung my own artwork on the walls.

It was a magical place, inhabited by magical people—friends—roommates–who temporarily shared my cozy space with me. A large, ancient pecan tree grew in the patchy grass of the front yard, occasionally inspiring the timid knock of a stranger asking permission to gather the nuts to make into a pie. It was a beautiful tree that whispered secrets in the wind if you knew how to sit still and listen to it.

Dreams are like that little house. Some people may warn you not to go there, because they believe you will be risking your safety and security. You may have to give up the comfort of a consistent climate; but the price is right, and you might just find a little magic.

I love the little grammatical errors that occur when people shift back and forth between languages. I am really the last person you want to practice your English with if you want stringent feedback on your linguistic faux pas. I let too much slide. Eventually, I may get around to telling you how “we say it in America,” but I am certainly not going to stop every conversation to point it out. Like I said, I enjoy the grammatical errors. It opens new doors to understanding.

My daughter has a habit of saying “throw a picture” instead of saying “take a picture.” It is a literal translation of what she has learned at her father’s house: “tira una foto.” What an interesting image. I once wrote a poem called “Pressed Flowers” in response to a photo prompt. The poem associated a photograph with memories frozen in time, like flowers pressed between the pages of a book.

My daughter’s grammatical error opened up a new way of viewing photographs. It was not something that you took, a lost moment that you stole and hid away. A picture was something you threw! Throwing implies there will be someone else out there to catch it. It wasn’t a private experience, it was a shared experience.

Someday, I will tell her that we don’t actually say “throw a picture” in English, but for now, I am enjoying this little linguistic discrepancy.

I discovered my spiritual beliefs at a very young age, and I think that is because I was exposed to so many options. When I started to pick and choose what I believed to be true, those beliefs where rigorously challenged by a mother who does not think the same way as I do. Each time I had to defend what I believed in, even if only in my own mind, I had to rethink the issue, maybe adjust my opinion just a little. These opinions where constantly infused with new information. With each challenge, I had to decide, once again, that what I believed was indeed my ultimate truth.

Of course, this process can also go horribly wrong. Sometimes you are immersed in negative, self-destructive options. Sometimes, the challenges are so aggressive it sets up an irrational, reactive belief that is incapable of evolving naturally on its own.

This idea reminded me of tempering steel. Sure enough, google lead me to the perfect metaphor for this idea.  According to the website Integrated Publishing:

“After the hardening treatment is applied, steel is often harder than needed and is too brittle for most practical uses. Also, severe internal stresses are set up during the rapid cooling from the hardening temperature. To relieve the internal stresses and reduce brittleness, you should temper the steel after it is hardened. Tempering consists of heating the steel to a specific temperature (below its hardening temperature), holding it at that temperature for the required length of time, and then cooling it, usually instill air. The resultant strength, hardness, and ductility depend on the temperature to which the steel is heated during the tempering process.

The purpose of tempering is to reduce the brittleness imparted by hardening and to produce definite physical properties within the steel. Tempering always follows, never precedes, the hardening operation. Besides reducing brittleness, tempering softens the steel. That is unavoidable . . .”

http://www.tpub.com/steelworker1/11.htm

Now, the thing I find so fastening about this passage is the connection between hardness and brittleness. The harder the steel the less useful it is. I also appreciate the idea that this hardness and brittleness develops from the internal stresses of extreme changes in temperature.

So there is the formula, my friends. What happens if you have developed some of those negative, self-destructive belief systems? Well, most likely the stresses of extreme heating and cooling created a belief system that is too hard, and ironically, too brittle to be of any use. You will need to be tempered. This means subjecting yourself to a little heat. It also means you will have to be willing to let go of some of that hardness. Sorry, you just can’t have it both ways: tempered and useful or hard and brittle. The choice is yours.

I grew up in rural Maine. It was a time when glam rock ruled my small high school. It was a screechy, drug induced scene that I was never really attracted to. I found myself drawn into the British Pop world of MTV, where things at least appeared happy; even sad songs where sung in a gitchy, upbeat tempo.

 Being a music lover, I was a member of the high school chorus. One year we went to Philadelphia, to perform at another school. “Is that a topless woman!” one student shrieked as our school bus struggled to wind through the narrow back streets of Philly. We weren’t in Maine anymore. Philadelphia was new and exciting, and this trip probably ignited my life-long love of traveling. It also ignited something else, my love for hip hop.

It was at a school sponsored event where I first discovered Hip Hop. A DJ played songs like “Parents Just Don’t Understand” by Will Smith and DJ jazzy Jeff and “Push It” by Salt and Pepper, music that would later dominate MTV when they, too, would embrace this new musical style. The DJ scratched records while the MC passed around a mic–students demonstrating their “skills” in verbal dexterity. It was poetry set to a rhythm. Early Hip Hop was gritty, but still tongue in cheek. It was rebellious, yet in many ways intellectual, either in message or in linguistic abilities, and in the best cases, it did both. It broke the top forty formula and strode off in its own direction. It was infectious, and I loved it.

