Monthly Archives: September 2024

Stillness in Motion: How Ideas Find Me

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“I think 99 times and find nothing. I stop thinking, swim in silence, and the truth comes to me.”

— Attributed to Albert Einstein (1879–1955; physicist whose theory of relativity revolutionized modern science, making him one of the most influential figures in physics.)

“Professor Kendrick, where do writers find their ideas?”

Without a doubt, that’s the question that students in my literature and creative writing classes ask most often. I suppose they think that if I can provide them with answers, they can somehow chart the mysterious path to their own ideas.

I’m always glad to answer the question. Why wouldn’t I? Aside from being an educator, I’m also a writer. I love talking about writers and writing. However, whenever I tackle this question, I do so playfully. I like to tease my students into thinking on their own, so I start out with whimsical suggestions:

● Ideas fall out of the sky.

● Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.

● Ideas pop up while you’re brushing your teeth, hiding among the bristles.

● Ideas sneak in on the back of a grocery list when you’re not paying attention.

● Ideas are delivered by the most unreliable carrier: a stray dog that follows a writer home one day, and voila! A bestseller.

● Ideas arrive like magic—or madness—depending on the deadline.

Of course, there is some truth in my exaggerations. To prove my point, I share with my students what writers themselves have to say. Ironically, writers rarely discuss the origins of their ideas in detail. They prefer leaving them behind a shroud of mystery. Or they discuss their sources in ways that reflect the unpredictability of inspiration.

Fortunately, I know a good number of writers who have been outspoken about how they get their ideas, and I talk about those writers with my students. More often than not, I’ll start with Mark Twain, who wrote about what he knew best: the world around him. Students seem to like that possibility–of working with what they know–and most of them have read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain didn’t hesitate to let the world know that he based good ole Huck on a real-life person:

In Huckleberry Finn I have drawn Tom Blankenship exactly as he was. He was ignorant, unwashed, insufficiently fed; but he had as good a heart as ever any boy had. His liberties were totally unrestricted. He was the only really independent person–boy or man–in the community, and by consequence he was tranquilly and continuously happy and envied by the rest of us. And as his society was forbidden us by our parents the prohibition trebled and quadrupled its value, and therefore we sought and got more of his society than any other boy’s. (Twain, Autobiography, 1906)

Twain’s contemporary Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–who shared with him the distinction of being two of America’s most beloved writers at the start of the 20th century–used real life as the springboard for lots of her fiction, too. She focused on what she knew best, and she fictionalized it. She once wrote to Sarah Orne Jewett:

“I suppose it seems to you as it does to me that everything you have heard, seen, or done, since you opened your eyes on the world, is coming back to you sooner or later, to go into stories, and things.” (December 10, 1889, Letter 50, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)

Apparently, lots and lots came back to her, enough that she has more than 40 books to her credit.

As an example of her ability to take the mundane and elevate it to the universal, when I teach Freeman, I generally focus on one of her best short stories, “A New England Nun,” and I share what she wrote to her editor Mary Louise Booth:

“Monday afternoon, I went a-hunting material too: We went to an old lady’s birthday-party. But all I saw worth writing about there was a poor old dog, who had been chained thirteen years, because he bit a man once in his puppy-hood.” (April 28, 1886, Letter 13, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, ed. Brent L. Kendrick, 1985)

Freeman gave “the poor old dog” new life, a name, and heightened symbolism in “A New England Nun,” one of the most poignant explorations of sexual repression in nineteenth century American literature. Students–and readers in general–are fascinated to see how Freeman elevated a commonplace observation to a symbol upon which one of her most famous short stories depends.

More recent writers suggest similar sources for their ideas. Ray Bradbury, for example, once said:

“I don’t need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.”

His ideas included overheard conversations, dreams, and life’s other magical moments.

Or what about Toni Morrison? She maintained that her ideas were rooted in memories and the people around her:

“The world you live in is always being rewritten; it’s your job to find the narrative.”

From her point of view, stories are all around us, waiting to be discovered through deep observation.

