Joan Bauer's Journal

A New Season

A hydrangea that I thought had died pushes up in my garden.  A vine I thought wasn't going to make it began thriving in the last two weeks.  The age-old lilac tree that we were going to cut down because it never bloomed, flourished this year.  I took a tree class today with my neighbors and we all officially adopted the trees on our street, pledging to care for them.  I do not consider myself a gardener, but I would like to be a real one someday. I wrote a book called Stand Tall where the seasons in a boy's life change as a great white oak in the park near his house changes color, drops its leaves, and fills up lush again in spring.  I was reminded today of the root system of trees and have great guilt that I've not been watering the tree in front of my house.  It seemed so big, you know, and it didn't seem like it needed any help from me, but it does -- twenty gallons of water per week, according to the man who spoke with us.  How I have neglected this tree, but I won't anymore. 

It makes me think of what else I've ignored that's right in front of me.  I've had one of those years when I have focused in tight to a few things and I've not been able really to step back and take in the big picture.  I've had one of those years that sped by and I found myself trying to grab at the things racing past.  I know I missed some of those things -- they were passing by so quickly. 

The black squirrel Zorro runs atop my fence. Zorro doesn't like me; he thinks I killed his brother -- I didn't.  I got home last fall and a black squirrel was lying dead in my garden, but Zorro walks atop my fence glaring at me.  "I'm innocent," I tell this squirrel, but he doesn't buy it.  My dog Max comes out and the squirrel runs off.  Max trots to his place in the garden, in charge.  There is something uniquely joyful about my garden this May.  I'm beginning to understand the soil, beginning to understand what plants won't die, beginning to understand my style.  I will turn a wretched age in July, but I suppose that's really okay.  I feel new dreams coming, old dreams being realized, branches being cut off and pruned, and new life taking hold.  

FOR THOSE IN THE CHICAGO AREA, I was recently awarded the Chicago Tribune's Young Adult Literary Prize.  I will be at the Printers Row Book Festival on Saturday, June 4th.  Please come by and say hi.  

 

 

You've Got To Be Kidding

I bought them at a large box store that begins with the letter C.  They were by the men's socks -- the kind my husband likes -- near the motor oil and the big book table, which was directly across from the towering cans of tuna fish.  I didn't need them, I didn't even know things like this existed, but the minute I saw them we bonded. So I bought them, this long string of purple grape lights, and I put them up in my office.  Actually, I draped them over my grandmother's old secretary desk, plugged them in, and laughed.  My husband said, what are those?  My dog crawled out of my office.  My friend came over and said, you've got to be kidding, Joan.  So I took them down and forgot about them until I was attempting to clean the basement -- note the word, attempting -- and I found my grape lights in a box.  Right then, I heard the voice of a professional organizer I know say, if you haven't used something in a year, toss it.  Well, I hadn't used these in three years, I didn't even know if they still worked, but I wasn't tossing them.  I brought them back to my office, arranged them over my grandmother's desk, plugged them in, the lights beamed on, and I laughed.   

I'm not sure why these grapes speak to me the way they do.  Perhaps it's because they are just so deeply weird and wonderful.  Perhaps it's because I'm starting a new book and I want it to be bold and a little crazy.  Perhaps it's because grapes have always reminded me of a fruitful harvest.  No matter.  I think everyone needs something equivalent to grape lights that no one will understand but you. So here they are, world.  Love me, love my grape lights. Get something bold and stick it up.  I'm not kidding.

 

 

Shade

I have a shady garden and I've groused for years that I want one where I can grow peonies and roses and snapdragons.  You can't do that in the shade.  But there are wonderful plants that can only grow in the shade, like coral impatiens and ruby red begonias. I've learned these last years the power of shade and the lushness that can come from the darkest corners of a garden.

As we head into the week before 9-11, I think shade is a fitting image.  What happened nine years ago cast such shadows; in many places that cloud is still there. My mind is drawn to the contradiction of the aloe plant.  The juice has a bitter taste, but when applied to a bruise, it's healing and gentle.  A rose, as we all know, smells and looks beautiful, but the thorns are the price we pay for growing it and cutting it.  I smile thinking about my daughter's plight -- her favorite flower is the crocus.  So very much can go wrong as a crocus pushes up through the cold ground -- the first flower to come out of winter.  Loving a crocus is a lot of pressure, but Jean feels it's worth the devotion, because that tough, little flower is all about resilience.  This week, may our eyes be open to see what can only grow in the shade, and may the power of that shine brighter than any darkness.

 

 

First Step

There's a bakery I pass occasionally with a sign in the window that reads: YOU KNOW YOU WANT ONE. As marketing approaches go, it's brilliant because, of course, I do want one -- actually, I want two or three. And the recognition of this makes me want one even more. So I stand across the street and have this war within myself. Do I cross over -- and it doesn't work to tell myself, I'm just going to look in the window. If I get close to the window, there's no turning back. There are often several women across the street looking at this window, too. The lure of it is like a clarion call -- come closer, you know you want one.

