Oh, why, why, why would you want to do such a thing, Nanette? (See, there I go already.)

Well, for one thing, I mentioned a few weeks ago that I was going to create my own life. And I have been doing anything but ever since. I am easily distracted, this is true. Life, yapping on people’s blogs, cleaning the bathroom (it’s amazing what looks more fun when I am in avoidance mode.) But it was more than that, than just avoidance. I wasn’t yet ready to trust myself, my instincts. It’s kind of hard to “just go with your gut” when you’ve spent years ignoring the little bugger. It’s not that I’ve ever been especially practical or sensible, it’s just that – except for a very few occasions – I have thought that I should be doing something else other than what I wanted to do. What it felt like I should do.

If that makes any sense, and it may not because I am a terrible explainer.

I almost didn’t trust my instincts enough to put up my first post on this topic of creating my own life. I agonized about making it public, wondered if it was too sappy, too woowoo, too big a step (it was barely a shuffle), too – everything. Much better, I thought, to keep it private and safe and warm. It was too new, I said.

But I finally gathered my courage, thought “trust” – and threw my little fledgling out of the nest. And then, that evening, I received a most wonderful gift in return. This half-feathered, shaky, squeaky little creation of mine had bumped into someone’s heart, and they wrote and told me about it.

Oh, man. This was an old, dear friend who I hadn’t spoken to in a long time writing to me, telling that what I said resonated with him. And not only that, but he had realized that I was right about something I told him years ago (I will mightily resist the urge to say, “Of course!”) and that he had been making changes in his own life. Good ones, happy ones on the heels of other good changes that appeared out of the blue.

Yes, of course – tears, when I read that.  Not only did he not think I was silly, he affirmed what I had been thinking, and how it was working in his own life. He’ll be on his own journey of self-discovery, self-creation, while I am on mine so in some ways we’ll travel together!

So, what does this all have to do with interviewing myself? I believe that that needs to be my first step. Part of creating my own life – but not the biggest part – is exploring my writing, expanding not only my ability – a lot of that will come with practice, I think – but my depth. There is little enough of it to explore right now because, as I’ve mentioned before, for all my yapping about “me, me, me” I don’t say an awful lot. Habit, nature, whatever – I rarely put anything out there that hits anywhere near close to any bones. Not even if I am writing a private journal type thing, the habit of silence is just too ingrained, I guess. But – if I want to be a writer of any depth, I have to, I think, at least skim near the bony parts, no?

I think of myself, my writing right now, as toodling around on my trike, gaining a little on the people on two-wheelers and training wheels. That’s in my sights; I ask myself, “Can you do that?” and I think, yeah, I can. I’m a little more dubious about the 10-speeds. “Can you do that?” and I think, yeah. Sure. Probably – soon. With enough peddling and practice. I’ve got friends on all those bikes and eventually I’ll get there.

But then, you know… I’ve got friends who can fly. I don’t know if that’s what I really want to do; it takes a lot of work and practice and excavating, I think. I’d like to try, though. I may not ever soar, but I might eventually be able to flap a few feet above the ground.

But all that, and everything else I have planned, begins with a beginning. And the interview is mine.

I’m going to make up my own questions instead of getting them from a book or something. Though I may seek inspiration of sorts somewhere, because a year’s worth is a lot of questions. And, of course, reader suggestions will always be welcome, or anyone who is doing this, too. “What would you ask me?”  I’ll ask. Or, better yet, what would you ask yourself?

I want to do it this way, and make it an entire year instead of a few weeks or months because it is my hope that once I run out of the easy questions, and the easy answers, I will dig down deeper for the more difficult ones. Or ask the same question again after a passage of time, but demand something more than the answer I gave before. Use this process to train myself to give.

