How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? -- Author: Jeffrey Davis

Today's is by far my favorite prompt so far, and also the one about which I think I have the least to say. Oh the irony!  


I spend a lot of time thinking about wonder. Perhaps the prompt thrills me precisely because it reflects a quality I value deeply. As for the mechanics of wonderment? Reflection, gratitude, and connection.


Nurturing wonder has been a skill like any other -- for me, it began as a conscious exercise that I gradually internalized. Now this way of interfacing with the world is reflexive enough that its loss is one of my key early-storm-warning signs. As things have gotten darker and colder lately (both literally and emotionally), I've found myself needing to work a little more to catch those moments of delighted awe.


I think I mentioned in passing the other day that 2010 has brought me a deep sense of abundance, a feeling that I have enough. This translates into an unexpected well of contentment and tranquility -- oh-so-welcome, particularly given the turbulence of the past several months. I am sure that this is wonderment running deep.  

Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). -- Author: Ali Edwards

This one stymied me a little. One moment? I think I just mentioned how I dread having to pin down superlatives, and I think this is even trickier for someone who hasn't journaled/blogged consistently this year. It's easy for the moments to slide by unexamined, unremarked.

Anyway, I decided that I would just go ahead and select a vivid, lively moment to memorialize, whether or not it was the singular moment in which I felt most alive.

But enough with the meta, throat-clearing bullshite. On with the story . . .

Saturday, September 11, 2010. I'd just joined a new kayak and sailing Meetup group and was diving right in for the first gathering.

This was kind of a big deal for me. 2010 has been a year of letting go of a lot of material things -- I'd had to ditch my beloved Subaru in May and had just sold my darling kayak a few weeks prior (in large part because with no car I no longer had a way to get it to water). It felt like a lot of loss, although I tried to keep my perspective. (You know: "it's only stuff, it's only stuff," my soothing mantra).

We arranged to meet up at a boathouse on the Potomac. I was a little cowed by the logistics of getting to the river with all of my gear. But I definitely felt like a total badass, trekking over to Georgetown on my bike with my life vest and my carbon fiber bent-shaft paddle stuffed in the panniers. (I must say, learning to get around almost entirely by bike has been incredibly exhilarating. That's been one huge benefit of having my car shit the bed so unexpectedly). And then the awkward greetings and introductions and preliminaries. But eventually we made our way out onto the dock. The shop assistant took one look at my fancy paddle and steered me toward a beautiful long, skinny boat. I slid into position, a little self-conscious as always.

And then the water. My god, it had been at least a year since I'd been paddling! My first few strokes were tentative, wobbly, nearly graceless, but I got my groove in no time. I snugged my knees up under the deck and just glided down the river with no resistance. Soon I was pushing those long-dormant edging skills, losing myself in the motion and moment for long stretches until I'd catch another member of the group glancing my way and revert to feeling goofy.

This was one of those days that DCers believe is our just reward for suffering so much oppressively heinous humidity and heat. Around 80° with a sky so clear and blue that you could call it "cerulean" and not be resorting to cliché. The Potomac was cool and dark and nearly glassy until we passed under the Roosevelt bridge -- then the motorboat traffic kicked up enough of a chop to get things rocking.

About an hour and a half into the paddle, I ended up drifting in front of the Kennedy Center for a good ten minutes. For once, I wasn't stressing my soft upper arms or my Buddha belly. I felt so strong!, was so conscious of the power coursing through me. Elation and serenity in equal measure. That's all.

December 2: "What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?"

I'll confess that my initial, gut-level response to this prompt was on the snarky side. (I mean . . . I do quite a bit each day that doesn't contribute to my writing, at least not without resorting to a really high level of abstraction. Showering? Biking to work? Walking the dogs?)

But it turns out that I do have something to say here. I may not be much of a creative writer, and heaven knows that I don't blog consistently, but a substantial chunk of my lawyerly time is spent writing. And writing is my primary work product.

And I know, through much painful experience, that I tend to be an excruciatingly slow writer. A lot of this springs from my insatiable need for perfection. It's nearly impossible for me to just let loose and flow. Dunno if any of you are familiar with Bryan Garner, that legal writing extraordinaire, but I've heard him describe the optimal writing process as invoking four personas: madman, architect, carpenter, judge. I seem to be almost all judge. I agonize over every. last. word phrase construction etc. I tend to be so concerned with getting everything just right that I often don't get much of anything written at all.

