Helen Chappell - May 2011

 

The Best Laid Plans
by
Helen Chappell

 

If my writer’s block were an object, it would be a giant block of marble sitting right in the middle of my creative path. Day after day, week after week, the hulking thing just sits there, right in the middle of the path that leads me to my next book.
Someone who is wiser than I could ever hope to be suggested I try fifteen minutes of meditation every day. You know, just sit there, empty your mind out and become one with the universe. And chip-by-chip, maybe the writer’s block of marble will be destroyed, so I can work on that book.
Easier said than done, of course. My mind runs like a gerbil in a wheel, and getting it to slow way down isn’t that easy. But I try, Lord knows, I try.
Today is a lovely spring day, and I am sitting under the ancient crepe myrtles in my backyard, breathing in deeply, breathing out deeply, eyes closed, focusing on emptying my mind of thought so it’s like a big blank blackboard. Breathe in, breathe out. Empty, empty, empty.
And in a tiny corner of my brain, tiny thoughts begin to intrude. Like dust bunnies, they dance almost unnoticed across my mind.
“If I’d known I was going to live this long,” the gentleman on the machine next to mine at the Y huffed, “I’d have taken better care of myself.”
It’s comforting to know that I fit into the Talbot County demographic, at least in some ways. I’m not rich or relocated, but I am sort of retired. And I’m at the age where I can feel every ache and pain of a life lived intensely, if not always intently. As a middle-aged woman with white hair, I’m pretty much invisible, which suits me just fine. If they don’t see me, they can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do, like speak at their ladies’ club or their fundraiser. There’s a lot to be said for being retired from public life.
Old people always seem to get some kind of religion. Either that or they buy a red sports car and find a young cutie pie arm candy, which I couldn’t afford.
Suddenly, I snap to and remember to focus. For about five seconds.
You would think meditation would be reasonably easy when you get to be my age. You’re supposed to sit still and empty your mind of all the static buzz that fills the day. With my short-term memory loss, this should be easy. But noooooo.
The sun was shining and the neighborhood was reasonably quiet. I took a deep breath and again began to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, doing my best to empty my mind out.
Which you would think would be easy, considering that very little seems to be going on in my mind in the best of times. I envision shutting down all my systems, erasing my mental blackboard, breathing in, breathing out, exhaling thought, inhaling spiritual thought.
I picture myself floating through the universe, which in my imagination is dark blue and spangled with the twinkling little lights of stars and planets. Ahh, this is more like it.
Suddenly, the theme from Star Trek earworms its way into my subconscious. Well, this floating through space is a lot like the opening of that show ... it’s interesting, how William Shatner has kept a career going all these years by parodying himself ... stop that! You’re supposed to be meditating. I firmly focus my mind on nothing again.
This reminds me of growing up, when I used to spend the weekend with friends who were Quakers, and we all used to go to meeting on Sundays. I like meeting, even as a child, I was hoping the spirit would move me to say something, but every time I was moved, some elder would stand up and start to ramble on about how she was having a new well dug, and they found garnets in the dirt. I was never sure how this related to God. She was an old, old lady and often rambled off topic.
Like me, she couldn’t quite hold on to spirit long enough. Like the weekends I went to my friend’s Methodist church, where the minister’s wife stood up and sang modern gospel with a baby spot trained on her. I hate the syrup of modern religious music. Give me some rousing old hymn from my childhood like “Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me” – now that has a good beat and you can dance to it. Then I’d go to mass with my Catholic friends, and I loved the smells and bells and the statue of Mary in her own niche with all the candles burning in front of her. And synagogue and Seder, and even Santeria with all the spirits and candles and shells and the quietude of Buddhist meditation....
Which snaps me back from the worldly thoughts I had drifted into. Ran my mind right into a ditch by the side of the path. I inhale, cough, sit up straight and try again.
The kids down the street are getting off the school bus. The sound of their laughter is music to the universe. Bees buzz among the pink blossoms of the crepe myrtle over my head. Slower Delaware is the farthest northern reach of the crepe myrtle. It doesn’t do all that well in colder winters. The one I am sitting under must be a hundred years old. The bees just love it.
And I just love the bees. We need them so much to keep things growing. Why don’t people use more native planting in their landscaping? There’s so much great stuff you can plant that doesn’t come from abroad or zone 9. Adkins Arboretum is a great place to get inspiration for native plant landscaping ... I need to plant more native trees in this backyard ... whoa! Snap to it, Chappell! Meditate! Deep breaths, that’s it, erase all thought from the mind, deep breath, inhale, exhale ...
“Miss Helen?” My eyes snap open and I see Tavon, a neighbor kid who cuts through my yard on his way to the convenience store out on the highway. “You okay?” It’s sweet of him to be concerned. He’s a nice kid and I like him.
“I’m fine, honey. Just resting my eyes,” I reassure him. How do you explain meditation to a ten-year-old? At his age, sitting still all day in class is a form of torture.
“You going to the store?”
He nods. “Gonna get myself an ice cream sandwich.”
“Well, can you pick up a quart of skim milk for me? Hold on, I’ve got some change in my pocket.”
Slowly, I haul myself out of the Adirondack chair, and dig into my jeans. I hand Tavon a bill. “Your ice cream sandwich is on me, honey, but bring me back the rest of the change. I’m saving it for my old age.”
Tavon gives me a look as if he cannot possibly imagine me being any older than I already am. Since I start most of my old school stories with “Back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I was your age...”
He takes off down the driveway, and I sit back down in the chair. Meditation is done for the day. And while I may not have chipped that marble writer’s block or gotten any closer to spiritual enlightenment, I have made progress. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. This sitting and trying to do nothing is a lot harder than you might think.

Helen Chappell is the creator of the Sam And Hollis mystery series and the Oysterback stories, as well as The Chesapeake Book of the Dead. Under her pen name, Rebecca Baldwin, she has published a number of historical novels.