More playful than any of the other writers I’ve mentioned is Neil Gaiman:

“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”

I like his notion that the writer has to be aware of those fleeting moments of inspiration.

Those are just a few of the writers I call upon to help my students discover their own pathways to their own ideas.

If I were teaching today, I’d continue to explore those writers, but I’d include several more, notably Elizabeth Gilbert, best known for her Eat, Pray, Love. From her point of view, ideas in all aspects of life–not just writing–are all around us, looking for homes.

“I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas. Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us, but capable of interacting with us — albeit strangely. Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human’s efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.” (Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, 2015)

I’m fascinated by Gilbert’s way of thinking. Her magical complexity attracts me, as does Robertson Davies’ straightforward simplicity about ideas:

“I do not ‘get’ ideas; ideas get me.”

And without a blush of shame, if I were teaching today, I’d talk more fully about sources for my own writing ideas. I did that in years past, but my focus was always on research ideas, unless I happened to be writing creative nonfiction essays with my students. In those instances, I’d workshop my essays with them, always sharing the backstories.

However, writing with my students was a luxury that I enjoyed on rare occasions only. I was too busy giving them feedback on their own creative flights. I suppose my professorial situation was comparable to the cobbler who has no shoes.

These days, though, as a master of reinvention, I’m able to focus on my own creative nonfiction essays, totally separate from my ongoing Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. As a matter of fact, since starting my reinvention in January 2022, I have two collections of creative nonfiction essays to my credit. In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023) was followed by More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed (2024). And in case you’re picking up on a pattern, I’ll have another book coming out in 2025, tentatively titled The Third Time’s the Charm: More Foolin’ Around in Bed. All of those books–and others that will follow–are part of my The Wired Researcher Series.

I’ve written a lot already about writers and writing. I’m thinking about several posts in particular:

● “The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free”: Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge.

● “In Praise of Break-Away Moments”: In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.

● “It’s Not a Corset. Don’t Force It”: My greatest discovery about my own writing is my everlasting need to unlace the corset that constricts my thoughts. It’s my everlasting need to let my ideas breathe and expand freely, whenever and however they wish.

● “Writers: Our Forever-Friends”: Maybe, just maybe, the need to have writers who are our forever-friends, boils down to nothing more than this. They come regardless of what we are facing. They reassure us that goodness and mercy shall prevail. They remind us to grapple with our soul, to grapple with our spirit.

● “Directions to the Magical Land of Ideas”: For me, it seems that whenever I lose myself–whenever I’m doing something that takes me away from me–a door opens and an idea enters, hoping for home and for honor.

In all of those essays, I’m doing what a number of writers whom I’ve mentioned do: exploring my own world. Like them, I also do my best to find in my personal experiences truths that might touch the heart and soul of my readers, whoever and wherever they are.

But one day last week, while doing my indoor biking, listening to Gospel music rock the rafters, it occurred to me that I had never written extensively about the sources for my ideas. But here’s the thing. I didn’t go looking for that idea. I mean, I was just biking and listening to music. Nothing more. Nothing less. And lo! In that ritualistic moment of pedaling and listening, the idea for this post took up residency in my mind.

The idea found its way to me. The idea chose me to be its human partner, just as Gilbert and Davies maintain their ideas find them.

I, too, believe that ideas find their way to me. I’m fascinated by that belief, not so much because that’s how my ideas arrive, but more so because of what’s going on with me when those ideas choose me for their partnership.

I’ve given the “what’s going on with me” a lot of thought, and I’m coming up with some common denominators.

Almost always, I’m engaged in an activity. Biking. Lifting weights. Listening to music. Cooking. Gardening. Hiking.

More often than not, when I’m engaged in those and similar activities, my world stands still. Time stops. Nothing exists except whatever it is that I’m doing. If I had to pick one word to describe what I’m experiencing in those times, I suppose it would be stillness.

Maybe the ideas “out there” looking for human partnerships sense my stillness. Maybe they sense my lostness. Maybe they sense my emptiness. And maybe–just maybe–they believe that I can escort them “out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.”