Actually, this has as lot to do with the paucity of my blog postings, as evidenced by the astonishing number of draft posts that will never see the light of day because I never relax my standards enough to finish them. It manifests differently at work, of course, where I don't exactly have the luxury of total stasis. ("Umm, sorry about that brief that I never turned in. You see, I just couldn't get it written to my satisfaction." Yeah, doubt that would fly). The work version just involves a lot of hemming and hawing and overthinking every damn word that I put to paper, coupled with almost-inevitable panic as I approach a deadline and realize that my need for perfection has ensured a crunch at the back end.

So I keep thinking about that stupid aphorism (sorry, Voltaire!) about the perfect being the enemy of the good. Except in my case, it's more like the perfect is the enemy of the . . . anything. I'm working on that. Agreeing to participate in Reverb is a huge step in the right direction. I'm committed to getting something written every day, or just about every day, which surely means embracing my madman. Easing up a little and just writing. . .

Day One of Reverb 10. Excited, anxious, full of that nervous, thrumming energy I always get as I wade into a new creative project. (Never mind that I'm already a day behind, and am actually composing this on December 2. That's the magic of the interwebs: I'll backdate and no one will ever know. Well, except . . . nevermind).

Our prompt for today is One Word: "Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?"
Dear lord, do you understand how difficult it is for me to select just one of anything to elevate to "it" status? I get downright panicky when asked for superlatives. But I agreed to play, and this does strike me as a good place to start.

2010 in one word: Root.

"a part of the body of a plant that . . . grows downward into the soil, anchoring the plant and absorbing nutriment and moisture."

This year, for the first time in my adult life, I don't feel like a transient. I certainly have not committed to living in this city for the rest of my life, but I'm here for the foreseeable future. And I'm here affirmatively. This is where I've chosen to live and work and play and (theoretically) love. And perhaps more to the point, I'm not running toward anything. It's amazing how much that slowing down frees you up to live your life.

When I reflect back on pretty much any moment of at least the last decade, I'm struck by the impermanence of my then-current station in life. That's weirdly worded, but do you know what I'm saying? Most recently, it was the Never-Never Land of law school--and thank the gods on high that that is a fleeting state, because three years of law school is PLENTY. But that was three years of living somewhere temporary (and part-time, since I spent my summers elsewhere), during which every fibre of my being was aimed at a particular goal: get that degree. Then move on.

Okay, that goes with the territory. I had a similar experience during grad school a few years previous. And the years between the two programs were a kind of suspended animation: plenty of fun and certainly formative in their own right, but lacking any sense of rootedness. It's hard to envision that you're beginning a life when you're broke as a joke in a tiny, dank, dimly lit Manhattan studio, trying to figure out why your post-fancy-masters-degree job title and salary are the same as that you'd left before graduate school.

"to implant or establish deeply"

So snap back to 2010. At long last, I have all of the formal education I ever plan to inflict upon myself. (IMO, the fact that I now view formal education as more of a burden than the privilege it really is is the surest sign that I'm done). I have a great career. For the most part, I have a great life. And I am fully inhabiting my Now. Here I am.

I'm putting down roots. I feel as though I belong. This manifests in silly ways, too: I finally gave up my NY domicile, voter registration and driver's license after clinging stubbornly for several years. For the first time in my adult life, I have established relationships with a primary care physician, gynecologist, dentist, endocrinologist, and hairdresser in the same city. I belong to a CSA, which I can do now that I live in the same place throughout the growing season. I've gotten to know many of my neighbors. I belong to a private dog park (which fact also belongs on the Top Indications that I've Become a Damned Yuppie list)
 
So 2010 has been the year to root. I hope and pray for 2011 to be the year of harvest. Lately, I've been struck by this sense of abundance-almost-realized in my life. I say this with much gratitude for all of my good fortune: I've worked really effing hard--professionally, physically, spiritually, interpersonally--to create the life I'm living, and in 2011 I hope to realize a plentiful crop in return.   

Well, this poor blog has lain fallow for 2010. More or less -- I have been keeping a running log of the books I read this year, in anticipation of a year-end summary post. I really love the December impulse toward introspection and summation. . . As I worked on my 2009 reflections last January, I realized that mindfully tracking something like my annual reading would go a long way toward guiding my New Year musings.

Which is why I was so immediately drawn to the Reverb 10 project. I signed up as soon as I read Shauna's blurb about it. 31 days has December. 31 prompts. 31 daily essays, all with the (somewhat vague) overarching theme of reflection on the year past and manifestation of what's to come. This is a bit ambitious for a fickle, inconstant blogger such as myself, but I'm making the commitment to myself.

So stay tuned. It's about to get a lot more lively up in these parts.