I wonder how I would react if the sign read:  YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO EXERCISE. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO GET UP EARLY. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO READ MORE; TAKE A CLASS; KEEP YOUR OFFICE NEAT; PUSH THROUGH YOUR FIRST DRAFT, BLOG DAILY (OR ALMOST DAILY); GET TO KNOW THAT NEIGHBOR ACROSS THE STREET; VOLUNTEER; GO ON A TRIP WITH FRIENDS; STOP COMPLAINING FOR ONE WEEK; START BELIEVING IN YOUR AUDACIOUS DREAMS.  

Sometimes dreams, especially the big ones, can be so hard to embrace. Who are we, anyway, to think we could ____. But, I have a short test to determine if a big dream is genuine. Have you had it for years? Do you keep giving it up and it keeps reappearing like a cupcake in a bakery window? Would your dream hurt anyone? If so, think again. Would it use your gifts? What's the first step you can take to test it?  

Okay, take that first step.

Making New

I don't have a to do list for the new year, I have a want to list. 

For 2010 I want to learn to make things new.  I want a freshness in this year that I've not had for a while.  I want to look at old things in new ways.  I want to believe in new ways, write in new ways.  Be a friend in new ways, and be smart enough to know what needs to be thrown away.  I keep shoving stuff in my closet, telling myself I need it.  I'm not sure I do.  Things, at least some of them, feel like a leash to me.  I remembered this particularly today when I took my dog Max to the park, unclasped his leash, and watched him roll and play with the other dogs.  I want to give myself some off leash time in 2010.  

It's snowing in Brooklyn -- the right way to end a year and begin a new one. Let it snow over 2009 and into 2010.  Let the freshness fall, let it all be made new.  Amid the sorrows and joys of this year -- and both of them have been deep -- I want to make a new way and travel it.  

Here's to 2010.  May our hearts be refreshed and our dreams renewed.  Happy New Year! 

The Wonder of Small Things

I remember a walk I took when my family and I lived in Connecticut. I had a great deal on my mind that day and I was trying to think through what seemed like a hundred things on that walk, and being a multi-tasker, I was also determined to do this while achieving a full aerobic workout. I was pumping my arms back and forth and picking up speed as I walked. I was not looking around, or down, or thinking about the weather when I heard: "Look up."  I don't like stopping when I've hit the A zone of exercise.

"What?" I said, and saw an old woman standing there looking at me and smiling. 

She pointed to the sky. "Look up."

She didn't give me much choice. I looked up and my face broke into a grin. The sky was true blue, the clouds were clustered in wondrous patterns, a flock of geese flew in a V formation. I felt ten pounds of tension lift. I looked back at the old woman who smiled at me, then she waved and began to walk away slowly.

That's all it was. Such a simple thing, and with it she changed my perspective on that day.

I've seen other people do this and I always remember:  The woman on a New York subway who, for one blessed moment, blew bubbles into the car before she got off. A man who carried a can of oil and stopped to fix every creaking gate and latch he came to. My neighbor who sweeps leaves off my sidewalk.  

Small things, wonderful things that make a colossal difference.

Cracked Pots

My daughter Jean called the other day and said, "Mom, I have a metaphor for you." Instantly, my writer's heart was stirred because Jean doesn't mess around when it comes to a metaphor. She and her husband had just been to an exhibition of Japanese ceramics in D.C. where she learned of the "golden seams," a special method created by Japanese craftsmen to mend cracked ceramics. Instead of trying to match the color of the pot to make the crack less visible, they decided to flaunt the flaw by repairing it with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The result is wonderful, as the golden repaired cracks make the piece seem more unique and valuable.

I began to think of the places in my life where I felt cracked and broken; places I just wanted filled in so no one could see there had been an injury. And yet, what I've learned from dealing with those cracks, injuries, disappointments, setbacks, and times of grief and discouragement is far more than I've ever learned from any time of ease.

I guess without my knowing it, they'd been sealed tighter and stronger with a bit of gold. And gold doesn't just show up, it has to be discovered, then mined, then melted by a torch in a place so hot it's called the crucible -- that's what filters out the impurities. Then there's more time in the heat, a cooling off, and, finally, a hardening. 

May we look at our cracked pots with new eyes, celebrate the golden seams, and be colossally grateful. 

The Wrong Voices

Max my dog is licking my hand like it's a popsicle, particularly interested in my engagement ring -- it belonged to my husband's grandmother. I had to take the ring off when I had neurosurgery over twenty years ago after a man in a Volvo station wagon rammed into my car, injuring my neck and back. I remember the fear rumbling through me when I handed my husband the ring. I remember being wheeled down the hospital hall with Evan walking next to me. It was our seventh wedding anniversary and we were trying to kid about how next year we were going to go someplace where the food was better.