For now, especially in the absence of any other explanation that I can provide, I’ll hold fast to that belief since it has proven itself true time and time again in my magical world of words. For now, I’ll also hold fast to a smidgen of satisfaction in knowing that what I told my students really is true, especially for a writer like me:

“Ideas drift in on a breeze, like an uninvited but intriguing guest.”

The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

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“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”

—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)

Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.

I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.

We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.

Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.

Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.

Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.

I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.

I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.

The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.

Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.

A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.

I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?

I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.

Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.

Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.

The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.

Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.

To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.

As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.

This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.

This time, I realize. Allen is gone.

This time, I realize. The ritual is gone.

This time, I realize. I’m driving home.

This is just another country road.

Sister’s Hands

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“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”

—Mahatma Gandhi (1869–1948; a leader in India’s fight for independence and a global icon of nonviolent resistance, inspiring movements for civil rights and freedom worldwide.)

Every family has its own revered storytellers. For mine, it was my mother. All the way up until her death at 98, she could tell family stories with a full appreciation of place, with a natural understanding of hooking listeners with an inciting incident, and then of building suspense until the story was powerfully brought to its climax and to a resolution that more often than not uplifted and shone a bright light even on the dourest of plots.

Since my mother’s death, my sister Audrey has continued the storytelling tradition. It’s natural that she would. As the oldest daughter in the family, she lived the stories that she tells us about. What’s amazing to me is her incredible ability to recall how things looked, tasted, and smelled. As she tells our family stories, her voice carries me back in time, weaving memories as vivid as the scents and sounds she describes. Like my mother, she has a natural sense for drawing in listeners with something exciting, even if it’s minor, for building suspense masterfully and for guiding her story to a powerful ending. Her resolutions often uplift, always casting a bright light even on the hardest of hard coal mining times in Southern West Virginia where we grew up and where she still lives.

Since Audrey is my oldest sister, in characteristic Southern fashion, we’ve always called her Sister. On the rare occasion when I call her by her given name, just to remind myself of how it sounds and to see how she will react, she’s convinced that I’m upbraiding her about something or other, as if I, the baby brother in the story, would ever fault an older sibling.

Sister was twelve when I was born. She remembers that she and Brother argued about whose turn it was to rock me. (Yes, that’s what we called him since he was the oldest son. We never called him John.) They became rocking rivals:

“It’s my turn to rock Brentford Lee tonight.”

“No, it’s not. You rocked him last night.”

Sister reminds me often that I was rocked a lot.

I’ll have to take Sister’s word for it. I don’t remember.

My earliest vivid memory of Sister was when I was six or so, around 1953. Looking back and recalling a studio portrait of her from around that time, I think she looked just like acclaimed Hollywood star Rita Hayworth—elegant, with soft waves of hair framing a radiant face. She had a quiet beauty, captivating yet unassuming.

Aside from being a looker, Sister was an impeccable dresser. I especially remember her soft cashmere sweaters and her perfume, probably Chanel No. 5 or Arpège by Lanvin or Youth Dew by Estee Lauder. The next time we talk, I’ll ask her. She’ll remember it and all the other fragrances that she thought about wearing but didn’t. To give her fragrance story an added scent, she’ll explain all the details behind her perfumed choices. Then I’ll be able to smell her perfume again, just as I did when I was a kid, and I will know.

I remember two other things about Sister from my early years. It was then that she started her tradition of gifting our Mother heart-shaped boxes of Whitman’s Samplers every Valentine’s Day. They were magnificent, with tufted velvet tops and satin ribbons lending a touch of elegance to our coal camp home. Inside, layers of chocolates offered a variety of flavors like caramels, truffles, and fruit creams. The lavish packaging, combined with the rich selection of chocolates, made opening a Whitman’s Sampler a special Valentine’s Day event for my Mother.