Somewhere along the way; however, hip hop became frustrated, angry. It became gangsta rap, full of guns and drugs, hos and violence, some say, reflecting the environment that shaped the artists. Had the urban streets somehow become much harder?  Had those struggling on them for so long lost hope?  Hip Hop lost its joyful edge and slipped down into defensiveness until rappers where shot for the sides they took in the escalating posturing. It was a sad time, and I have to be honest, I didn’t really like that music much.

But the beautiful thing about music is that it changes, sometimes evolving slowly and sometimes taking an abrupt turn.  I love hip hop again. Sometimes I still catch the refrains of gansta rap, and when I do I change the channel, skip the song, because if you pick and choose carefully you can find a new positivity in Hip Hop, and consistent with its tendency to stride off in its own direction, it has fused with other genres like the high energy, ethereal house music that I also love—a divine union.

Yes, I am like Hip Hop, on a musical, never ending journey.

When I was younger, I swore I would not make the same mistakes as my mother. You can only imagine my surprise, disappointment, and frustration, as I found myself repeating those same mistakes one after another. How could this be? The answer is actually very simple. I did not know what I did not know.

My mother and I are two seeds planted in the same soil. She inherited this soil from her father, and I inherited it from her. Our soil lacks . . . let’s say . . . vital nutrients. Without these vital nutrients, it’s a miracle we blossom at all, much less bare prize winning fruit. My mother could not teach me, what she did not learn. Unfortunately, the opposite is also true.

I learned her way of dealing with stress. I learned her way of dealing with conflict. I learned her way of dealing with people. She wanted me to make better choices and lead a better life, but she was not equipped to teach me the skills I needed to achieve that goal. We do not know what we do not know.

Just like a fruit tree in barren soil can not simply will itself to be a stronger, healthier tree. Children can not will themselves to be different from the people who raised them . . . not without a little help. To truly avoid the mistakes of your parents, you will need to be open to new skills your parents could not teach you. You will need to find people who have those skills. You will need to be willing to adopt those skills and practice those skills, no matter how awkward they may feel at first. If you are not willing to do this, you probably will learn from your parent’s mistakes. You will learn how to make all the same choices that lead them to that mistake, and inevitably make it yourself. You do not know what you do not know.

Defend-verb: to ward off attack from; guard against assault or injury

If you look up the definitions for the words “protect” and “defend,” they are very similar. In fact, depending on your dictionary, you might even find “protect” in the definition of “defend” or “defend” in the definition of “protect,” but I would like to make a subtle distinction. It is a distinction I recently learned myself. I believe the true difference between “protect” and “defend” is the difference between proactive and reactive behaviors.

To protect is to create a safe environment. To protect requires slow, deliberate decision making. To protect is to avoid a compromising situation that could be detrimental to that which you are attempting to protect.

To defend is to minimize the harm caused by a hostile environment. To defend requires fast, decisive decision making. To defend is to neutralize a compromising situation that could be detrimental to that which you are attempting to defend.

There are definitely similarities here. Both require action. Both require decision making. Both require courage. I think the main difference is if one is good at defending, they will succeed in eliminating harm. If one is good at protecting, the harm is never encountered.

Let’s use a political example:

In the United States of America, the Executive, Judicial, and Legislative branches are in charge of protecting the nation. When the job is done well, the country avoids compromising situations. It flourishes and grows. There is peace and happiness.

In the United States of America, the Military is in charge of defending the nation. The brave men and women who have chosen to serve in this capacity put their lives on the line to defend our country from compromising situations. But whether we succeed or fail, our country has experienced the consequences of that conflict. Good people die, citizens are conflicted. We may learn and grow from the experience. We may even learn how to “protect” ourselves from similar experiences, but the experience will leave a foot print on the soul of the nation.

Unfortunately, I think there is more glory in defending than protecting. Defenders are praised for their courage, memorialized for their sacrifice. Protectors receive very little credit for their work. Who takes the time to say, congratulations, we have experienced another trauma free day. If a protector does their job well, the compromising situation never appears. There are no Greek epics, or romantic poems about protectors. There are no medals or monuments commemorating the uneventful.

Perhaps that is why so many of us subconsciously create conflict in our lives. It gives us the opportunity to be the glorious defender. We have the opportunity to wear our scars like banners of triumph! Or perhaps some of us, coming from a long line of defenders never learned the skills necessary to be effective protectors. But, I think the first step is simply learning that there is a difference.