You know? It all makes perfect sense to me, but …

[painting up top via here and Zuky]

The other evening I was innocently walking along when I looked up and stopped right where I stood, transfixed by the sundowning sky. It was brilliant! Storm clouds closed ranks overhead, dark and billowy, shot through with flashes of white and light gray. Steel-wool balls and bubbles. They parted at the horizon just enough for the vanishing sun to fling splashes of brilliant color this way and that as a parting gift. The yellows, golds, and grays were not subdued but they could only serve as background noise to the shouts of the reds and oranges. And even they paled before the shrieking fuchsia that wove in and out as the light moved. God, it was beautiful.

I stood and soaked in the vision – then sighed, and reluctantly pulled down my rose-colored glasses. It was just as I feared. A lovely, though fuzzy, sunset, to be sure, but someone had brushed a pale white glaze over it, blurring and subduing the entire scene. The steel wool overhead softened into dirty soapsuds. The golds and grays refused to give prominence to the oranges and reds, instead insisting on sharing equal space and saturation. And the fuchsia, far from shrieking, did not seem to exist at all.

I replaced the lenses and thrilled again by the vision, I strove to keep it in my mind so that it could overlay the real thing. I wanted both pictures – the real and the not-so-real. I had my camera phone but what I did not want was a photo, because the camera would record what was there — not what I saw. Not one passerby looked at me strangely, by the way, as I stood in the middle of the sidewalk staring into – as far as they knew – nowhere as I flipped my glasses up and down over my eyes. I suppose that says something about… well, something.

I like my dual vision of the world; my lying eyes show me hidden wonders in the dreary and the mundane. The dull bark of a tree suddenly acquires shadows and depth, as if I can reach out my hand and pull earth from the deep brown valleys that wove between rich burgundy hills. I call up a memory, years old, and still marvel at the bright, shimmering green of the palm fronds as they spread themselves wide, a perfect contrast to the small, autumn-colored leaves of its neighbor tree. So California, this combination. The two together made each stand out more than they ever would by themselves, I reasoned.

It was when I was gazing at that particular scene, in fact, that I happened to look over the top of my rosy glasses and got my first shock of realization. What I was seeing was not what was actually there. Or, rather, it was there – just not exactly how I saw it. The two trees still stood next to each other, and fronds of the palm still waved gently in front of its neighbor – but gone were the deep hues, the brilliant colors. The shimmer! They, together or separate, were just … trees. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

So, yeah, I see the world through rose-colored glasses sometimes. I bask in it, even. But I always remember that underneath that world lies another that is not quite as brilliant, or soft, or beautiful as I imagine. Yet.

After all, the brilliant colors I saw may not exist in my sunset – but I think they do exist somewhere. Don’t ever give up looking.

[sunset photo from here, where they also have many more lovely pictures]

Of course, it could be my inner storytelling self in combat with my inner “Oh, but I can’t do that very well” self – but I prefer instead to think that it’s an ancestor or two giving me a slight nudge. Or shove. Yes, definitely sometimes a shove. Ancestors apparently being rather bossy folks. And who can blame them? (Or do anything about it? After all, who do you complain to?)

I think one of my problems is that I have too many stories, of too many people, other people’s ancestors and my own – some of them like untitled, unsigned paintings lining an old entryway; when you go to look behind them there is nothing but a blank wall. Yet the mystery of their lives nags at you, and you just can’t help but let the curiosity take you over as your imagination fills in the blanks.

Like the other day I came across a listing of slaves included in one woman’s will and distribution of “property.”  It was just like many listings one comes across – a bunch of first names (if you are lucky; sometimes there are only ages and gender listed), but you never get used to them. At least, I hope I never get used to seeing the names of men, women and children listed as “property” to be disposed of along with the house, the furniture and the livestock. (If I do it will be time to put down my pen and let someone else take it up.)

There were about 20 names or so on this list and I looked it over, attempting to record and acknowledge every name – but then my eye swiveled back to the first name on the list, because my brain noticed something odd about it. Ah, there it was… “Sara, 28, slave for life.” Slave for life? Of course, most slaves were expected to live out their lifetimes in bondage, but sometimes some were able to buy their freedom, or gained freedom through the death of a slaveholder, or by other means, as apparently was allowed for the other people listed. But not Sara. Not only did the slaveholder who held her in bondage die; she died deliberately doing what she could to make sure that Sara, already and only 28, never took a breath of freedom.

