Dot to Dot

Arriving at one goal is the starting point to another. 

John Dewey

A few weekends ago I spent my time with a pen, a Dot to Dot book, and two pairs of reading glasses so I could see the dots.

You may recall these books from your childhood. Dot to Dot provided a good way to learn our numbers. A good way to stay focused and find a means to an end, to follow the progression and discover in its completion a recognizable picture.

A colossal waste of time for an adult, some might think. Especially since in order to complete this venture, 1000 dots need connection.

But since I quit substitute teaching last October, I've spent my time slowly deciding how to spend my time. Even though I didn't work everyday, it was enough to discombobulate life. Not knowing exactly which days I might work didn't allow me to create any patterns. To develop a rhythm.

Instead I hoped for Mondays off as that day often proved my most productive. One where laundry, grocery shopping, something else on my list and some form of writing (often only a half page in a journal) came together. Often some form of exercise. The promise of a new week, perhaps. Hopeful for maintaining that level of energy throughout the week.

That never worked. By Tuesday, I was either ruing my decision to accept a job and forcing myself into bed at a decent hour so I could fight the alarm clock in the morning or preparing for that in the next two days and angry that my lists would just grow. Always uncertain how to spend my time that was so short. Mad that when I came home from school, I had no desire to tackle anything. My energy exhausted. My nights spent sitting in my chair. No desire to pursue my lists or anything else.

Where before my purpose for working out of the home had been to contribute to my children's education,  I only went now for the very few bucks it added to our coffers and out of dedication to those devoted teachers I met along the route. Dedication to the middle school PE classes (which meant I didn't have to feel guilty not going to the Y after six periods of Kickball.) Dedication to the special education students who knew me. That when I came there wasn't a disruption in their days as I was someone they didn't have to mess with or fear.

But I found no joy in Substitute Teacherland.

It was past time for that decision and I didn't regret it for a moment. With the holidays before me, it was easy to manage my days. To clean my house. To prepare for family meals and events. To arise in the morning when my body said it was time. To do exactly what I wanted, along with what had to be done, on my own schedule.

I wanted to attain a point where I had no commitments (other than to my husband) so I could determine how I wanted to commit myself. I hoped I might begin to get a picture in my mind of what was important to me. How I wanted to spend my time in the next few years. My goals.

Yes, it was all about me. Finally.

After putting myself through college, my husband through college, moving around the country for my husband and our family's livelihood and beginning a new career each time, raising three kids, volunteering thousands of hours, and then returning to the workforce by scoring essays and then substitute teaching, it was finally all about me.

I liked it.

With that freedom in hand, I was inspired by my weekend of completing Dot to Dots. I decided to take a dot to dot approach as to what came next as I'm easily overwhelmed. Like by that UNFINISHED NOVEL that has followed me for years. Or the two-tiered filing cabinet of FINISHED/UNFINISHED essays in need of a good culling.

Or all the scrapbooks and photo albums I want to construct. The cupboards and drawers in need of decluttering. The compost bins I want to refresh from 16 years of stagnation. The garden that needs more than a "That Will Have to Do" effort.

My Dot-to-Dot weekend didn't only proffer a few completions.

Twisted Alfred Hitchcock

Bob Marley - His music makes me happy

Would be difficult to figure out Salvador Dali's work via dot to dot.

It also tendered a plan for my goals. As each personality became distinct on the page, I understood only by connecting the dots did I get to that recognizable stage. That for my life, I required the same connection.

I began.

Dot 1.  In the pages of my journal. A commitment to three pages every day. Something that I did for years, but fell by the wayside either because life was going too well or not going very well at all. After I check the New York Times on my phone to make certain the world still exists, I pick up my pen and spew three pages of my thoughts. I also paste cool pictures and articles I've come across or quotations I've jotted down on slips of paper and left around the house.

Dot 2.  I write a one page story or essay in a notebook. Sort of like a timed writing, but I limit it to one page, unless the story runs over.

Dot 3.  I read a short story or essay.

Dot 4. Some form of exercise. Either a walk, a visit to the Y,  or a series of lunges, squats, weight lifts, crunches, etc.

With those four dots embedded in each and every day, I progressed to Dots 5, 6, 7 and 8.  I went to a matinee. I bought tickets to Stevie Wonder - on the floor! I sent off the first few pages of my novel to a contest I coordinated long ago--just to make certain I still knew how to present a manuscript. I planted some peas, radishes and spinach. Just a few rows of planting as I'm not in any hurry to inundate myself with those tasks. Just enough to get some dirt under my fingernails.

That is as far as my Dot to Dot life has expanded and so far I return to those basic four each day before I find my place and go from there. I long ago learned that if you do something for 21 days in a row, it will become habit. I strive for that habitat.

What dot comes next I'm not quite certain, although committing to two worthwhile blog posts a month is definitely a possibility. But I've been around long enough to know that sometimes you lose your way and connect the wrong dot. That life can change in a moment's notice and we have to backtrack. That's just life.

