On...

On Between

January 24, 2020 by Cheryl Wilder

male doll sits in rocking chair with a female doll in doll house — It was forever, without reason or / explanation–because it was love.

It’s January 2020 and there’s no shortage of “decade in review” lists. I scanned USA Today‘s 10 Lists over 10 years to get my first taste of the past decade. I’m not quite there yet–the full decade-long look back.

When I turned thirty, it took me until thirty-one to grasp that I was no longer in my twenties. At forty-five, I’m still unsure what it means to be in my forties, though I can say it’s a lot like being a walking, talking hormone carnival (it’s more empowering than it sounds). All to say, I needed the decade to end before I could take a step back and assess.

Reflection began the first week in January when I bought a dining room table. My husband acknowledged that it had been ten years since he and I calculated it would take ten years to pay off our recession debt. All the sudden, the white oval table that seats ten, bought for $180.00 at a consignment store, became the symbol for our accomplishments over the past decade.

In 2011, I published an essay that captured 2010 in the “What It’s Like Living Here” essay series at Numero Cinq. So, I’m starting my reflection with a sentiment I discovered a decade ago: home is the space between two people. I’ve had ten years to live this idea. Ten years for the subject of home–a topic that dominated my writing between 2008 and 2010–to maturate. Ten years to hone my focus as an artist. Last year, I unearthed and organized my old research. I’m equipped and ready for exploration. To begin 2020, I trust the work to lead me.

On Threshold

December 26, 2019 by Cheryl Wilder

close up of iron gate covered in moss connected to worn wood post as threshold — Those who stay / might not want to be found.

If memory serves, I have never written a holiday poem. I associate lightheartedness with holiday poems; if you know my work, you know I am not a lighthearted poet. And for reasons I won’t get into, holidays haven’t inspired me.

But this year, prompted by an upcoming Christmas party with my writing group, I challenged myself to write a holiday-inspired poem. After a few failed attempts, I reached out to the experts for help.

Inspiration came, as I assume it has for many writers, by way of Charles Dickens. Not from his well-known story A Christmas Carol, but from the essay “What Christmas Is as We Grow Older.”

At the essay’s opening words, “Time was,” I imagined my former selves as a chain of paper dolls unfolding back to when I was too young to have memory. I lingered with this image before folding my selves—one self at a time—back together. Then I took Dickens’s advice that comes later in the essay: “Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, and what we hope may be.”

He reminded me that, to enjoy the present, I must welcome the past, and be thankful for the future. Not fresh advice, per se. But something about his language cracked open a sentiment I wanted to explore. Maybe it’s the time of year, but it felt like I was standing on a threshold, as if I were being ushered somewhere new by Dickens himself.

What Has Been

A threshold, by its nature, is a transitional place: the piece of flooring that forms the bottom of a doorway. Threshold is also defined as “a point of entry or beginnings.”

When I stand on the threshold of, I have one foot in the past (what has been, and what never was) and the other in the future (what we hope may be). I know that I’m entering something new and leaving behind an old way of living.

There are cultural rituals to help cope with large thresholds like birthdays, having a baby, or getting married. We help one another pass from what has been into the what will be.

Then there are the thresholds unmarked by ritual or celebration but monumental shifts nonetheless, like the decision to change careers mid-life or to move across the country, the death of a parent, or divorce. And then there are the smaller thresholds of our daily lives; we cross dozens of them every day.

No matter how small the threshold, looking back helps us move on from what has been—we literally can’t move forward without the act of leaving.

What Never Was

“What never was” is the phrase that resonated most when I read Dickens’s essay. It’s a perspective not usually included when people reflect on their pasts.

I think we’re often afraid to look back, not because of what has been, but precisely because of what never was. We cannot go back and fill in our past. There is no revision. That can be a sad and lonely reality to face and a hard one to accept. Yet who we are is the sum of what we have and have not experienced.

I think when we embrace what has been and what never was, it creates more room and energy for what we hope may be. It takes a lot of effort to hold on to the past. How many mini-meltdowns have finished with, “I didn’t realize I was holding on to that,” followed by feeling a little lighter?

