“Why do you have to write?” Evelyn asks, trying to understand what punishment might befall me if I don’t. For her, “have to” means minus ones or twos—strikes against her 30-minute morning TV time. Internal motivation, commitment to self, and discipline aren’t yet in her psychological vocabulary.
I’m reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Gabriel García Márquez’s construction of smell and sight—the heat-pressed air, the sewage stench, the boredom that turns people into zombies—is something to sit back with popcorn and simply marvel at.
I hate great authors. The gap between their writing and mine feels defeating, like watching the Mariners come one pitch away from ending the inning only to give up a two-run homer that puts us one down. I know there are four innings left, I know our bats can come alive—but still, that insecurity creeps in. What if it all stays like this? What if we lose game one of five?
Defeated when I compare my writing to his, but transfixed when I surrender to his world.
As I type, two bowls of dough are fermenting—one for English muffins, the other for a loaf of bread. The steps and hours that go into bread-making are good for me. The quiet attention it requires reminds me of fishing with my dad when I was a kid. I’d cast a PowerBait-covered hook, then sit silently, eyes fixed where the line met the water—the little rippling circles the only movement.
I’d imagine what was happening below: the dark water swallowing the fluorescent pink bait, the fish hovering near or far. Were they circling it now, curious? Or were they yards away, unaware? I’d adjust my imagination to stay in that sweet spot—not too expectant, not too bored—just teetering on wonder.
At some point, my dad would hand us mini chocolate doughnuts or raspberry-filled ones dusted with powdered sugar. And if we’d sat too long without a bite, he’d pull up anchor, and we’d let intuition guide us elsewhere.
That camera lens spin—from boredom, to overly excited, to just right—is quite the task that befalls us human beings, isn’t it? That sweet spot, that ability to attend, to feel engaged, and to stay. It’s what I chase in writing, in parenting, in sitting still enough to notice the rise of dough or the pull of words.
Maybe that’s all peace is—finding the spot where you can stay, eyes open, alert, and full of quiet wonder.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 