And you just have to wonder: why? Did she particularly hate Sara? Was Sara perhaps not as meek as the slaveholder wished? Too pretty? Or maybe it was one of those grotesque perversions of “love” one sometimes comes across in those old stories; the slaveholder loves their captive so much that they never want to let them go. For this they would condemn their “loved ones” to a life of unending submission and drudgery.

Whatever the reason – and it could be any one of many; slaveholders were masters (and mistresses) of self-justification – I hope Sara had the last laugh. The slaveholder died just around the time of the Civil War.

So, so many stories of people rendered nameless, faceless and useless except as beasts of burden – but they simply refuse to stay that way. They demand bones and sinew and flesh and clothing; they clamor for recognition of the depth of their thoughts, the strength of their minds; they insist on acknowledgment that they loved and hated, laughed and cried, were indifferent or cowardly or courageous in turn, like almost everyone who has ever lived. Entire nations drew their wealth from each welt or ridge on their scarred backs or callused hands and they, these unwilling builders and wealth creators, are demanding to exist, at least in memory.

I can’t tell all the stories, of course – but then I am far from the only one the ancestors are pinching, and nudging and hectoring (and let’s not forget shoving) into “tending to the past.” I’d love to hear your tales, too.

[Crossposted at The Book of Louis. Photo from here (I cannot vouch for all of their content, not having read the entire site, but they have built a great resource of Civil War and related history items.)]

Unlike the quotes I rotated monthly, Ornette Coleman’s words strolled onto my site over a year ago dressed in deceptive simplicity, paused, and invited me to take a second look before I changed them for something else. And a third look. And a fourth, until finally the words became such a familiar part of the warp and weft of the site that I just let this quote stay.

And there it sat, quiet, unobtrusive, yet tantalizing – like a puzzle box displaying itself just within my reach. I know it waits for me to take it in my hands and prod and press for the right lever so that it can fling itself open and reveal all its secrets. Just so these words, although the critical lever – “I created everything about me” – was not hidden. What to do about it was. Only because I was not yet ready to move beyond the surface beauty of the concept of self-creation and into the forging fires beneath. I am now.

I am going to create my own life. Out loud. So to speak. I’m going to write about my journey, but perhaps not in the first person as I am far better at giving advice to others than taking my own. But the words will still be about me and my walk, with the hope that parts of it will benefit others. Especially, but not limited to, those who are also poor, Black and – as in my case – “past the first blush of youth.” To do this I will need to put myself “out there”, which will be extremely difficult for me, but I see no way around it for the purpose of reaching my particular goals.

In other words, I am going to – yes, even more – work here, and everywhere, to build of myself something new, and confident, and lovely. It’s time.

[image from here]

Besides, too, too cliché, no? Digging to find the jewels. No, I needed something a bit more personal, some item that held meaning beyond what could be seen or sold. And out of nowhere (okay, well out of my way-back memory) came sparkly rocks! The perfect comparison I needed! Well, perfect except that no one else knows why sparkly rocks are so wise and important – so I thought I’d better go ahead and tell the story of me and my sparkly rocks.

Short story first,  I was surrounded by time, security, beauty, and silence (there is little I wouldn’t give for any or all of those now!) – and I was crabby, frazzled, having a bad, ungrateful, ungracious day, until…

It was about 15 years ago now, I guess. My younger self was full of energy; I had a good job that I hated, a nice 4-bedroom rented house, plenty of money (for our needs), limited family drama – and dreams and ideas and the wanting of something different and more were clawing up my insides, daily.

This particular day was a Central California Stunner. A bottle-blue sky washed in the light of a rare benevolent sun; the warmth of its rays slide gently along your skin as if preparing to gather you close into an embrace. A brief respite from its normal fire-spitting fury when, after one step into its heat, fears of your flesh shriveling up like one of our area’s famous raisins trot through your mind.