What We Hope May Be

When my father’s mother turned 80 years old, she chose not to take the required driving test, knowing she couldn’t pass. No one else was going to tell her she couldn’t drive. She told me her decision helped her reclaim some control as her aging body forced her to lose independence.

I was reminded of my grandmother when Arianna Huffington did a life audit when she turned 40. Huffington examined the wish list of her many long-term goals and marked them off as if she had completed them. By accepting what she would never accomplish (e.g., learn German), she could mark them as complete. She took control over what she would never do, instead of always having in the back of her mind, Maybe one day.

We hold on to so much all the time; letting go can make us feel like we’re losing something. But when we intentionally let go, we aren’t losing anything: we are choosing to set it down. My grandmother didn’t lose her ability to drive; she chose not to drive again.

Welcome, Everything

As you move into your next phase—whatever that may be—you’re stronger from knowing what you are leaving behind, and as difficult as it may be, from welcoming what never was.

None of us know what is yet to come, but we can be as intentional and inviting as Dickens when he says, “Welcome, everything!” So that, when we find ourselves on a threshold, we’re ready (and even a little excited) for possibility.

On Type II Fun

October 27, 2019 by Cheryl Wilder

Years ago, when I trained in kung fu, I didn’t have the words to accurately explain the experience. If you saw my face during class, I didn’t look like I was having an ounce of fun. And in the moment, I often wasn’t; I was exhausted and in pain. But by the end (and especially after a belt test), I felt a surge of empowerment and a rush of pure joy. I told my stories of kung fu through that lens of exhilaration, overlooking the preceding misery.

I could have said kung fu was Type II Fun. But who knew there were three types of fun?

Not me, until it was referenced in a story about an Outward Bound expedition where college students were pushed to their physical and emotional limits. When I googled Type II Fun, the only references I found were websites dedicated to extreme outdoor sporting (e.g. REI, Backcountry, and this infographic at Wilderness Magazine). Surely a behavioral or health psychologist had done some research and identified the three types of fun?

Not that I could find. As far as the internet is concerned, Type II Fun was born from those who leave the comforts of their homes to explore the roads less (or often never) traveled. Literal trailblazers.

I am not one of those people, but I connect with this fun. It may actually be what I’m missing in my life right now.

What is Type II Fun?

According to the websites mentioned above, Type II Fun is the kind of fun where you feel miserable in the moment, but in hindsight you think, “that was fun,” and make plans to do it again.

Why would anyone feel defeated, miserable, or exhausted, and then, look back on the experience and use “fun,” “worthwhile,” or “empowering,” to describe the experience?

Here’s what I’ve come up with. There’s three components:

engage in an activity where I have to use grit* in order to finish;
stimulate my amygdala (or maybe osteocalcin?);
feel a sense of accomplishment.

The end result is empowerment and joy.

This fun is about taking on a challenge and overcoming it. Specifically, it’s about using self-reliance and resilience to push through physical, emotional, and mental limitations. Oftentimes it hits all three. You can decide to push yourself to these limits. Or, an activity that began with simply fun (Type I Fun) takes an unexpected downward turn. Either way, you end up telling fond stories of inverted push-ups.

Bottom line: it’s about seeing what you are capable of.

Bringing the fun home

Kurt Hahn, founder of the Outward Bound program, said, “There is more in us than we know. If we could be made to see it, perhaps for the rest of our lives we will be unwilling to settle for less.”

This quote explains why I need Type II Fun. When I was in my early twenties, I struggled emotionally and existentially–my courage and strength in spirit were tested on a daily basis. After a lot of personal exploration, I grew beyond the constraints of my challenges. With renewed energy, I looked for a sport that tested my physical limitations. I started kung fu and loved it. Then I became pregnant with twins and could no longer walk further than from the bedroom to the bathroom. Now, after gaining 70 pounds during pregnancy, natural child birth, and five years rearing the boys at home (which vacillated between Type I and Type II Fun), I’m antsy.