I never drank coffee when I was younger. It was horrible! I do, however, have fond memories of my grandmother and grandfather drinking coffee. My grandmother was always brewing coffee at home–clean and brew; brew and clean. Coffee was a moment to relax. Nobody bothered Grammy when she was drinking her coffee.  My grandfather would take me to a local coffee shop when I was younger. We would sit at the counter, he with his coffee and me with my cocoa, and I would feel very important, very grown up indeed. Maybe this is why I always loved the smell of coffee, long before I loved the taste of it. Yet, I resisted joining this tradition, not merely because of the taste, but because caffeine was a drug, a horrible, addictive drug that would do terrible things to my brain and cause me a life of suffering. No I would not drink coffee.

I started college when I was in my early 20s. I was married to a man from Seattle, coffee capital of the United States. This was before there was a Starbucks on every corner. One morning before class, we went to a new bagel shop in town. They served these caffeinated concoctions with steamed milk and syrup and whipped cream. It looked good. Perhaps I was really over thinking this whole caffeine thing. I mean, was it really the Anti-Christ? I decided to try one. It was good. We often went to that little coffee shop for a bagel and capucinni-latte thingy. It was a special treat, and I deserved it.

After my husband died, i continued to stop for those flavored coffees. Sometimes at that little coffee shop we visited together, sometimes at the book store, sometimes on campus. Coffee had become a comfort. Of course, I began to use these coffee moments as study time as well. Did the coffee contribute to my ability to study? Well maybe, but I think it had less to do with caffeine, than with the subconscious signal: time to concentrate, time to get productive.

Now, as a single career woman in Miami, I stop at my local coffee shops (yes, I frequent many), but now I think I buy coffee for the opportunity to connect. I see the same faces every day: faces that want nothing from me (well, except my patronage), who recognize, smile, banter. It is a simple interaction but it pulls me out of my inner dialogue for a moment. You see, I have been trained by these same coffee shops in the art of connection, at least the brief 3-5 minute connection required for such a transaction, but it’s a start.

So do I love coffee? Yes. I love it for so many reasons; reasons that run much deeper than a chemical alteration in my brain.

Let’s look that up. According www.dictionary.com:

com·mit·ment [kuh-mit-muhnt]

noun

1. the act of committing.

2. the state of being committed.

3. the act of committing, pledging, or engaging oneself.

4. a pledge or promise; obligation: We have made a commitment to pay our bills on time.

5. engagement; involvement: They have a sincere commitment to religion.

Oh boy, it looks like we have to go a little further down the rabbit hole for this one.

com·mit [kuh-mit] verb, -mit·ted, -mit·ting.

verb (used with object)

1. to give in trust or charge; consign.

2. to consign for preservation: to commit ideas to writing; to commit a poem to memory.

3. to pledge (oneself) to a position on an issue or question; express (one’s intention, feeling, etc.): Asked if he was a candidate, he refused to commit himself.

4. to bind or obligate, as by pledge or assurance; pledge: to commit oneself to a promise; to be committed to a course of action.

5. to entrust, especially for safekeeping; commend: to commit one’s soul to God.

Ahhhhh there’s the bogie man: trust. A commitment requires trust. Now, I don’t seem to have a problem committing to paying my bills on time. There is satisfaction in paying my bills on time, a sense of accomplishment. Of course, it hasn’t always been that way. This is something I have learned over time. I worked hard to gain the skills I needed to earn more money, and gradually overtime I gained the confidence that I could take care of myself on that income. I don’t “commit” to owing more than I can pay for. Hmmmmmm. The answer is in there somewhere isn’t it—skills, confidence, and defining boundaries. I suppose that is the essence of trust; trusting others and trusting yourself.

Good job subconscious. You are brilliant!

On the 17th of September, we want to see 20,000 people to flood into lower Manhattan, set up beds, kitchens, peaceful barricades and occupy Wall Street for a few months.

Like our brothers and sisters in Egypt, Greece, Spain, and Iceland, we plan to use the revolutionary Arab Spring tactic of mass occupation to restore democracy in America. We also encourage the use of nonviolence to achieve our ends and maximize the safety of all participants.

Although I applauded the use of social media as a tool for social change, I am not sure that the participants of this event are aware of the true power behind the Arab Spring: self-sacrifice.  It wasn’t merely the ability of individuals to organize via social media; it was their willingness to do so despite the fact that it might cost them their lives.

This is not to say that I do not support the protestors in New York. They have a right to be heard, and I hope they are committed enough to make an impact on our national discourse, but so far all I have seen online are their demands to be represented in the mainstream media. For what? Wandering the streets of New York for a few hours? The homeless have been doing it for decades. This is not the time for instant gratification. Focus on your message, and get it out there. We are listening.