But today from all the memories of that horrid time, I'm recalling the voice and face of a lawyer. It was several months after my surgery, my insurance company said I had to sue the man who hit me. It was this lawyer's job to make it seem like I had lost no earning potential from the accident. Back then, I was a new writer making hardly any money. My lawyer had coached me on how to handle this and I was confident I could, that is until the sneering questions began.

Oh, so you're a writer are you?  How much money have you made?

How is it exactly that you spend your days -- being a writer, I mean.

What have you written that I'd know?

I'm trying to understand how you think this little accident set you back...I mean, professionally...is that the right word?

Those words cut through me. I felt like crying. I didn't respond well at first; I was tongue-tied, confused. And then I got mad. "Look, I've been killing myself to get the words right, to yank the stories out of my gut. It takes hours and days and years! You want me to bring in my boxes of drafts? I'm a writer, sir. Nothing you say can't make it so."

He asked if I would send him a copy of my first novel when it came out.  What a turkey.  I'm not comping you.  "I think you'd better buy it yourself," I told him. He laughed a lawyerly laugh. When I got home that day, I wrote like a thing on fire.

There will always be voices out there telling us we don't matter. It can be the memory of a snide lawyer, an inner critic, something from the past that keeps pulling us away from who we are and what's important. We've just got to learn to turn down the volume when the wrong voices rise up and get to work. But that car accident? It was the event that got me into writing for young people. I don't recommend it as career enhancement, but it was one of those ejection seat moments that propels you to a special place.

"So," people ask me. "How did you start writing for kids?" Well, you see, this guy in a Volvo plowed into my car a long time ago, and something in that just jarred the stories free.

Fresh Starts

It's snowing here and I love the snow. I love to ice skate, love to wear big sweaters and boots and eat hearty stews and build fires. When I was little I always felt that snow signaled a fresh start because it changed the way everything looked and took boring, gray streets and made them glisten with promise. It was like heaven opened up and said, here you go, start fresh today. I think of that as Barack Obama is about to become our 44th president, as Martin Luther King's prophetic voice rises in hope and courage across the years, as Bruce Springsteen sings on the steps on the Lincoln Memorial, as the plane is pulled up from the cold waters of the Hudson -- the miracle plane, the miracle pilot, and all the passengers safe.

May it snow a little longer and cover all the places we need to see changed, may the music keep playing, and may hope flow over us and upend our fears and stop the memories of so many bad endings. May we embrace hope like never before in this historic week of fresh starts and bold beginnings.

STOP IT!

There are things I need to stop in 2009. Management consultant, Peter Drucker, always asked top CEOs this disarming question:  What have you stopped doing?  He said when we figure out what no longer works, it opens the door to new opportunities.  One of the first things I need to stop doing is ignoring the fact that I've re-injured my knee, and then to stop telling myself that I don't have time to do my knee exercises. But the problem with the exercises is that they are boring and I get so sick of doing them in front of TV's parade of talking heads, but I decided that what my knee, brain, and heart really needed was a good dose of watching something that oozed into my soul. And so I found my Les Miserables 10th anniversary tape, which always stirs me; I put in on and began exercising, counting the reps. 

Now the issue about exercising to Les Miz is that the music packs such an emotional punch that I tend to lose count. And so when Jean Valjean is arrested for stealing a loaf of bread, it's hard to do leg lifts slowly, especially since this is the moment that my puppy Max decides to join me, jumping up and trying to hang from my leg. "No!" I tell him and lose count again. And now the music is going ever deeper and my heart is beginning to anticipate the great tragedy that is about to befall the mother, Fantine, who has a young child and has been through the mill. Fantine is singing in a way that makes me cry and this disturbs Max who begins to lick my face. I lose count again, but move to the inner thigh strengthening, at which point Fantine the mother is not doing well, and now the phone rings and I am crying and my husband, who is downstairs and not dealing with life and death issues, shouts, up, "Can you get it?" Well, the answer is, I suppose I could, but I'd rather not, because Fantine is dying and I am crying while tensing and releasing my inner thigh, wondering what is going to happen to Fantine's little daughter, Cosette. Of course, I already know because I've read the book and seen the musical any number of times. But you know how it is with a great story -- you just don't let yourself rush ahead, you stay with the agony until the end and let yourself be swept away. 

My husband gets the phone as Fantine sings her final song.  I begin the teeny knee muscle movement when Max crawls into my lap and lays his head across my knees causing all exercising to stop. I weep with these characters as the music rushes over me.  Not everyone can have an emotional catharsis while spending quality time with their dog.  Stopping things isn't always easy, and life is filled with endless interruptions, but just starting the stopping can open the door to a soulful, tender release.