There’s many ways to reap the rewards of fun in the form of challenge without extreme sports. I’m done with child birth and rearing infants, so that’s out. Writing is definitely an activity that stretches my mental and emotional limitations. (Breaking those boundaries can be grueling but is always deeply satisfying.) Public speaking is on the to do list and that is sure to stimulate my fight-or-flight response. But what I need is a new physical challenge. Rock climbing? Crossfit? Marathons?

Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out, now that I know what I’m looking for. And that’s the thing, right? Over the span of our lifetime we change. Our bodies, our perspectives, and our circumstances. To thrive, we need to adapt, persevere, and not settle for less. It helps to believe that we are more than we can imagine. To see challenge as opportunity. And to let the feelings of empowerment and joy propel us into what come’s next.

*I used the definition of grit based on the Merriam-Webster online dictionary. There’s a slightly different definition in psychology, though they both fit the topic.

On Concision

September 28, 2019 by Cheryl Wilder

silhouette of young man with his arms cradling colorful balls on a digital screen — Innocence would have stayed / if I hadn’t left the door open.

The quote, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter,” has been attributed to many people: Blaise Pascal, John Locke, Benjamin Franklin, Henry David Thoreau, Cicero, Woodrow Wilson, Mark Twain. According to Garson O’Toole at Quote Investigator, the saying originates in 1657 by French mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal. That it has been attributed to so many writers is not surprising.

It takes practice and patience to say a lot with few words.

I had written another bog post before this one (and here I am with limited time). The first attempt was inspired by my new project on the interdisciplinary arts of architecture and poetry–the topic was too big-picture. I’m in the early stages of getting reacquainted with old research. The vision of the project is still fuzzy. The blog read like the beginning of a treatise instead of a concise thought or idea. I had to start over, but it got me thinking about concision.

My first thoughts don’t often convey what I’m trying to say. It’s like my initial idea is a large piece of marble and I must carve to reveal what is hidden inside. This doesn’t just happen with thoughts, but perhaps more importantly, emotions too.

Personal concision

Elevator pitches are a good example of concision. To distill your professional work into a 30-60 second speech isn’t easy but is common practice in business, including publishing. Yet, less people write personal elevator pitches. Which sounds, well, less personal. But what would happen if you distilled your core values and who you want to become into 30-60 seconds?

Writing is a tool to hone thoughts and feelings into small tangible pieces. When I write, I can see the inside of my head and heart, which allows me to fix and reshape and grow. It’s hard to ignore the words on the page; it’s easier to ignore the thoughts and feelings swirling inside my head and body.

To begin, how about writing a personal mission statement? To demonstrate how long it can take, I have been working on mine since this blog post in 2018. Please don’t let that discourage you.

Working on the personal mission statement has helped me refine what I want in my personal life and has helped me make decisions toward who I want to become. But first, I had to carve through the marble and face some hard truths about myself; what I previously didn’t want to accept.

I keep refining my statement, and in turn, I enjoy a new relationship with myself. One that helps me live a more deliberate life. As I move through the process, I feel freer; no longer held back by insecurities. Well, some insecurities. After all, I am a work-in-progress.

Get started

I started with a simple Google search and found some resources. Then I compiled inspiration from those I admired. Last, I created my own set of questions to answer, choosing from the various information.

Below are (to me) a few core questions. Unfortunately, some of my resources have either been taken off the web, or in one case, hidden behind a paywall. Luckily, Andy Andrews still offers free advice and so do the people at Live Bold and Bloom. You’ll see some of these questions on their websites.

Ask yourself

Where am I now? What got me here?
What are my core values?
How do I want to act?
What is important? What/whom do I value?
What legacy do I want to leave behind?

On Making

August 30, 2019 by Cheryl Wilder

doll house front door and window with missy piggy on motorcycle and baby chick in doorway — I am soft tissue not load-bearing wall / though we both carry weight / of the not-yet known.

A work of art… is not a living thing… that walks or runs. But the making of a life. That which gives you a reaction. To some it is the wonder of human fingers. To some it is the wonder of the mind. To some it is the wonder of technique. And to some it is how real it is. To some, how transcendent it is. Like the 5th Symphony, it presents itself with a feeling that you know it, if you have heard it once. And you look for it, and though you know it you must hear it again. Though you know it you must see it again. Truly, a work of art is one that tells us that Nature cannot make what human’s can make.
Louis Kahn

To Make

I first heard the above quote in the movie, My Architect: A Son’s Journey. It’s a documentary by Nathaniel Kahn, an illegitimate son of the deceased architect, Louis Kahn. There’s many reasons I recommend watching the movie. But there’s one compelling aspect I want to touch on here: how the movie illustrates the complexities of life as an artist.

