Diana's Blog: Quirky Words and Book Reviews

This blog doesn't involve a book. Not directly.
I set off on an all-grrl weekend of camping and white water rafting Friday afternoon, not sure what to expect. I hadn't been camping with just grrls since Girl Scouts. Actually, I've never camped as an adult. My ex-husband kindly says that my idea of camping is to not have a mint on my pillow.
There was no pillow. Just a self-inflatable pad to put under the dusty and frayed sleeping bag I'd borrowed from my son. It did not self-inflate. And it rained Saturday night. In the desert, in August, it rained. My book was stuffed in a bright orange tote bag near the edge of the tent. All the clothes nearby got soaked. Not the book.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Friday, with the sun hours from setting, we struck the tent. Eyed it. It was more of a lean-to. We wiggled the tent, and hammered orange spikes into the tight brown earth, anchoring it a bit better.
Our guide, a 30-something (like the other grrls) firefighter. Danielle says she burns three-thousand calories a day -- we didn't doubt it, watching her efficiently pull tent poles and cooking gear from her rocket box atop her rig, balancing and stretching to pull the campsite together, suggesting how we could help. Topped it off by cooking a marinated fish, with couscous and a salad. And, cooked her dog turkey necks. I warmed up the BocaBurger I'd brought, and my salad had a Winco sticker on it. Oh, that's how you camp! I absorbed Danielle's movements. Camping changed since I was a kid -- a lot of prep for camping equipment has directions printed on it, and easy push-and-pull parts. Still, this was baby-camping for Danielle. She smiled. "Everyone starts somewhere."
I asked Danielle what the rafting experience would be like. "The risk is you could end up in the river, maybe get hurt, or we could dump the raft or we could just get wet in water fights with nearby rafts." I asked her where to put my diamond studs, leave them in or hide them in the car. "The risk is you could lose them either way." What about the car key, hide it on the vehicle or wear it on the raft? "The risk is you could lose them either way." Oy, I'm such a New Yorker. I opted to put my earrings in the glove box, and let Danielle hide my key on the car.
In the morning, we did that complicated shuttle move with her SUV and my Mustang convertible, top-down. Finally put in on the Deschutes, wearing our life jackets.
It was a packed river, so we back-paddled a few times to make space between rafts. Especially to make space between the raft with the guy wearing the pirate hat. Five of us grrls on the raft, only a couple of us with experience. I'd white water rafted a couple of times in my time -- with my then-husband and two little kids, and a guide -- everyone watching out for everyone else. Very protected. We stayed at a nearby hotel, and did the river with few risks.
This time, I chose to be on the left side in the front. And, I dug in, oblivious to the others. Finally Danielle said, "If you all watch each other, we might just quit going zig-zag down the river."
Oh.
It was about teamwork. Individual power, but it was trumped by teamwork.
Despite that, we hit some rapids and Mona spilled out. She had a look of shock on her face. We finally got her back in the boat. I asked Danielle about that. "It takes a lot of upper body strength, and you have to kick your legs to give you the boost to get back in." She dove in to swim for a few minutes. I thought about diving in, too, once she got back on the raft. I realized -- much like life -- I usually wait for something to push me, to dive in. So, I made a conscious decision. And I dove in. Woo. A bit cool. It was a warm day -- highs in the mid-70's. The water on the chilly side of refreshing. Barb and Monica pulled me back in.
These life lessons were beginning to sink in. I was enjoying this trip on a metaphorical level as well as the extreme pleasure of the ride. I mean, we basically knew what was a few dozen yards ahead, but we didn't really know how the rapids would treat us. And, it wasn't about thinking what might happen later. It was about the rapids lapping at the lip of the raft, teasing it to flip, and riding in rhythm with the river.
Mona fell in again. This time we coordinated her pull back in, and she was swiftly aboard.
Danielle consulted her map -- the biggest rapids were straight ahead. Level four, maybe five. I suddenly realized I would end up the water soon, and I argued that in my mind. I decided I would not end up in the water, and I dug my paddle in fiercely. The rocks were close on the left, and I tucked my outside leg up and closer to the raft. I leaned in toward the raft, willing my body weight to spill into the raft, if I lost balance.
Not sure what happened -- seemed like the raft went down and the rapids scooped me out, tossing me onto the slippery rocks. Monica later said "the look on your face -- you looked like a little girl!" Maybe I wondered "how could this happen?" But the thought slid away swiftly, replaced by self-orders to keep my feet out in front of me. It was a long ride to take on my butt, and that's how I did the run. On my butt. Those rapids scooped me, and tossed me, scraping me against the moss-covered, slick river rocks, and just as I felt centered, another wave would flip me. I saw the grrls behind me, sensed they would do what they could. Some men on the side of the river tossed a small rescue device my way, but it went too far in front of me to the right, and the water was pulling me to the left. A rescue attempt, I observed. It felt sooo amazing! Riding the rapids, not knowing if I would survive the dunkings, but deliriously happy that deep inside this was all-right, perfect, and, yes, I will make through this experience, just like I make it through every other experience life on land tosses my way. What a cool metaphor -- the thought reflected in my mind, dazzled, and was instantly replaced by the view of another raft. A bunch of kids yelling they would save me. They paddled close, and the slim, muscled arms of teen-age boys pulled me into their raft. Leaving two of their own on the tiny island that appeared at that moment. I looked back. The island was gone already, and the boys were swimming. We were at the end of the run. The grrls paddled up, pulled me back into our raft. They'd been trapped in an eddy. Moments later, all the kids were back in their raft. I had spilled down the entire rapids on my butt. My knees were bright red, my right elbow scraped and bruised, and I knew that my coccyx had connected -- hard -- with rocks more than a couple of times. I wasn't going to ask anyone to check for the big purple and black bruise I knew was there.
A fresh sense of courage filled my soul. The power of my soul matched the power of the river.
My own little story, and dozens like it on the river around me.
It wasn't till the next day when we hunted down the pictures taken by professional photographers at the three biggest rapids that I saw the truth.
Oh, the book -- I had an interview scheduled for Monday morning at 7am. 459 pages -- so I read for ten miles on my treadmill after we got home Sunday night, and finished reading The Reincarnationist in the tub, soaking my bruised butt while I was transported to a time of Vestal Virgins and to Rome today.
As I soaked in the hot water after I closed the book, I reflected on what I had seen in those photos -- the raw power in my triceps and biceps, and the fierce delight on my face. No book could give me that.