Also, around that time, Sister patiently taught me how to embroider on pillowcases. I was immediately captivated by the array of colored threads—so vibrant and alive in my small hands. The soft yarn felt like magic as I pulled it through the fabric, creating tiny, neat stitches that transformed the plain cloth into something beautiful. Each new stitch felt like a secret unfolding. I marveled at how these simple threads could bring flowers, shapes, and patterns to life. The rhythmic motion of needle and thread became a calming, almost meditative ritual, sparking a lifelong appreciation for craftsmanship.

I remember other things about Sister as well, but this story isn’t about the things that most women born in 1935 lived their lives doing. I could say that this story isn’t about endless labor, both inside and outside the home. I could say that this story isn’t about scrubbing laundry on washboards, hanging clothes on backyard lines to dry in summer sun and winter freeze. I could say that this story isn’t about mending torn seams by hand or pressing starched clothes with a heavy iron heated on a stove. I could say that this story isn’t about cooking tonight’s meal and wondering about where provisions for the next night’s meal would come from. I could say that this story isn’t about waitressing for decades on less than minimum wage while hoping for just a little more than the nickels or dimes or quarters left behind as afterthought tips. I could say that this is not a story about hands carrying out daily chores with unwavering strength and care.

In reality, Sister did all of those things. But she did one thing more, and it matters most in this story.

For five decades, Sister’s hands served others whose hands were not strong enough to take care of themselves in their final years.

For them, Sister’s hands were a source of comfort and strength in the hardest times. Her hands were the ones that soothed fevered brows and prepared meals that nourished more than just the body. They carefully arranged pillows, tucked in blankets, and held on during the darkest moments. They brushed away tears and wiped the sweat from a forehead when words weren’t enough.

Her hands folded laundry, served meals, and held on when strength was needed the most. Whether it was a gentle touch in passing or the firm grip during a time of fear, her hands were always there, ready to offer love and care. Sister’s hands held those who needed it, day after day, year after year, never asking for anything in return.

Sister’s hands offered all of those comforts to our father in his final days, and to Brother’s
wife, caring for her with tenderness. They lovingly attended to our mother until
the very end, and they held her fiancé as their shared future faded away. Lastly,
they cared for Brother—our parents’ firstborn and her first playmate—offering
him unwavering love and support as he faced his final days.

On this special day, as Sister turns 89, her hands still carry the same love and strength they’ve always given.

When the time comes for Sister to cross the Great Divide, her hands will be clapping jubilantly, knowing that on the other side will be those she loved so much and served so selflessly. They’ll be there waiting to greet her once more, to applaud her decades of selfless love, compassion, and service, and to gently wipe away the tears of reunion and celebration.

This is the story of Sister’s hands.

10,000 Views and Counting: A Heartfelt Thank You!

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“Gratitude turns what we have into enough.”

–Aesop

Gobsmacked! That’s what I am! Here’s why. With nearly four months still left in the year, my blog just reached 10,000 views. I know exactly when it hit five digits because I was waiting and watching. I had my Smartphone in hand when the magical moment occurred at 7:45 this morning!

I wish I knew who the 10,000th viewer was—I’d reach out with a warm embrace. But since I don’t, I’m reaching out to all 10,000 of you instead—let’s embrace one another! In the spirit of Bob Marley’s words: “One love, one heart. Let’s join together and feel all right!”

Your engagement, curiosity, and support have blown me away. Whether you’re a longtime reader or just joined the journey, you’ve all played a role in this milestone. Together, we’ll keep pushing boundaries, asking big questions, and exploring new ideas!

Before I go, I’d like to share this year’s five most-viewed posts that have helped soar us to 10,000 views. If you haven’t read these yet, check them out!

Glimpses of my Mother’s Hands
● Through vivid memories of her tender, industrious, and spiritual hands, I explore the profound impact my mother’s hands had on shaping my life—from creating magic in everyday moments to offering strength, care, and faith until her final farewell.

Vermont’s Literary Daughter: Brent L. Kendrick on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
● In my interview on the Vermont Artists and Authors podcast, I discuss the legacy of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my collection Green Mountain Stories, emphasizing Freeman’s significance as a Vermont writer and my hopes for her stories to inspire readers, libraries, and schools across the state.

