Where Does Writing Fit In?

When is the best time to write? It's different for everyone. The best time for me to write is at night. That's when the day's business if finally over and the creative juices get free rein. There are some problems witht his, however. First, I have a family to care for, a child to see to school, so I need to get up early in the morning. and I am not an early riser. The second problem compounds the first. When I write, I get wired. And of course, getting wired at night is a bad idea, since it takes hours to calm down and get to sleep. It doesn't do to wind down at 3:30 am, when you have to get up no later than 7:00 am to start your day.

The alternative is to wake super early in the morning. When I was working, I was out of bed regularly by 5 am to get to work by 7 am. So that shouldn’t be such a chore. But it is. It takes me a long time to get out of bed, shuffle up the stairs, turn on the computer, brew some coffee or tea, and try to get my brain functioning again. Add to that, the disturbance it creates for my husband, who doesn’t have to get up for another two hours, and who gets crabby because he’s grown accustomed to performing his morning routine in complete solitude, and now there’s his wife typing away and staring off into space in the space that was once his alone in the wee hours, asking cheerfully if he’d like her to brew something for him. So, that solution doesn’t work very well. Besides, it’s way too tempting to turn off the alarm and sleep in, Just for Today.

The best alternative is to write during the morning hours, while my son is in kindergarten. The problem here is twofold. E-mail and Blogit provide too tempting of a distraction to benefit from the three hours of solitude. And household chores mostly get put off until the afternoon hours, the time during which I should be tutoring my son on some life basics.

It was a lot easier when I was single. I worked full time, but it was just me I had to worry about. I didn’t have a child who needed lots of attention. I didn’t have a husband who feels threatened when I seem to be devoting more time than he is comfortable with to my projects.

So where does writing fit in my life? I try to squeeze it into the convenient pockets—and there aren’t very many—out of site of my family. Sometimes a Saturday afternoon works out, especially if there is a Formula 1 race, or a soccer game on TV, taking my husband’s mind off of my perceived infidelity. Late at night works out when I have the energy to get started after my son goes to bed, and when I feel I won’t suffer too terribly when I have trouble winding down and get only a couple hours of sleep.

Right now, Blogit is using a lot of writing time. It’s good in a way, because I’m writing—or thinking about writing—every single day. It’s bad, because it takes my mind away from my novel-in-progress, which I promised myself I would not abandon until I finished it.
But at least I’m writing.

A Matter of Life and Death

I love to keep the windows open. I like to keep as many open as possible, weather and temperature permitting, and relish the open feeling it creates, the cleansing breezes that float through the house.  

The day my friend came to visit last week was a fair, sunny day. Big fluffy clouds drifted across the sky, and a wonderful breeze blew through the upper level of the house. As I sat at the kitchen table putting on my makeup waiting for my friend’s arrival, I heard a peculiar flutter coming from the living room. I could tell it was airborne and that it was moving very quickly toward the kitchen. Before I had time to think anything else, a bird burst through the kitchen doorway, flew over my head, and went right out the patio door. 

It had come in through the living room window. 

 There has been lots of bird activity over the last day or two. I assume the birds around here are getting ready for winter, because they are everywhere, like the August bees. They are busy busy busy, and the days have been getting rainier and cooler. 

 Yesterday nearly passed like all others. It was rainy and chilly most of the day, and I spent a good portion of the dreary afternoon teaching my son various things, as I usually do: The days of the week. The months of the year. Things like that. And it was just as the sun came out and our lesson on how to tie a shoe came to a frustrating end (reflecting more on my impatience than my five-year-old’s short attention span) that an interesting thing happened to take our minds off our differences. 

 My son had retreated to the living room to burn off some of the energy that had backed up during the minutes of inertia while learning to form a loop with a shoe string. I rose from the table and started to cross the kitchen when I heard a funny thud on the glass patio door. I looked out and saw a bird lying on the doorstep. It was small and grey, probably a cousin to the little brown sparrows of America. Apparently it had tried to take a shortcut through my kitchen, not realizing there was a double-paned door between it and its destination. 

“Sweetheart! Come here!” I called, hoping silently it wasn’t the same bird that had flown through our house the week before. “Come see this!” 

My son walked into the kitchen, still disgruntled from our minor tiff. “Was ist?” he grumbled at me. 

“Come look out the window.” 

 My son shuffled to the glass door and gasped when he saw the broken bird lying on the paving stones. I explained what had happened, and as I opened the door and we stepped outside together, the bird moved. It was still alive. 

Squatting beside it, I hoped it was only stunned, and would require no more than a minute or two before it flew off again. But as it struggled more, I could see it was injured. Perhaps we could nurse it to health, I thought. It would be a wonderful lesson for my son. 

 When I reached for it and took it gently into my hand, however, I was met with no resistance, and its little head lolled alarmingly with the momentum. “Uh-oh,” I said. “His neck is broken, sweetie. He’s going to die.” 

“Oh no,” my son said, and started to cry. 

 “Why don’t we make a nice bed for him,” I suggested, holding the little bird in my left hand and reaching for the terra cotta bottom of a planter. “Let’s collect some grass and put it in here for the bird to lie on.” The grass was still wet from the rain, but I didn’t think it mattered much to the bird. 

Eager to be helpful, my son rushed into the yard, heedless of the wetness and the mud and his stocking feet, and began pulling up sturdy fistfuls of grass and clover, making a nice little bed for our dying friend. When we had enough, I gently laid the bird down, and we listened to its noisy, labored breathing. There was liquid in its lungs that frothed in tiny pinkish bubbles around its beak, damaged where it met its face. One eye was closed, and it feebly struggled now and again, determined to take flight and continue with its business while its head limply hung to the side, never leaving the grassy bed. 

I hoped it would die soon so it wouldn’t suffer much longer, and I wondered whether I possessed the mettle to twist its neck altogether round and end its suffering. 

 While we watched, my son and I discussed life and death. And only a minute or two later, we watched the bird shudder its final breath and finally lie still. My son didn’t see the bird’s life escape its body, but I did. It was a nearly visible shadow that lifted from it, and as it separated, the bird became absolutely motionless. I saw the light extinguished from its seeing eye, and I said to my son, “It’s over now, honey. The little bird is dead.”  

My wonderful, gentle little boy threw himself in my arms and heaved great sobs of sorrow. I told him that it’s okay to be sad. I also told him that the little bird would always be with us, because we took care of him while he lay dying, keeping him safe from the predatory cats. “He’s sitting on your shoulder right now,” I said, “whispering ‘Thank you’ in your ear, and telling you that it’s okay. He’s not in pain anymore, and he’s in a place where there are lots of green trees and other birds to fly with and sing to, and no cats to worry about.” 

Together, we chose a place under the evergreens, looking out toward the big hazelnut tree in the backyard. Together, we dug a deep hole, and lined it with evergreen tips. Together, we laid the bird on its new fragrant bed, and covered it with more evergreen. And together, we filled the hole, pushing dirt with our hands. My son found a rock to place on top, and we walked away, feeling a mixture of sorrow and closure.

It was a bit earlier than I had hoped to teach my son about death. But I couldn’t have asked for a better example for his introduction. It was a day of lessons.