In the meantime, I'm having no trouble entertaining myself.

Dot to Dot.

Headwaters - Found

I'm ready to begin again, but I'm not quite certain where to start. 

Julie Sucha Anderson

History tells us the white man searched for years to find the beginning of the Mississippi River. Most meandered fruitlessly, never finding their way to its origin. The Native Americans in the area must have chuckled as these explorers wandered aimlessly. Finally one explorer had the sense to ask the Indians where the headwaters lay. Eureka! The Headwaters were discovered.

Summer before last, my husband and I took a trip up to northern, northern Minnesota to visit friends. Even though I had crossed the Mississippi River countless times in the states of Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, Louisiana and even attended Girl Scout camp on the backwash of the Mississippi in Wisconsin, I'd never seen the headwaters. Always wanted to see the river's beginning. To experience its grandeur.

I was born in Minnesota and lived there my first thirteen years. In adulthood I returned each summer  to an old fashioned resort of tiny cabins in Spicer, Minnesota -- my husband and kids, my parents and my brothers' families all in attendance. Too much fun!

But this trip with only my husband seemed very strange to me - bypassing the familiar roads leading to the lake and continuing north. To search for something new in a place beyond where I'd spent so much time. Where the before, wasn't anymore.

It had been almost a year since the passing of my mom; almost two years since losing my dad. I was soon to complete the task as executor of my parent's wills and the dismantling of their household to be distributed between my brothers and me. A most difficult time in my life compounded by not having the time I once had to pursue writing due to an outside the home job, my children heading off on their life adventures and me trying to find myself, while also trying not to think. I worked many substitute teacher days in order to take my mind off getting myself together. Doing everything I could by rote to make life simpler.

My writing disappeared. I had nothing to say.

The Headwaters of the Mississippi are located in Itasca State Park. Way up Nort, don't ya know. (You can take the girl out of Minnesota, but you can't take the Minnesota...) Unlike the early explorers, my husband and I were able to follow a wide man-made path down to the waters where we came upon the rock ledge that separates the Lake Itasca from the narrow beginnings of a grand river.

I took off my shoes and socks and wandered through the unseasonably warm water to have a seat. As the water passing over my toes began its journey to the Gulf of Mexico, I stared down its path, wishing I could ride down along with it. Embarking on an odyssey of something new from where I'd been. A hopeful journey of new adventure, discovering more and more as I floated.

I sat there and imagined that this could be the beginning of my release from the grief and stagnation of the past few years. That now, with my children out on their own and my parent's passing behind me, I could begin to think of myself, and what I wanted to do with my life.

I felt so hopeful.

Like the explorers floundering through the woods seeking the headwaters, my thoughts and hopes didn't quite come to fruition either. Sometimes my dreams are bigger than my mind can grasp. I forget those details that can cloud a big picture. Those details one has to plod through. And that sometimes the plodding can get mucky. And rest is needed for perhaps there is no strength to move forward.

I retreated to my rote world. I relished my friends and laughter.  Fun. Brainless complacency.

The two (Mom) and three (Dad) year anniversary of my losses has passed. My youngest son has settled in a school where he has found his passion and future.  I'm not teaching as much. The tangles around my feet have lessened. I feel lighter. The Wa I've sought has arrived. I like it.

A few weeks ago, my dear friend, Carolyn Scarborough, a writing coach and author of Backyard Pearls, announced a one-day writer retreat. She has facilitated retreats in the past, but I was not in retreat mode unless it involved a beach and a gallon of wine. But when I saw her announcement, a retreat where my brain had to participate seemed right. I signed up immediately. The time had come to get up off the rocks at the Headwaters and begin the new journey.

My writing goals have changed from years ago when the intense days of practice, membership in writing organizations, the pursuit and reality of publishing consumed me. I'm not that person anymore.

Now I want to write because I love it and I love me when I'm in writer mode. I have a novel I want to finish. For me. I have a journal with blank pages that patiently awaits my thoughts, aimless and empty as they often are. I have a blog that I often look back on and read my past entries, marvelling - "Wow, did I write that? I didn't know I knew words like that?" Maybe I should write more there.

I have a filing cabinet filled with finished, unfinished essays and short stories. They've been gathering dust since the whole Midlife Jobhunter deal came up.  I'm thinking I'll blow the dust off those files and explore what might lurk in there.

I'm ready to engage in the calm of my writing life. At my own pace.

The Mississippi takes a certain, well defined path. The water behind the water pushes it along its way. I don't have that force behind me, but that's the way it goes. Sometimes you find the flow and sometimes you just have to paddle. Can't begin unless you find the headwaters, though. And the paddle.

I found them. Wonder where they'll lead me.

I'm ready to begin again.  I now know where to start.

Julie Sucha Anderson