Live it! Be in the moment! Go for it! Seems like a new chapter in my life dedication to be Fearless.

No head-lessons on how to live in the moment can compare to that communion with the rapids.

Labels: books, camping, Deschutes, fearless, grrls, power, raft, rapids, river, The Reincarnationist., white water rafting

The flip side of my business card says INSPIRE. This morning I put on my business suit, feeling anything but.
For some unknown reason, my spirit was flat. I felt trepidation not about the performance I was about to give, but about my apparent lack of affect. A mysterious loss. My usual state is effervescent, passionate, inspiring. Gone, zero, zilch.

But by day's end, I would be more than restored, more than inspired. Enraptured, I would say, by the power of words.

Business suit skirt, sleeveless top with a dressy hoody, funky satin heels with a raggedy fringe, and toting two huge bags, plus my purse/backpack, I took off for the Willamette Writers Conference near the Portland International Airport. Thirty minutes later, I trudged into the Sheraton, locating my schedule for the writing critiques I would be sharing with three fledgling authors and pinpointing the location for my 10:30a seminar on "The Gentle Art of Interviewing."
The manuscript by the first writer opened brilliantly with the description of a Depression-era carnival. Later we learn she is from a family of carnies, and falls into manic-depression despair. I connect with her, understand what she wants to say, and guide her to using the natural metaphors she has missed, for example the roller coaster ride of the carnival the perfect picture for her confusing moods later in life. The teacher in me kicks in, and I am in a flow state, ideas popping up as soon as I deliver another.

