Ten Years of Ordinary Holy

Here’s the truth:

I was feeling tired last week.

I was feeling grumpy earlier this week.

I did not write last weekend.

My low back started hurting last Sunday afternoon. I took one Advil, which has always been a magical pain reliever, an elixir I trust. It did not help. I took another one and a single Tylenol before bed. I managed to sleep but woke up around 4:20 a.m to take another two Advil. Monday morning arrived and found me sitting at the kitchen table with a heating pad on the sore part of my back. I started writing with my online writing group. I guarantee I would not have been writing if my group did not have a standing writing invitation every weekday morning at 7:30 a.m my time.

My daughter came home toward the end of last week for a quick visit. We had a beautiful day last Sunday. We drove up to Truckee and walked the Sagehen Creek Trail. The aspens were turning yellow and rustled as we walked past. We had lunch at the end point of the hike, sitting together on a concrete ledge that was part of an abandoned cabin site. The way back to the car had a few obstacles: fallen trees that blocked the path, a swampy spot where I had to crawl over a log. That’s when I tweaked my knee a little. I do not know if a tweaked knee could cause lower back pain. Doesn’t seem likely—but that’s the only thing I can think of.

But let me tell you why I didn’t write last week.

I could say it was because my daughter was home, and that is partly true. We sat on the red couch with Biscuit last Saturday night, when I usually would have been trying to get a blog post ready, and watched the “Project Hail Mary” movie. What is not to love about that? But that wasn’t everything. I also was feeling sad about my writing process.  I made the mistake of checking the stats on the back of my Substack; I didn’t know for a long time that I could even do that. Suddenly, I saw how many people read regularly, or read every once in a while, or never read at all.

The thing about writing is that it takes time and is not always fun. I do not always feel great, sitting down to write on Saturday, though I generally feel happy when I’ve finished—like I’ve done something I was meant to do, that is good for me, that is maybe even a calling? Although that feels more than a little egotistical to think about it like that. Still, the process is not easy.

So I pulled out Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones book this week. It has Post-it notes scattered throughout from when I taught eighth grade language arts years ago. It was a comfort to me then. I shared sections with my eighth grade writers, and we wrote together. I would often start class with a ten-minute timer, or maybe it was five minutes, and all of us would  write. Write without stopping, write whatever comes to you, do not edit, do not judge, just show up and keep your pencil moving, even if all you have to say is “I do not know what to say.” I remember that I wrote with my students. It was this practice that got me back to writing on my own. I wrote a few pieces in that time for the National Catholic Reporter newspaper again, where I’d had an internship in Washington, D.C. after I graduated from college.

I needed Goldberg’s comforting words this week—and her question: “Why do I write?”

Why do I write?

In the end, it is mostly for me. I write because writing helps me love this place, helps me love my life. It helps me see: my blackberry bushes, my sore back, the fact that gas costs more than $6.00 a gallon now and I have to drive to Auburn to do five massages, which is more than I like, especially since my daughter was home and I would rather be with her. Writing makes me pay attention. It helps me process. Sometimes I love what emerges. Sometimes I don’t like it at all. It seems to be something that has stayed with me, though—ten years of Ordinary Holy so far.

Thanks for being here. Grateful for you, grateful for my weekday morning online writing group, and grateful tonight as I sit to write that my back is finally feeling better.