Confessions of an Editor: THE INFANT SPHINX Reviewed
● I delve into the serendipitous journey of editing and publishing The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, while sharing for the first time ever the full text of a forgotten self-review I wrote nearly 40 years ago, offering insights into Freeman’s life, my editorial process, and the lasting impact of her letters.

When Lilacs Meet Algorithms: The Unlikely Union of Walt Whitman and Artificial Intelligence (AI)
● I explore the unexpected intersection of Walt Whitman’s elegy “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” with artificial intelligence, as I challenge AI tools to distill the essence of the poem into sonnets, revealing the potential for AI to complement human creativity while reflecting on the power of poetry.

From Dusty Folder to Digital Ink. Part I: The Untold Story of THE INFANT SPHINX
● I recount the serendipitous journey behind the publication of The Infant Sphinx, from a bold encounter with the president of Scarecrow Press to the Herculean task of preparing camera-ready copy, offering readers a glimpse into the untold backstory of my scholarly work.

Thank you, Dear Readers, from the bottom of my heart!

The Strength of Deprivation

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“The more we are deprived of something, the more we realize its value.”

–Plato (c. 427–347 BCE; Greek philosopher and a student of Socrates. He founded the Academy in Athens and profoundly influenced Western philosophy, especially through his works like The Republic, which explore justice, reality, and knowledge.)

Smackdab in the middle of my deck is a wrought-iron rectangular table, topped with a slab of rough-hewn sandstone. Its focal point is a larger-than-I-can-lift Celadon flowerpot, home to a treasured Bougainvillea, a tropical plant that enjoys deck side only in summer and early fall. Its magenta petals are like delicate crepe paper, bursting forth against the sunlit sky. Their blossoms cascade like a vibrant waterfall, painting my mountain world with exuberant hues. They dance in the wind, whispering secrets of their distant homelands, their beauty both fierce and fragile, a testament to the resilience of life.

But such splendor does not come easily. To bloom so magnificently, bougainvillea must endure deprivation, a withholding of water that seems almost cruel. In their struggle, they learn to thrive in harshness, sending their roots deeper, seeking sustenance in the barren soil. It is in this crucible of thirst that their true beauty is forged, their blossoms erupting as if in defiance of hardship.

I have other plants that flourish under similar deprivation. My lavender and rosemary, with their fragrant blooms, thrive in dry, sandy soils, where a lack of water encourages them to produce more potent aromas. My cacti and succulents, accustomed to arid environments, often bloom when faced with the drought of my neglect, their flowers a testament to survival in the harshest conditions. One of my favorites, Russian sage, is most vivid when experiencing the challenge of dry soil, while my sedum and portulaca, known for their drought tolerance, turn stress into a profusion of flowers. Even my prized jade plant, a hardy succulent, responds to dry spells by offering delicate blossoms. These and other plants remind me that sometimes, in the face of scarcity, nature gives birth to her most stunning displays of beauty.

As I witness this seeming contradiction–strength in deprivation–in my plant world, I am reminded of how that same natural truth looms large in my literary world, too, especially in Emily Dickinson’s poetry. In fact, I often think of her as the poet of deprivation. Time and time again, her work reveals that strength born of hardship allows both the flower and the soul to bloom most fully.

I’m thinking right now of a poem that’s familiar to many because it’s anthologized the most:

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory

As he defeated – dying –
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!

What an incredible celebration of deprivation! Those who experience the most deprivation—specifically, those who strive to succeed but do not achieve the victory—are the ones who truly understand and appreciate success. Deprivation of triumph can heighten our ability to recognize and value success when it is out of reach.