As she thanks me, I dash off to set up for my seminar. The mic. Which I decide I won't need because my voice carries. The CD player and speakers. And I silently vow I will buy an iPod and that docking station. The sweater sleeves. Which I push up while closing the front door of the double-room. I face my students with a smile. I have a pile of notes, which I later am stunned to realize I rarely consulted. I am in flow, filled with passion for the stories to tell, and evocative audio quotations from Terry Gross, Tim Russert, Nicholas Sparks, Richard Carlson, and dozens of others. Their very comments reveal more than just how to answer interview questions, but about how to live more powerfully, and use your disadvantages. On a clip I captured from an interview with Terry Gross, she laughingly admits her disadvantage is being shy, but that apparent disadvantage gives her the opportunity to put the spotlight on the person she is interviewing. She says she is non-descript and "absolutely nothing stops" when she walks into a room. Laughter rings.

When the ninety-minutes is up, I enjoy a leisurely two-hour lunch with Jennie Shortridge, an author (RIDING WITH THE QUEEN, EATING HEAVEN) whom I'd interviewed over the years and has become my dear friend. That happens a lot. Authors become friends. I attribute that gift of friendship to the empathy I bring to every interview. I love these connections, I live for them. Jennie's next book will be a literary departure from her usual work. She's alive with excitement for this new project. Life forces you out of your comfort zone, or how you can head those rough changes off by graceful shifts of your own choice. She tells me about a former student who insisted that nothing changes in his story because people don't change. We are incredulous about the possibility of art without tension, without change, without new direction -- there can be no such thing. Change is implicit in art.

We part, and I do two more author critiques. In both cases, I tell the authors they must have more story, more description, more depth. Later, I am thanked for the "tough love." Yes, that must be it, because I love looking at the elegant core of a story, and seeing how it can bloom, fulfilling the original purpose the writer held in his or her heart.

By now my heart is singing.

It is time for the awards banquet, and I find a seat with Christina Katz, author of WRITER MAMA. We sit near the front, and watch as screenwriter Mike Rich is introduced, the winner of the Distinguished NW Writer Award. In his acceptance speech, Mike is reflecting back on his days in radio -- she pokes me in the ribs. Yes, I remember those days, some fifteen years ago. Mike and I were contemporaries in radio, and there was this buzz about him "trying" to write a screenplay and not much appreciation for his getting out of his comfort zone of just-radio. I adored that about Mike, that he dared dedicate two hours every day, when most of us morning radio people are long past exhaustion, to writing this screenplay. The one that would become FINDING FORRESTER. Which would lead to RADIO, MIRACLE, and now SECRETARIAT. Unmitigated success.
Mike talked about writing from the heart. And he reflected on the Portland Creative Conference some fifteen years ago when he attended a seminar about Failure. Not about failing to sell your book or your screenplay, but about failing to find your voice. Mike says that writing is not about testing the market, anticipating the next big trend and writing to that...but about writing from your heart, giving the story, the words, revealing the brilliance from your deepest passion. In Mike, and in every one of Mike's scripts, the focal point is not a star, but a courageous character who leads with his heart.
I recall nearly ten years ago, when I took a chance, leaving a steady Portland radio job to do a few months on the air in LA. It was risky, but I knew it was time for a change. That first day, I walked out of Los Angeles International Airport, and got onto a shuttle bus. I heard "hi, Diana."

I'm in LA for five minutes and I hear my name?
It was Mike Rich -- just happened to be on the same shuttle that picked me up. I marveled over the meaning this coincidence has. To hear Mike say my name at such an unusual time and place is inspiring, and underscores how right my choice to go to LA is.

Then, I reflect on the 180 in my day. The teaching and story-telling I have done have put me in a joyful state. And, this story about Mike comes back to me as he talks about true success -- using and finding your Voice -- and I am thoroughly, completely inspired.

Labels: authors, books, Christina Katz, Jennie Shortridge, Mike Rich, Willamette Writers, writing