I was inside, though, in a quiet house I had all to myself for a few hours. My desk was situated, perhaps somewhat unwisely, at a point where I could look through the sliding glass door into a backyard of laden fruit trees. With a turn of my head I could look out a side window in the kitchen, right into the flower garden next door. What I lacked in the green-thumb department my neighbor more than made up for, for her garden was a joyful explosion of color and scents. (Unfortunately, her personality did not match this joy, but that’s okay; I just wanted to look at her public offerings, not drop in for tea.)

And there I sat in front of my computer, broody and discontent, frustrated because whatever I was working on – no doubt one of my many plans to save the world – just would not gel. I felt like growling at someone but there was no one around to growl at except Cat and, well, if you are a cat-knower then I don’t have to explain what a pointless growl that would be. I needed to do something;  I thought of knocking on my neighbor’s door just so her pained “Oh my God, there’s a Black person living next door to me!” smile-frown would give me a reason to sneer at her or something.

Then the doorbell rang. And, finally, my excuse. I hate doorbells! I am somewhat anti-social, don’t like unexpected visitors and I get annoyed when people ring my doorbell. I stalked to the door determined to break every rule of my upbringing – I was not, really not, going to smile at whoever was on the doorstep and say, with a fluting lilt, “Hellooo! How nice to see you!” or “May I help you?” if it’s a stranger. I was going to be rude and snap at someone. Finally!

I snatched opened the heavy wood door, only to find that some eight year old kid had walked right out of a Norman Rockwell painting and landed on my doorstep, rolled up jeans and plaid shirt and all. We stared at each other silently for a moment. The little white kids around here were more inclined to peek curiously at me than to come right up to my door.

Now, believe me when I tell you that I could have resisted his tousled red-gold curls (even if I am a sucker for redheads); the freckles spattering his face, making his clear green eyes seem greener? no problem, a dime a dozen; even the wide, fearless “I am your friend, are you my friend, too?” smile could (really!) have left me cold. But then I glanced down at the box he held in his hands, at the contents and then at the hand lettered sign taped crookedly to the front – “Sparkly rocks for sale! 25 cents each” – and my traitorous defenses just fell.

“Hi, sweetie,”  I fluted. “May I help you?”

He held the tattered box up a bit higher. “Do you want to buy a sparkly rock?”

Jeeze, even his voice, that slightly husky, Spanky and our Gang boy-voice, was conspiring against me.

“Um…” I made sure to gaze intently only at his sparkly rocks, and not at the dozens decorating areas of my backyard, and side and front yards.  White sparkly rocks seemed to be the ground-cover of choice in this neighborhood and I was pretty sure a backyard was where he got those.

I loved it! Talk about chutzpah, this kid was filled to the brim with it.

“I’ll take two. Hold on just a moment,” as I rushed to grab a couple of quarters, because obviously if this kid (who I had never seen before, and never saw again) was selling readily available rocks, there had to be something special about these particular ones.

“You can pick out whichever ones you want,” he offered generously, after I handed over the coins. I poked through the box until I found two that felt just right. They nestled warmly in the palm of each hand, were white with  black striations through them and sparkled all over when held up in the sunlight. Surely magical rocks, these.

The boy gave me one last brilliant, snaggle-toothed smile before heading down the street, presumably to ring the doorbell of the next house.

Me, I took my rocks and settled them on the counter where the light streaming through the windows set the sparkles dancing, then sat back down, laughing, to work.

I don’t know where my rocks are now; too many moves since then. The magic of them, though, continues. I only have to think of them or of that audacious little boy, with his offerings of dreams and boldness, bright in the sunlight on my doorstep, to remind me to laugh, to dream big, and to smile when I knock on scary doors.

I could be wrong – I often am, after all – but I don’t think the midterms are going to be as bad as some predictions. I just remember during the primaries (and the election season itself) how often Obama was both the star… and the “sure to lose” distraction from what was going on in his ground game.

Anyway, we’ll see.