I’m thinking, too, of a lesser-known Dickinson poem that’s even more akin to what I see in some of my plants that flourish when they are deprived: “I Had Been Hungry, All the Years”

I had been hungry, all the Years—
My Noon had Come—to dine—
I trembling drew the Table near—
And touched the Curious Wine—

‘Twas this on Tables I had seen—
When turning, hungry, Home
I looked in Windows, for the Wealth
I could not hope—for Mine—

I did not know the ample Bread—
‘Twas so unlike the Crumb
The Birds and I, had often shared
In Nature’s—Dining Room—

The Plenty hurt me—’twas so new—
Myself felt ill—and odd—
As Berry—of a Mountain Bush—
Transplanted—to a Road—

Nor was I hungry—so I found
That Hunger—was a way
Of Persons outside Windows—
The Entering—takes away—

How amazing! Dickinson captures the intensity of deprivation by reflecting on how the memory of hunger magnifies the value of being fed. What a wonderful acknowledgment that the experience of lack—physical, emotional, or spiritual—sharpens the appreciation of fulfillment when it finally arrives.

It seems to me that this principle extends beyond poetry and nature into our own lives, where a degree of deprivation–let me emphasize, a degree of deprivation–can lead to greater appreciation, personal growth, and overall well-being.

For example, I’ve been practicing 16:8 intermittent fasting for a while now, an approach that’s believed to promote better health, improve metabolic function, and increase longevity. So far, it seems to be working. More importantly, it’s made me more mindful of what I eat and has given me a deeper appreciation for my meals. Instead of mindlessly grazing, I savor what I’m eating—turning each meal into something I look forward to and genuinely enjoy.

When it comes to my material possessions, it’s a challenge for me to embrace minimalism, but I am discovering that living with fewer possessions is helping me focus more on what truly matters to me, it’s reducing my stress, and it’s increasing my overall satisfaction. In essence, deprivation from constant consumption is giving me true gratitude for the plenty that I already have.

When it comes to taking breaks from technology and media, I agree that doing so can improve mental health, enhance sleep quality, boost productivity, and lead to more meaningful personal interactions. So here’s what I’ve done. I’ve given up entirely on television, and I don’t miss it at all. However, there’s no way–there’s just no way–that I’m cutting back on my Smartphone usage. After all, that technology provides you with my blog post every Monday, just like clockwork!

So let me move on quickly to another area where some deprivation does me some good. I’m thinking about the discomfort that comes through physical exercise. I’ve biked indoors and outdoors for decades, and for the first thirty minutes or so, it’s as painful now as ever, but I know that through the pain, I am growing stronger.

And, believe it or not, I even like stepping away from luxury and convenience from time to time. For example, I still take military showers just as I did in my graduate school days to cut back on my water consumption. Guess what else? Sometimes, it’s a cold shower. It’s a way to reset my expectations and make my everyday comforts more enjoyable.

There are, of course, other areas of life where a little deprivation can go a long way. Take social interaction, for example. I really like being with people, but now that I’m reinventing myself, I’m not with as many people as I used to be. However, I’m finding that my periods of solitude and reduced social interactions give me space to think, to reflect, and to tap into creativity that I might overlook in the bustle of daily life. The truth is, when I do spend time with others after a spell of solitude, those interactions feel richer and more meaningful. It’s as if the time apart makes connection all the sweeter.

And what about our leisure time? Yes, even fun has its limits. Limiting our leisure time can actually make us more productive and help us value those moments of rest more deeply. It’s all about balance, right? Even sensory deprivation can heighten awareness. I don’t have a float tank, but through meditation, I’ve found that stepping away from the chatter–external and internal–opens up a space for deeper relaxation and, more importantly, inner peace.

When it comes to desires and wants, holding back just a little, whether it’s with food, entertainment, or indulgent pleasures, sharpens my self-control and satisfaction. Deprivation, in this sense, helps me better understand what truly brings happiness.

It’s all about small degrees of deprivation. The challenge is to find the sweet spot that allows us to strike the right balance and rediscover the beauty in what we often overlook. Just as the bougainvillea’s vibrant blooms spring from the stress of scarcity, so too can our lives blossom when we lean into the strength that comes from having less. It’s in those moments of restraint that we gain clarity, grow stronger, and truly flourish.

Unsubscribe: The Power of Pausing Before Acting

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“The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.”

–Attributed to Mark Twain (1835-1910; one of America’s most celebrated writers and humorists; often referred to as the “father of American literature.”)

