Author: sara mcguyer

I’m nearly 38 – too old for barely-surface-scratching, self-indulgent, weepy poems. Definitely not old enough to string together all of the beautiful, bizarre and messy lessons of life into an autobiography.

I just finished Gratitude, a collection of four essays written by Oliver Sacks near the end of his life. He compares his years with elements of the periodic table. A poignant, relevant (also, neat and tidy) vehicle to sum up the life of a scientist and writer of great acclaim.

Sacks said: I am now face to face with dying, but I am not finished living.

At the age of 82! I know enough to be sure I am telling the story of a writer and maker, and I hope I’m telling a story of things I don’t know yet. I too am not finished living, though I have collected drafts, excerpts, and a curio cabinet of odd bits.

There was the time I called a university professor to conduct some research for school. I imagine he scratched his head, wondering why on earth a fifth grader might be calling to inquire about genetics.

This was an early sign, a harbinger of chronically being on a need-to-know basis. From a definition of need-to-know: “the information must be necessary for the conduct of one’s official duties.” When you’re living a collision of ambition and curiosity, everything feels need-to-know. This artifact goes in the “curiosity” cabinet, but it also earns a spot in “generosity.” I’ll always remember how he indulged me, at least enough to try to explain genetics to an elementary student.

Then there was the time I stepped barefooted on a push pin, squarely and definitively, so that the whole thing plunged into the tender arch of my foot, and I blotted the blood with a page torn from a pocket sized, spiral bound ruled notebook because it was what I had on me at the moment. This one has potential, I think. Who can say? I’ll file it under “being sensitive,” or perhaps, “on becoming a writer.”

One time my best friend and I heaped piles of mud into her bath tub, thinking we’d create a grand mountain or volcano. Instead, we made the worst kind of mess. I had to go home, leaving her with a tub full of dirt, grit smeared all over her bathroom, and the reckoning that was sure to come from her mother explaining just exactly what we thought we were going to with that filth. File under “reckless exploration/creativity.”

Did I ever tell you about the time an art professor told me I drew with the confidence of a senior? I recall my own shock, wondering, is there another way to draw? (“Outward appearance of strong sense of self/surprise of this perception.”)

Did I ever say why I fell asleep with a big bite of un-chewed, bitter cole slaw in my mouth? (“WTF, but so weird, it must mean something”)

What’s my first line? Ha! I’ve weaving this life together without a pattern, friends. I have no idea where it begins or ends. Will I end with a ship sail, a blanket for miles? A sweater knit big for someone twice my size? I’m making something, yes, for sure. But, what?

I could pick any one of these beginnings. Or the story might take off from a point not yet lived. For now, I’ll just keep arranging pieces, until one day I can say A-ha! Here is how this fits.

This post is part of Think Kit by SmallBox
Prompt: Pretend you’re writing your autobiography. Give us your first line, a first chapter, or even just an image. What’s the story of you?

When I was younger, and carrying fewer years loaded with memory, excitement, concerns, problems yet to solve – I could sit with calmness, or at least something closer to it. I don’t mean sitting and dreaming, thinking, or writing. I mean sitting with a clear mind. As my schedule has gotten more hectic, I’ve tried to be more intentional with this practice. I’ve meditated during yoga classes, used an app for guided meditations. It’s getting harder, not easier. So much for the wisdom of the years, right?

I am at times thankful, and others burdened by, an overactive imagination. This frenzied mental pace and constant overstimulation reached a pinnacle pre-vacation, as I sprinted to wrap up and hand-off projects, and truly be able to unplug for our first real vacation in two years. In San Fransisco, I woke early, before Louie and got an hour or two of work in. By day two, I’d finally wrapped up what I promised myself I would, and I shut the lap top for good for the rest of the trip. Our honeymoon in 2008 was the last time I’d been away from work for so long.

By the time we’d made our way up the coast, basked in what seemed prehistoric shade of the giant Redwoods, run our marathon through Eugene’s city parks and bike paths and by the Willamette, then driven north to Portland, I noticed the difference of a mind more at rest. At Powell’s bookstore downtown, as if planted there just for me, I noticed an end cap full of meditation books.

It’s been weeks since vacation now, and I’ve finished reading one of the books from that end cap – Sit Like a Buddha, which has me committed to daily ten minute, unguided meditation. I fidget. I think about work. One day I drifted to sleep half way in, and came to understand a new level of giving grace to myself. The author of Sit Like a Buddha suggest after 11 days, daily meditation will be a habit. I was skeptical, but I’m 20 days in.

The second book I picked up off of that end cap, Mindfulness on the Go, offers 25 practices that can help build mindfulness. I’ve been working through the first, which is to use your non-dominant hand.

Eating wrong-handed is a slow, messy, humbling practice. I’ve made messy sketches with my right hand, and wrote a 10-word sentence that while passably neat took me 3x as long to write as it would have with my left hand. I’ve tried over and over again to draw a straight line right-handed. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get it quite right, but my hand is getting steadier with each practice.

Recently a friend expressed surprise that I purchased a book because the cover pulled me in. It’s true, despite the old saying, never judge a book by its cover, I do it all the time, at least in the snap decision of deciding whether to buy.

It is a habit developed in my book store days (I spent seven years in the industry). Being surrounding by so many new titles every day, it simply isn’t possible to assess every book more fully. Certainly reviews were read, discussions and recommendations from coworkers considered, but I learned to take a chance on a book, having heard nothing of it, aside from being drawn to the cover.

I’ve built in two tricks to improve the odds I’ll like my pick. I flip to the copyright page to find the publisher, because there are a few that seem to get me, or at least have an editor or two who shares my literary tastes. Then I read the first paragraph. If I want to keep reading, I’m sold.

Picking a book by its cover is a practice that has stayed with me, not because 100% of the time I loved every book. I’ve picked a few mehs, and one or two never-gonna-finishes. But I’ve also discovered things I might otherwise not have. And because this mindset makes going to the bookstore (same is true for the record shop) an adventure, full of possibility.