There’s failure. The need to make something out of nothing. To find beauty in chaos. More failure and the push to keep going. And yes, achievement. But one of the more complex topics the movie covers is sacrifice. What is the cost to throwing one’s life into creating art?

From the artist’s perspective, what is the cost to not throwing one’s life into creating art? Yet, the artist has to live in the world with everyone else, and to some of those people, the artist has responsibility. So, how does an artist find balance in life, with so many day-to-day factors to consider?

A Work of Art

I don’t have the answer for how to find balance as a working artist. Just like everyone else, artists need to traverse those decisions themselves, based on their personal lives and artistic goals. (If you want strategies, there’s plenty of resources and I am happy to share my own in future posts. Let me know if this appeals to you. For a couple examples on my process and struggle for balance, go here and here.)

What I do know, is that artists need to make things. Whether those things are as small as poems or as large as buildings.

When taking what Kahn says, “A work of art…[is] the making of a life,” it is easy to see how sacrifices are necessary and important. To make a life is no easy feat. What is sacrificed is the hard part. But this is what artists do in the process of making, decide what to keep and what to let go, all for the sake of the work. So how can that skill translate in life?

Again, there is no easy answer to that question. Perhaps the one thing to remember is that the work of art needs space made for it, just like bringing home a newborn baby or puppy. It’s a household affair. Routines will be adjusted, expectations changed. And since artists are the primary caregivers of their work, the capacity to extend themselves will be challenged, until maybe some of them won’t see what’s fallen out of reach.

Disclaimer

Louis Kahn died in 1974, and therefore, used the accepted terminology of “man” to represent humankind. I’ve taken the liberty to change “man” to “human” in his quote to reflect updated terminology, without changing his sentiment.

On Joy

July 31, 2019 by Cheryl Wilder

looking up between a high canopy of trees and a rock face to a sunny clearing

My summer reading list includes The Book of Joy and The Wisdom of Menopause. The Book of Joy is based on a week-long conversation between His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, moderated and written by Douglas Abrams. The premise of their conversation was to answer the question: “How do we find joy in the face of life’s inevitable suffering?” The Wisdom of Menopause focuses on women tapping into their changing bodies rather than just getting through menopause.

I won’t get too involved in talking about perimeopause, which started for me about four years ago. But I will say that this summer the internal workings of my body made a drastic shift, prompting me to pick up both books.

Becoming Joy

It’s not that I was joyless when I felt a need to read The Book of Joy. What I felt was a deeper layer of my mind open up, some untapped region that wanted to be fueled or fed or filled. The only thing that made sense to me was to fill it with joy. Fill it with a perspective I already believed in, based on the work I did in my twenties. But more of it. I wanted joy to exist at a deep cellular level and I believed this was my shot, with something inside me newly opened to receive.

I am more joyful than I was just two months ago.

Spreading Joy

My sister patiently waits for my writing to be less sad for her to read. To be fair, I write a lot about situations she has lived and doesn’t necessarily care to relive. I totally get it.

I believe my writing process stems from my healing process after the traumatic car crash. First, I built a foundation to work from. Then, I scrutinized every devastating angle of what happened to find compassion for myself. This is how I tackle writing projects. Hence, lots of emotionally sad and tough material. But, I also want work that brings a smile to the reader’s face, and I want my sister to read my writing. So, I’m working toward bringing the joy I live into my writing more. Offer a little bit of balance anyway.

Which brings me to the teaching that the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Tutu believe is at the core of finding joy: “We are most joyful when we focus on others, not on ourselves. In short, bringing joy to others is the fastest way to experience joy oneself.”

I can’t always control what I write. It’s how I process the world. But I can control some of it. And from now on, I’ll be strengthening my joyful muscles.