By now, My Dear Readers, you know more about me than you should, including the titillating fact that I keep everything. I mean everything. I do. If you doubt me or if you have forgotten my-way-too-personal disclosures, check out “My Taxing Review: A Reality Post” or “OHIO on My Mind,” but not until you finish reading this post. Until then, you’re mine, all mine. I want to keep you to myself. Stay put and relax while I tell you about something I’ve held on to without even knowing that I was holding on to it.

I realized just the other day that I was getting an outlandish number of emails from companies, foundations, and organizations, just because I gave them my email address eons ago, simply to get that 15% discount or simply to get a freebie by donating to a good cause. Over time, “DELETE” became my morning email mantra simply because it never occurred to me that I could stop getting those no-longer-wanted and no-longer-valued emails simply by clicking on UNSUBSCRIBE.

UNSUBSCRIBE. Can you imagine. Is that a brilliant solution or what? Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, right? Wrong. More like stressed, depressed lemon zest.

Sometimes, though not too often, unsubscribing is easy. The option appears prominently right at the top of the email.

More often than not, however, I have to work really hard at unsubscribing. More often than not, the option appears hidden amongst all kinds of other options at the very end of the screed that I didn’t want to read anyway. Even then, the option to unsubscribe is in a smaller font requiring a magnifying glass, or it’s in an entirely different color font, almost always so light that it’s impossible to read. And get this. Sometimes, I don’t have a clear unsubscribe option at all. Sometimes, I blaze my way to unsubscribe by clicking on the preferences option.

Unsubscribing, as a rule, is anything but straightforward. Even after finding my way there, I have to confirm that I really do want to sever the tie that I had been holding on to. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice. It’s as if I’m being reminded that I need to think twice.

I cannot help but wonder what other areas in our lives we might want to think twice about before taking action.

What about things we often say things to friends in moments of emotion or impulsiveness, forgetting that words can have lasting impacts.

● “I’m too busy right now.”

● “I don’t really care what you do.”

● “I don’t know why I’m even friends with you.”

Perhaps if we paused and considered the weight of our words, we could strengthen our friendships rather than strain them.

Or consider the dynamics of family relationships, where familiarity sometimes leads us to make careless remarks.

● “I’ll call you later.” (But never do.)

● “Why can’t you be more like …?”

● “You’ve always been a disappointment to me.”

Perhaps we need to pause for a moment to remember that our words can either heal or hurt, especially with those closest to us.

Let’s not forget our professional environments where words can carry significant consequences, especially with our boss.

● “I’ll get to it when I can.”

● “That’s not my job.”

● “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

Perhaps we need to pause and remember the powerful importance of tact and diplomacy when communicating with authority figures.

Also, I wonder about our constant self-talk, especially when we become our own harshest critics.

● “I can’t believe I messed that up.”

● “I’m not good enough for this.”

● “I’m not lovable.”

Perhaps we need to think twice before engaging in negative self-talk and instead replace it with a kinder, more supportive internal dialogue that sends us a strong, empowering message.

Finally, what about thinking twice before questioning or challenging our higher spiritual and philosophical beliefs?

● “I don’t know if you’re really there.”

● “Why is this happening to me?”

● “I’ve lost all faith.”

Perhaps we need to pause and approach our beliefs with respect and thoughtfulness in a way that fosters a sense of reconciliation and growth.

Oh. There’s one more thing that I’ve noticed. More often than not, the last thing that happens when unsubscribing is a pop-up window, sighing:

“Sorry to see you go, but if you change your mind …”

It seems to me that if foundations, organizations, and companies are willing to have us back after we unsubscribe from their mailing lists, then surely our friends, our family, our boss, and our Higher Being, will welcome us back into the fold as well. And with any luck, we’ll even come to understand that we are worthy and welcome unto our very selves.

One thing’s for sure. The next time I consider unsubscribing—from an email or a relationship—I’ll remember the power of pausing before acting. And if I act in a way that I later regret, I’ll remind myself that our relationships, like our subscriptions, can often be mended with effort and humility.